QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 173: Run

Daphne POV

It’s been almost five years in this world.

And in the last few months, I’ve spent more time in South America than I ever planned to. What started as a quick infiltration bloomed into something messier, more tangled.

There was no point in remaining in a hotel suite, we got an apartment.

The apartment we settled into is deceptively normal. Two bedrooms, minimal décor, a kitchen that smells like cheap spices and stronger memories. Estela insisted on decorating it with soft colors—pale green curtains, peach bedsheets, a ridiculous fluffy rug that somehow ended up covered in weapons and blueprints by week two.

It feels like a real home. That’s the problem.

Now we have to leave.

I look over my shoulder and see her—Estela. She’s crouched by the table, packing ammunition with clinical precision, jaw tight, brows furrowed. She hasn’t spoken to me since last night. Not properly.

"I told you not to go back to the docks alone," she had snapped.

"And I got the files, didn’t I?" I’d snapped back.

Now, silence. She’s hurt. And worried. And angry. But mostly hurt.

I sigh and close the suitcase with a final, angry zip. "We should be gone by morning."

Still nothing.

"Estela," I say, gentler now. "We knew this wouldn’t last."

She doesn’t look up, but her hands still.

"I was starting to like it," she mutters finally. "The routine. The cooking. The stupid telenovelas. You. Me."

I cross the room. She doesn’t move away when I wrap my arms around her from behind. Her warmth bleeds into me, grounding me.

"I know," I whisper. "Me too."

Seems like after all this is over, we’ll have to come back here and settle. Not because it’s convenient, not because the weather’s nice, or because the food is addictive. But because Estela calls it home. And my home... is where she is.

I shift, hands wrapping around her waist as I turn her gently in my arms. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips. I kiss her forehead. Then the bridge of her nose. Then her lips—once, twice.

She laughs into my mouth, but it dies quickly. She pulls back, face serious.

"You know we don’t have time for this."

"I know." I step back, my fingers trailing from her side as I release her.

And then—

BANG!

A door slams open somewhere in the apartment. Heavy boots crash against wooden floors. The shriek of a chair being kicked. Screaming in Spanish. Male voices, full of rage and adrenaline.

We exchange a glance, already moving.

We’re in the bedroom. No shoes on, nor sensible clothes not time for that now.

Estela stalks to the window, barefoot and fast, the kind of elegance only killers and dancers have. I drop to the floor, yank the suitcase out from under the bed with one arm, the other already reaching for the small locked compartment. Click. Open. Guns, ammo, and good old-fashioned dynamite—the kind used in demolition.

"Three," I mutter. "No—one. Just one. Small blast."

We don’t want to kill the whole building. Just delay them.

I snap a match from the book and strike it, the flame trembling like my pulse. I light the fuse. It sizzles to life.

I toss Estela a pair of pistols, which she catches with practiced ease, and starts climbing down.

Estela is at the window.

I don’t hesitate. I swing one leg out, then the other, the city yawning below me like a cracked smile. The apartment is only four floors up, but the old metal skeleton at the back—the maintenance ladder—is narrow and slick.

I start climbing down fast. Every step vibrates with noise. Behind me, the intruders are still yelling and smashing through our place, looking for us. We don’t have time.

My feet hit the second rung from the bottom.

And that’s when I see it.

A wild bush of yellow and white flowers swaying in the breeze. The drop isn’t too bad—maybe one story. I can survive that. Hopefully without twisting anything important.

I glance up. Estela is still coming down, hair blowing in the wind, lithe body almost glowing in the ambient moonlight. I want to kiss her again. Wrong place.

So I jump instead.

Pain zings up my ankles. I’m pretty sure I have splinters and other things in my feet.

"Ouch," I mutter, stumbling into a roll. But I’m okay. No bone-cracking sounds. Just sore.

I rise quickly, brushing off leaves, and look up.

She’s almost there.

And right then—

BOOM.

The explosion ruptures through the building above, rattling the fire escape. Glass shatters. Flame licks the sky, curling out of the window like a dragon’s breath.

And at that exact second—Estela leaps.

Time slows.

Her body cuts through the smoke and light like something out of a dream. I open my arms, to catch her.

"Come on, baby girl," I whisper.

And then—impact.

She crashes into me.

I catch her full weight and stumble back a few steps, heels digging into the flowerbed. My arms lock tight around her as she gasps, breath catching in my neck.

I feel the quake of her heartbeat. The heat of the blast still radiating off her. Her thighs wrapped around my waist, arms clinging to my shoulders.

"You good?" I breathe, barely able to hear myself over the rush in my ears.

She nods against my cheek. "You?"

"Still breathing."

I laugh, breathless and adrenaline-drunk. "God, that was hot."

"Dee," she says, voice rough but teasing.

"I know."

I let her slide down, her feet touching the ground. But I don’t let go.

We need to move. We need to run. We probably have five minutes tops before reinforcements arrive or the whole place collapses. But I can’t stop looking at her.

Her eyes flicker, glassy in the firelight. Her lip is split. There’s a smear of ash along her jaw. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I reach for her hand, and she grips mine back without hesitation—warm, steady, fierce.

And we run.