"Are you insane? Your wound!" Harper felt me trembling and didn't dare move anymore. She could only look up at me, eyes full of terror.
"Yeah, I'm insane." I was breathing hard, pressed my forehead to hers, stared into her eyes, and felt my sanity crumbling. "Where do you think you're going? Guest room? The floor? Don't even think about it."
"You chose to come back. Don't think you can escape me now," I said coldly.
"What do you mean?" Harper'svoice shook.
I lifted my head to look into her eyes, fingers gently stroking her cheek. Once. Then again. Until Harper's face slowly turned red.
"Harper, you win."
Harper stared at me blankly, tears welling up again. But this time, light rekindled in those eyes.
"So..." she asked carefully, grabbing the collar of my shirt, eyes locked on mine without blinking. "Is this... a confession?"
I looked at her expectant face, heart melting completely.
"Yes," I said solemnly. "From now on, you're absolutely not allowed to sleep in the guest room. Not on the floor either. You sleep in this bed. Next to me. You're my wife, Harper. The only one. The real one."
"Kirill..."
Harper choked out my name and rose on her toes, kissing me with trembling lips.
That kiss tasted of tears, of blood, and of desperate, post-catastrophe sweetness. I tightened my arms, deepened the kiss, and wanted to absorb her into my bones and blood.
I was finished.
From the moment she'd turned around and rushed back into that blood-soaked room, I knew—I'd never let go of this hand for the rest of my life.
Chapter Thirteen
Harper
Spring had arrived in New York, but the cold still cut to the bone. Inside Orlov Manor, though, the air had turned thick and scorching.
Everything changed after that night I burst into his study while he was injured—that night reeking of blood and antiseptic. It was like we were burning down our sham marriage and filling the space with something close to greed.
Oak logs crackled in the fireplace. I sat on the plush carpet in the bedroom, a massive vintage leather trunk spread open before me. The popping wood echoed through the quiet room, firelight dancing across the dark hardwood like my racing heart.
"Harper."
His voice came from the doorway, low and rough in that way that was uniquely his.
I didn't need to look up. That scent—the one only he carried—had already drifted into my lungs.
Kirill walked in, still carrying the bite of wind and snow from outside. He yanked at his charcoal silk tie with visible irritation, tossing it onto a nearby armchair. His tailored suit jacket followed, discarded just as carelessly.
He strode toward me. Without warning, he reached around from behind, hands locking around my waist.
"Ah!" I let out a sharp gasp.
The world spun. He scooped me up like I weighed nothing, pulling me tight against his chest.
Thank God Anna bolted from the room—even thoughtfully shutting the door behind her. I couldn't handle another mortifying moment like last time, when Boris caught us with my collar half-undone.
Kirill had been like this lately.
Once that barrier broke, the ice sculpture of a godfather vanished. In his place was a man who was intense, direct, almost clingy.
