Page 23 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

The call came at three in the morning, jarring Kostya from sleep with its shrill urgency.

Viktor’s voice cut through the haze of interrupted dreams like a blade.

“The Nikolai rivals hit one of our warehouses. They took everything and left a message.”

Kostya was already reaching for his clothes before Viktor finished speaking.

“What kind of message?”

“The kind written in blood.”

Twenty minutes later, Kostya stood in what remained of their operation, watching smoke curl toward the dawn sky.

Broken glass crunched under his boots as he surveyed the damage.

Crates lay splintered, their contents either stolen or destroyed.

The metallic scent of blood mixed with the acrid smell of burnt merchandise.

“They knew exactly what they were looking for,” Fedya said, his voice carrying that cold edge it always held when business turned personal. His pale eyes swept the destruction with calculated precision.

“This wasn’t random,” Viktor nodded grimly. “Someone fed them information. Told them when the guards would rotate, where we kept the valuable shipments.”

“Danny,” Kostya growled, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.

The bastard had been missing for weeks now, ever since that night at the alliance party when Azriel had nearly collapsed at the sight of him. The memory of her fear, the way she’d trembled against him, ignited a familiar rage in his chest.

“We tracked them to the industrial district,” Viktor continued. “They’re holed up in an old textile factory. Heavily armed.”

Kostya checked his gun, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hand.

“Then let’s go remind them why crossing a Nikolai is a death sentence.”

The drive to the factory was tense, filled with the kind of silence that precedes violence.

Kostya and his brothers had done this dance countless times, but something felt different today.

Maybe it was knowing Azriel was back home, probably still asleep in their bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow like silk.

The thought of her waiting for him made his chest tighten with an emotion he wasn’t quite ready to name.

“You seem distracted,” Fedya observed, his light blue eyes studying Kostya in the rearview mirror.

“Just thinking about how satisfying it’ll be to put bullets in these bastards.”

Fedya didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. He understood the value of focused violence.

The factory loomed before them like a concrete gravestone, its broken windows staring out like dead eyes. They approached from three angles, communicating through earpieces and hand signals that had been perfected through years of coordinated strikes.

“I count at least eight,” Viktor’s voice crackled through the comm. “Maybe more inside.”

“Copy,” Kostya whispered, positioning himself near the main entrance. “On my mark.”

The next few minutes blurred together in a symphony of gunfire and shouting. Glass exploded around them as bullets flew. Kostya moved through the factory floor with deadly precision, his training taking over as he neutralized targets with cold efficiency.

That’s when he saw him.

Danny Hartford stood near the back exit, his cowardly face pale with terror as he clutched a briefcase to his chest. The man who had offered his own daughter like cattle, who had put Azriel through years of abuse and neglect. The sight of him sent molten fury coursing through Kostya’s veins.

“You son of a bitch!” Kostya roared, abandoning cover to charge toward him.

Danny’s eyes widened with recognition and fear. He stumbled backward, shouting something to his companions before disappearing through the exit. Kostya fired after him, but the distance was too great.

“Kostya, get down!” Viktor’s warning came a split second before Kostya felt the burning tear of a bullet ripping through his shoulder.

The impact spun him around, sending him crashing into a stack of metal crates.

Pain exploded through his body, white-hot and immediate. Through the haze of agony, he could see the rivals retreating, dragging Danny with them toward waiting vehicles. His vision blurred as he struggled to his feet, determined to pursue them.

“Like hell you’re going anywhere,” Viktor said, suddenly at his side.

Viktor’s strong hands gripped Kostya’s uninjured arm, steadying him as he swayed.

“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“They’re getting away,” Kostya snarled, trying to push past him. “Danny’s with them. I can end this right now.”

“And get yourself killed in the process?”

Fedya appeared on Kostya’s other side, his pale eyes assessing Kostya’s wound with clinical detachment.

“You’ve lost too much blood. Any more running around and you’ll pass out.”

“I’m fine,” Kostya insisted, even as black spots danced at the edges of his vision.

“You’re an idiot,” Viktor corrected. “We’ll handle tracking them down. You’re going home.”

