Page 66 of His Contract Queen

I fucking hate being shot.

“How the fuck did this happen?” he mutters, though I can’t tell if it’s to me or himself. “Last I heard, you were holding some girl captive.”

I wince again when he presses a fresh cotton pad over the wound to pack it, the pressure brutal but necessary.

“She’s… not a captive…” The words come out strained, spoken through gritted teeth as another wave of fire lances through my side.

He snorts in disbelief, the sound humorless. He pauses only long enough to grab a curved needle off the tray, black suture thread already threaded through the eye. The motion is so practiced it looks almost bored, like he’s sewing a button onto a piece of clothing instead of closing a bullet hole in a man who’s supposed to be his rival.

“Right,” he says deadpan without looking up. “Because you’re famous for your hospitality, Volkov. Kidnapping, extortion, light treason, sure. But domestic bliss? That’s a new one.”

“Says the one who decided to get involved with a woman who nearly got you killed.”

“You’re one to talk, clearly. And you’re lucky I sent her out with my sister earlier or else you would be hearing from them both about how reckless you are. ” He ties off the first stitch with a quick, economical tug. “At least I didn’t hold mine hostage.”

The pull drags a fresh wave of agony through my body as my skin is slowly knitted back together. I hiss through clenched teeth, fingers curling into fists at my sides as I remain still.

“She can’t be a hostage,” I manage to say after a minute. “If she’s my wife.”

Sasha’s hands freeze for half a second, long enough for me to register the stillness, but not long enough to convince me to turn my head and see whatever expression has settled on his face. Any more movement will make me throw up all over the both of us. I’ve already bled enough on his granite to feel like I owe him the additional favor of not adding vomit to the mess.

He continues stitching again, slower now, giving the words time to settle.

“Wife,” he repeats, tasting the word like it’s something foreign and possibly poisonous.

My head lolls back against the cold granite, sweat sliding into my hairline and stinging the shallow cut hidden there. He ties off the knot, clipping the thread with a pair of surgical scissors. The snip is loud in the quiet kitchen, unnaturally against the low hum of the refrigerator and my own labored breathing.

He tosses everything into the metal pan beside him, his gloves the last thing he removes after wiping down the stitched areawith disinfectant and wrapping it in fresh gauze and medical tape. The final press of his palm against the bandage tests for seepage. I swallow a curse.

When he’s finally done, he steps around the island until our eyes meet. He folds his arms slowly over his chest, the sleeves of his black shirt still rolled to his elbows, forearms inked with grey and black tattoos.

“Start talking.”

So I do.

I tell him everything, starting with the debt. Ramil Borchin gambling himself into a hole so deep, even his accolades couldn’t pull him out. I describe the meeting in my office, the way Ramil sat across from me without a trace of shame, offering his daughter to do whatever I wanted with her. The revulsion that had crawled up my throat afterward, bitter and unfamiliar.

I tell him about the lie Ramil wrapped in patriotism and duty to sell it to Katerina to get her to agree to the arrangement. How he convinced her she was sacrificing herself for the greater good instead of being sold to save his own skin. How she believed it completely because he was her father, spending a lifetime drilling honor and service into her.

I tell him about the burner phone I found hidden beneath her mattress. The dozens of messages she sent detailed with meticulous reports on my routines, my meetings, my men. The intelligence she fed him faithfully, night after night, waiting for a response that never came. The growing desperation in her last few texts. The silence that answered her.

I tell him about the marriage contract. How she signed it without knowing the truth like it was just another necessary step in her“mission” to help her father take me down. How she bound herself to me legally, believing it was temporary, believing she’d be free the moment her father gave the order to move against me.

Finally, I tell him about the plan we built together to expose her father. The late nights poring over financial records. The evidence we gathered. The gala we chose for the venue because it would hurt him most in front of the people who mattered. How it all went to hell in minutes when the feed was jammed, when Ramil turned the narrative inside out and dragged her off that stage like she was the criminal.

When I finally stop talking, the room is dead quiet.

Sasha is silent in a way I’ve never seen before. Not the calculating quiet he uses during Pact meetings or the mocking quiet he deploys when he wants to needle someone to the point of breaking them.

When he finally speaks,he explodes. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Of all people… this isexactlythe kind of disaster you lecturedmeabout months ago.” He paces the length of the kitchen now, furious. “‘Women aren’t worth this kind of chaos.’That’s what you said to me.”

“I know,” I cut in, my throat tightening as guilt washes over me. “I know. I’ve changed my mind.”

He stops in my line of sight, turning to glare down at me. “How very convenient for you.”

“I love her, Sasha.”

The silence that follows is deafening.