"What are you doing back here?" I frowned. I didn't understand. After everything I'd done to her, all those vicious words—she should hate me. Why would she come back? Why would she still give a damn if I lived or died?
"You don't need to worry about me." I turned my head away, but my voice had weakened. "I can handle it myself."
"Be quiet."
Harper cut me off.
"Have you lost your mind?" I tried to wave her away. "Don't touch me! I don't need you meddling!"
"I told you to shut up!" Harper suddenly exploded. She grabbed my flailing wrist and pinned it to the armrest. She wasn't as strong as me, but in that moment, her presence overwhelmed mine.
"Listen, Kirill Orlov." She stared at me, eyes brimming with tears, but her gaze fierce as a lioness protecting her cub. "You can divorce me and kick me out tomorrow. But right now, my professional ethics will never allow me to stand by and watch someone die!"
I looked at her.
Her face was flushed with anger, chest heaving violently. Those brown eyes that usually avoided mine were now locked on me, unblinking.
In this world, no one dared control Kirill Orlov. The last person who tried—his ashes were scattered in the Neva River.
I opened my mouth, wanting to scold her. But in the end, I just forced out a cold snort from deep in my throat and turned my head away.
"Don't expect overtime pay."
Harper didn't waste another word.
She quickly opened the medical kit, snapped on rubber gloves. Her movements were surprisingly skilled—cutting away my shirt, cleaning the blood, disinfecting.
When the alcohol swab touched the edge of the wound, I couldn't help but hiss.
"Hold still." Her voice softened slightly, but remained tense. "This is going to hurt. There's glass embedded in there."
She picked up the tweezers, completely focused on the wound.
I gritted my teeth, forced myself to relax my muscles, but my gaze involuntarily fell on her.
She was too close. So close that if I lowered my head just slightly, my chin would touch her forehead.
At this distance, I could see the tiny freckles across her nose, like scattered cinnamon. Completely different from Genevie. Genevie pursued perfection, demanded her face be flawless. I used to think that was beautiful. Now, I had reservations.
Harper was focused. That professional calm stripped away her usual timidity, making her look... exceptionally attractive.
Only now did I notice her long lashes, a tear still clinging to the ends, trembling with each blink, driving me crazy.
"Done."
After who knows how long, Harper snipped the last piece of tape. She exhaled and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. A few damp strands stuck to her cheek.
"The wound isn't deep. No organ damage, but you've lost a fair amount of blood." She gathered up the blood-soaked gauze scattered around, speaking in an eerily calm tone. "You might run a fever tonight. There's ibuprofen in the kit. Don't get it wet for the next few days, and no strenuous activity, or the stitches will tear."
I looked down at my neatly bandaged abdomen. The burning pain had dulled to something bearable.
"Not bad." I squeezed out a dry compliment.
Harper didn't respond.
She stripped off the rubber gloves and tossed them in the trash, then straightened up, took half a step back, and looked at me in silence.
My fingers instinctively tightened on the armrest. An ominous feeling crawled up my spine.