The argument continued during the entire drive back to the mansion, Kostya’s protests growing weaker as blood loss took its toll. By the time they pulled into the driveway, he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Should we call the family doctor?” Fedya asked.

“No,” Kostya managed. “Just help me inside. I can handle it.”

They exchanged a look that clearly said they thought he was being stubborn and stupid, but they helped him through the front door anyway. The house was quiet, wrapped in the peaceful stillness of early morning. Azriel would still be sleeping, unaware of the violence that had just unfolded.

“We’ll be in touch once we have more information,” Viktor said, his voice unusually gentle. “Try not to bleed to death before then.”

After they left, Kostya made his way slowly up the stairs, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through, which was good, but the bleeding hadn’t stopped completely. He needed to clean and dress the wound before it got infected.

He had just made it to the bathroom when he heard her voice.

“Kostya? Is that you?”

Fuck. He’d hoped to patch himself up before she noticed anything was wrong. The last thing he wanted was to worry her, especially when she was finally starting to trust him, to open up about her past.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he called back, trying to keep his voice steady. “Just getting cleaned up.”

“It’s barely six in the morning. Where have you been?”

Before he could answer, she appeared in the bathroom doorway, her smoky gray eyes still heavy with sleep.

She wore one of his shirts as a nightgown, the dark fabric making her skin look luminous in the dim light.

Her black hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and for a moment, he forgot about the pain in his shoulder entirely.

Then her gaze dropped to the blood soaking through his shirt, and her face went pale.

“Oh my God, Kostya. What happened?”

“It’s nothing serious,” he said quickly, trying to downplay the severity of the wound. “Just a graze.”

She was already moving toward him, her hands reaching for his shirt.

“Don’t lie to me. There’s blood everywhere.”

“Azriel, really, I can handle this.”

But she ignored his protests, her small hands already working to carefully peel away the blood-soaked fabric. When she saw the wound, she sucked in a sharp breath.

“This is not a graze,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “You need stitches. We should call a doctor.”

“No doctors,” he said firmly. “I’ve had worse. I just need to clean it and bandage it up.”

Her gray eyes flashed with anger.

“You’re being ridiculous. This could get infected, or you could have nerve damage, or—”

“Azriel.” He reached out with his good arm, cupping her face gently. “I’m okay. It looks worse than it is.”

She stared at him for a long moment, those beautiful eyes searching his face. Then she sighed, the fight going out of her.

“Fine. But I’m helping whether you like it or not.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Sit down and shut up,” she said, pointing to the edge of the bathtub. “Unless you want me to call your brothers and tell them their tough guy boss is too stubborn to accept help from his wife.”

Despite the pain, he found himself smiling.

“You’re getting awfully bossy, Mrs. Nikolai.”

“Someone has to be, since you clearly can’t take care of yourself.”

He sat where she’d directed, watching as she gathered supplies from the medicine cabinet. Her movements were efficient and sure, like she’d done this before. The thought sent an uncomfortable twist through his stomach.

How many times had she patched up wounds inflicted by her bastard father?

“This is going to hurt,” she warned, soaking a cloth with antiseptic.

“I can handle it.”

She began cleaning the wound with gentle, careful strokes.

Despite her warning, her touch was incredibly tender, each movement designed to cause minimal discomfort.

He found himself studying her face as she worked, noting the way she bit her lower lip in concentration, the delicate curve of her cheekbones, the way her lashes cast shadows on her skin.

“How did this happen?” she asked softly, not looking up from her work.

He’d been dreading this question. How could he tell her he’d seen Danny, that her father was working with their enemies? She’d been making such progress, laughing more, sleeping without nightmares. The last thing he wanted was to drag her back into that darkness.

“Business dispute,” he said vaguely. “Some rivals thought they could muscle in on our territory.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, Viktor and Fedya were with me. They’re fine.”

She nodded, continuing to clean the wound.

“Did anyone else get hurt?”

“A few of the other guys, but nothing serious.” He paused, watching her face carefully. “We didn’t catch all of them. Some got away.”

Her hands stilled for just a moment, and he saw something flicker in her eyes. Fear? Recognition? But then she resumed her gentle ministrations.

“Will they come back?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But if they do, we’ll be ready.”