Page 55 of Hostage of the Russian

The question caught him off guard. He looked at her more closely, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided meeting his eyes.

“Are you worried about me, Azriel?”

She flushed, her cheeks turning a delicate pink.

“I just... I don’t want to be alone again.”

The simple honesty of her admission hit him harder than any bullet could have. This beautiful, fierce woman who’d been abandoned and abused by the one person who should have protected her was afraid of losing someone else. The fact that she’d come to see him as protection—maybe even care—sent warmth spreading through his chest.

“Hey,” he said softly, using his good hand to tilt her chin up until she met his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s going to take a lot more than some wannabe gangsters to put me down.”

“Promise me,” she whispered.

“I promise.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded and went back to bandaging his shoulder. They worked in comfortable silence, her hands gentle and sure as she secured the dressing.

“There,” she said finally, stepping back to admire her work. “Try not to move around too much for the next few days. And if it starts bleeding again or shows any signs of infection, you’re seeing a doctor whether you like it or not.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She started to turn away, but he caught her wrist with his good hand, pulling her closer. She came willingly, settling between his knees with her hands resting lightly on his chest.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For taking care of me. For worrying about me.” He brushed a strand of dark hair away from her face. “For making me want to come home.”

Her breath caught, and he saw her pupils dilate slightly.

“Kostya...”

He leaned forward, intending to kiss her—to show her without words how much her concern meant to him.

But just as their lips were about to meet, his phone rang.

They both froze, the moment hanging between them like a held breath.

“You should answer that,” she said softly, though she made no move to step away.

He glanced at the screen. Viktor.

“What?” he answered, probably sounding more irritated than the situation warranted.

“They’re at the airport,” Viktor said without preamble. “Private jet. Filed a flight plan for Miami.”

Kostya’s blood turned to ice.

“When?”

“Twenty minutes ago. They’re probably already in the air.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar burn of frustrated rage. Danny was slipping away again, taking with him any chance of ending this nightmare for Azriel.

“We need to follow them,” he said.

“Already making arrangements. There’s a flight leaving in two hours.”