Page 30 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

The leather chair in the private clinic felt like torture against Kostya’s wounded shoulder, but he’d endured worse.

Dr. Petrov had insisted he stay for observation, muttering about blood loss and potential complications in that thick Russian accent that reminded him too much of childhood lectures from his father.

The old man meant well, but Kostya had work to do—operations to coordinate, loose ends to tie up, and damage control from his impulsive decision to handle Danny Hartford alone.

His brothers were right, of course. Going after Danny solo had been stupid, reckless, the kind of move he’d lecture Ivan or Fedya about if they’d pulled the same stunt.

But the moment he’d gotten confirmation of Danny’s location, rational thought had fled.

All he could see was Azriel’s face when she’d told him about her father’s abuse, the way she’d tried to hide her pain behind careful words and steady breathing.

The bastard had deserved to suffer for what he’d done to her. Still deserved it, considering he was probably bleeding out in some rival safe house instead of rotting in the ground where he belonged.

Kostya shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that didn’t send fire shooting through his left shoulder.

The bullet had passed clean through, missing major arteries by millimeters.

Lucky, Dr. Petrov had called it. Kostya called it sloppy.

He’d been so consumed with rage that he’d walked into Danny’s ambush like an amateur, letting emotion override training.

The door to his room opened without a knock, and he expected to see one of the nurses with another lecture about bed rest. Instead, Azriel stood in the doorway, still wearing her work clothes, her dark hair slightly mussed from what looked like a frantic drive across the city.

But it was her eyes that stopped his heart. Red-rimmed, bright with unshed tears, carrying a devastation so complete it made his chest ache worse than any bullet wound.

“Did you kill my father?”

The question hung in the air between them, simple and terrible. She knew. Somehow, she’d found out about Danny, and now she was looking at him like he’d ripped her world apart all over again.

Kostya opened his mouth to answer, to explain, to find some way to make this easier for her.

But before he could speak, her gaze dropped to his shoulder, taking in the bandages visible beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt, the IV line running to his arm, the careful way he held himself to minimize movement.

“Oh my God.” The anger vanished from her voice, replaced by something that sounded like panic. “How bad is it?”

She was across the room before he could blink, her hands hovering over his shoulder like she wanted to touch but was afraid of causing more damage. The tears she’d been holding back spilled over, tracking down her cheeks as she took in the extent of his injuries.

“Azriel.” He tried to reach for her with his good arm, but the movement sent a spike of agony through his shoulder that made his vision blur. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Her voice cracked on the words. “You’re bleeding through your bandages, and you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Was he? Kostya tried to focus, but the edges of his vision kept going soft, the room tilting at odd angles.

Dr. Petrov had pumped him full of painkillers, but he’d been fighting them, trying to stay alert and functional.

Now, with Azriel’s hands gentle on his face, he felt himself losing the battle.

“The doctor said you nearly died,” she whispered, her fingers tracing his cheekbones like she was memorizing his features. “Viktor said the bullet came too close to major arteries.”

“Viktor talks too much.” The words came out slurred, his tongue feeling thick and uncooperative. When had speaking become so difficult?

“Don’t you dare make jokes right now.” But there was no heat in her voice, just exhaustion and fear. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

The confession hit him harder than Danny’s bullets had. She’d been afraid for him, had driven here in a panic because she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying. It should have made him happy, should have proved that whatever they’d built together had become real.

Instead, it made him feel like the worst kind of bastard. She was crying over his injuries while he’d hidden the truth about her father, made decisions about her life without consulting her, and put himself in danger for revenge she’d never asked for.

“I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out before he could stop it, his carefully constructed defenses crumbling under the weight of her tears.

“For what?” She pulled a chair closer to his, settling beside him like she planned to stay. “For nearly getting yourself killed, or for not telling me you were going after Danny?”

Both. Neither. Everything he’d done since the moment he’d learned about her father’s abuse. But forming the words felt impossible, his thoughts scattered and unclear. The painkillers were winning now, dragging him under despite his attempts to stay conscious.

