Page 18 of The Russian's Bought Bride

A slow exhale leaves me as I push off the desk, well aware of what I have to do next.

Fine. I can work with that, like I always do.

But first, there’s something else I need to deal with. Something I chose.

Glancing at the spare room door again once I step back into the hallway, the quiet stretches through the house again. I don’t hear any sound from her now, and it sends a flicker of worry through me.

I stop outside her door, hand hovering over the handle for a brief second as I gather myself, then I push it open.

The room is dimmer now with the curtains partially drawn as the sun has nearly completed its descent, amber glow slowly draining away.

Danielle’s still on the bed, curled slightly on her side with her back to the door. Her shoulders are tense and rigid like she’s holding herself together by force alone, but soon enough, it will give way.

For a moment, I just watch and try to find the best path ahead. Then I step inside and force myself to face it.

“We need to talk,” I tell her, quieter this time.

She stiffens but doesn’t turn around, and her voice comes out hoarse. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we need to.”

Then, slowly, she rolls onto her back with stiff movements, her eyes red and swollen when they meet mine. She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t expect her to.

“Then talk,” she says flatly.

With only one place to start, I gather my thoughts and begin. “You and your father were part of a fraudulent medicaltrial. They pretended their surgery could save him just to get him on the table.”

Her expression doesn’t change at first, then her brows knit slightly as it registers. “What?”

“The procedure,” I continue, “the synthetic organ…it wasn’t real. It was a front for something much worse.”

“For what?” she asks, though I can see the realization starting to form in her eyes.

Holding her gaze, I know this won’t sit well in any capacity. “For organ harvesting.”

Danielle freezes again, expression gradually twisting. Now she’s really listening.

“No,” she says immediately with a shake of her head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. The doctors…they had credentials, they were legitimate.”

“They were part of it,” I tell her, not leaving room for debate.

Her breathing quickens, and she blinks back at me in utter disbelief. Then she seemingly tries to grasp onto something more believable in her eyes, but there’s less conviction in it now. “You expect me to believe that an entire hospital was involved?”

“It was a private clinic,” I correct. “Not a hospital. And yes, it happens more than you think.”

Her eyes search my face, looking for cracks and doubt. For anything that says I’m lying, but she doesn’t find it. Then, her face hardens a bit as her suspicion flares. “If you’re not connected to them, then how do you know all this? Who are you really?”

It’s the question I’ve been avoiding, but I can’t completely avoid it forever.

I exhale slowly. “I have connections.”

“What kind of connections?”

“The kind that put me in a position to know what was happening there, and what was going to happen to you.”

Her gaze sharpens at my vague response, and frustration flashes across her face, quickly followed by what looks like fear. It settles in her eyes, both dark and uncertain.

“You said they were going to kill me,” she says quietly, looking more hesitant now. “How do I know you’re not going to do the same?”