“Sleep,” Azriel said softly, her hand finding his uninjured one and holding it tight. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He wanted to argue, to explain everything before the drugs claimed him completely. But her voice was soothing, her presence a comfort he hadn’t realized he’d needed. His eyes drifted closed despite his best efforts, consciousness slipping away like water through his fingers.

The next few hours passed in fragments. Awareness came and went like waves, each moment of clarity brief and disorienting.

Sometimes he was alone, the room quiet except for the steady beep of monitoring equipment.

Other times, he could hear voices, Viktor and Fedya arguing about something in low tones.

Once, he thought he heard Dr. Petrov explaining medication schedules to someone.

But always, there was Azriel. Her voice, soft and constant, reading something aloud in the gentle cadence that had become his favorite sound.

Her hand in his, warm and steady, anchoring him when the pain threatened to drag him too far under.

Her presence, unwavering, even when he couldn’t open his eyes or respond to her words.

She was taking care of him the way he’d taken care of her after the campus shooting.

The irony wasn’t lost on him, even through the haze of medication and pain.

She’d been the patient then, scared and hurt and dependent on him for comfort.

Now their roles were reversed, and she was the one offering strength and stability.

The difference was, he’d known what he was doing when he’d cared for her.

Had understood her injuries, her needs, and the healing process she’d need to go through.

Azriel was navigating this blind, learning as she went, but somehow managing to give him exactly what he needed without him having to ask.

Time became fluid, meaningless. Day blurred into night blurred into day again.

Sometimes the pain was manageable, a dull ache he could push through.

At other times, it flared white-hot, stealing his breath and rendering rational thought impossible.

Through it all, Azriel remained constant, adjusting pillows when he shifted restlessly, helping him sip water when his mouth felt like sandpaper, and reading aloud when the silence became oppressive.

When he finally surfaced, the room was dim, with early morning light filtering through partially closed blinds. His shoulder still throbbed, but the sharp edge of agony had dulled to something more manageable. The fog in his head had lifted enough for coherent thought.

Azriel was asleep in the chair beside his bed, her head pillowed on her arms, dark hair falling across her face. She looked exhausted, her work clothes wrinkled from having slept in an uncomfortable position. How long had she been here? Hours? Days?

As if sensing his attention, she stirred, lifting her head and blinking in confusion before her gaze found his. Relief flooded her features when she realized he was truly awake this time, not just drifting in and out of consciousness.

“How do you feel?” she asked, sitting up straighter and immediately reaching for the water cup on his bedside table.

“Like I got shot.” He accepted the water gratefully, his throat raw from dehydration. “What day is it?”

“Thursday. You’ve been in and out for about thirty-six hours.” She settled back in her chair, studying his face like she was cataloging every sign of improvement. “Dr. Petrov said the fever broke this morning, which is why you’re more coherent now.”

Fever. That explained the strange dreams, the way time had seemed to fold in on itself. He’d been sicker than he’d realized, his body fighting infection on top of blood loss and trauma.

“You should have gone home,” he said, guilt twisting in his chest. “Gone to work. You didn’t need to sit here and watch me sleep.”

“Yes, I did.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “I needed to make sure you were going to be okay.”

The simple statement hit him like a physical blow. She’d needed to be here, had chosen to stay despite having every reason to walk away. Despite the anger and hurt he’d seen in her eyes when she’d first arrived.

“About Danny,” he started, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I know you killed him. Viktor confirmed it while you were unconscious.” Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “What I don’t understand is why you went after him alone.”

This was it. The conversation he’d been dreading, the moment when she learned exactly how far his obsession with revenge had gone. Kostya met her gaze, forcing himself to be honest despite knowing it would hurt her.

“I’ve been tracking him for weeks,” he admitted. “Ever since you told me about the abuse. I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d done to you, how he’d made you suffer. It consumed me.”