Page 32 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

The morning light filtered through the gauze curtains as Azriel padded barefoot to the kitchen.

Three days had passed since Kostya’s confession at the clinic, and the sting of his deception still felt fresh.

She’d thought they were past the secrets, past the careful omissions that had plagued their relationship from the beginning.

She was wrong.

The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the silence.

Kostya was still recovering upstairs, his body demanding rest as it fought to heal from injuries that could have killed him.

Part of her was grateful for the quiet. It meant she didn’t have to look into those dark eyes and see the guilt swimming there, didn’t have to pretend that his withholding the truth about seeing her father hadn’t cut deeper than she cared to admit.

Her phone buzzed against the marble countertop. A text from her supervisor, asking if she’d be in today. She’d called in sick for three days, unable to bear the thought of pretending everything was normal.

She set the phone aside without responding.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Here she was, angry at Kostya for keeping secrets about Danny Hartford, while simultaneously battling guilt over the relief she’d felt when he’d told her about the shooting. What kind of daughter felt grateful that her father might be dying?

Danny had been a terrible father. Neglectful, abusive, more interested in his schemes than the daughter he’d left behind. But he was still her blood, and some stubborn part of her heart couldn’t completely let go of the child who had once hoped he might change.

She hated herself for caring. Despite everything, despite the bruises and the fear and the years of feeling invisible, she couldn’t simply write him off as a casualty of the life he’d chosen.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted her brooding.

Heavy, uneven, accompanied by the soft scrape of someone favoring their right side.

Kostya appeared in the doorway, his usually immaculate appearance replaced by rumpled sleep clothes and hair that stuck up at odd angles.

The bandages wrapped around his torso were visible beneath his thin t-shirt, and she could see the careful way he held himself.

“You’re up early,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and pain medication.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She poured coffee into two mugs, sliding one across the island toward him without meeting his eyes. “You shouldn’t be walking around yet.”

He accepted the mug with a murmured thanks, and she caught the slight tremor in his hands as he lifted it. The movement pulled at the bullet wound along his side, the one that had required surgery and countless stitches.

“Azriel.” Her name was a question, an invitation, a plea.

She finally looked at him, really looked, and felt her carefully constructed walls waver.

His face was pale beneath the stubble, dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and pain that went beyond the physical.

The guilt was written in the set of his shoulders and the way he watched her with something close to desperation.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Please don’t.”

“I know you’re angry,” he began, setting his mug down carefully. “I know I should have told you I’d seen him that night, but I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?” The words came out sharper than intended. “From the truth? From making my own decisions about my own father?”

“From being hurt again.” His voice was soft, almost vulnerable. “You should have seen your face that night, the way you looked at him. Pure terror, Azriel. I couldn’t stand it.”

She gripped her mug tighter. “That wasn’t your choice to make.”

“Maybe not. But I’d make the same decision again if it meant keeping that look off your face.”

The honesty in his admission hit her like a physical blow. She wanted to stay angry, but the way he was looking at her made it impossible for her to do so, as if she were something precious, worth protecting even at the cost of his own integrity.

A sharp intake of breath made her glance up. He’d moved too quickly, pulling at his injuries. Without thinking, she was around the island and at his side, her hand hovering over his shoulder.

“You idiot,” she murmured, torn between exasperation and concern. “Sit down before you tear something.”

He obeyed without argument, sinking onto a barstool with obvious relief. This close, she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his jaw was clenched against pain he was trying to hide.

“When did you last take your medication?” she asked, reaching for the pill bottle.

“This morning. Early.”

“How early?” She shook two pills into her palm, then grabbed water.

A sheepish look crossed his face. “Maybe four.”

“Kostya, it’s almost nine.” She pressed the pills into his palm, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent that familiar electric current racing up her arm. “You can’t just suffer through this.”

He swallowed the pills obediently, but his eyes never left her face. “I didn’t want to be unconscious. In case you needed something.”

The admission was so quietly sincere that it made her throat tight. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” His free hand covered hers where it rested on his shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

They stayed like that for a moment, morning light casting them both in gold, and Azriel felt her anger begin to crack around the edges. He was hurt, genuinely hurt, and not just physically. The guilt was eating at him.

“I need to check your bandages,” she said finally, stepping back. “The doctor said to watch for signs of infection.”

He nodded, reaching for the hem of his shirt. She helped him ease it over his head, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened. Even injured, even pale and drawn with pain, he was beautiful in that dangerous way that had always made her breath catch.

The bandages were clean, but she could see the tension in his muscles, the way he held himself rigid. Her fingers were gentle as she checked the edges of the dressing.

“It looks good,” she murmured, smoothing a piece of tape. “Healing well.”

“Thanks to you.” His voice was soft, intimate. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there that night.”

The memory of finding him bloodied and barely conscious made her hands shake slightly. She’d been so angry when she’d stormed in, ready to confront him. But the moment she’d seen him lying there, pale and broken, all her fury had evaporated into pure terror.

“You scared me,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “When I saw you like that, I thought...”

“I’m okay.” His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her skin with devastating gentleness. “I’m right here.”

The tenderness in his touch nearly undid her. This was the part of him that confused her most, the contrast between the ruthless killer and the man who looked at her like she hung the moon.

“I should hate you,” she said, leaning into his touch despite herself. “For lying to me. For keeping secrets.”

“Do you?” The question was barely audible, but she could hear the fear underneath.

She closed her eyes, feeling the war between her head and heart. “I’m trying to.”

A soft laugh escaped him, rusty but genuine. “At least you’re honest about it.”

“One of us should be.”

The barb hit its mark, and she saw him flinch. Good. She wasn’t ready to let him off the hook completely.

“I deserve that,” he said quietly. “I deserve a lot worse.”

“You do.” But her fingers were already moving to help him put his shirt back on. “You deserve to have me walk away and never look back.”

“But you won’t.” It wasn’t a question, and the quiet confidence made her want to prove him wrong.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“I am sure.” He caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that her breath caught. “Because despite everything, you’re still here. Still taking care of me when you should be telling me to go to hell.”

“Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.”

“Or maybe you care about me more than you want to admit.”

The truth of it hit her like a slap. She did care about him, far more than was safe. Somewhere between the forced marriage and the gunfights and the quiet moments in between, she’d fallen for him completely.

“I hate that you’re right,” she whispered.

His smile was soft, almost shy. This was the Kostya she’d glimpsed with his family, the one who told terrible jokes and worried about his sister.

“I love that you’re honest,” he said. “Even when it hurts.”

“Everything about this hurts.” She pulled her hand free, needing distance. “Caring about you, worrying about my father, trying to figure out where I fit in all of this.”

“You’re not losing yourself.” His voice was fierce, certain. “You’re the strongest person I know, Azriel. You’ve survived things that would have broken most people.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

“That’s what makes you brave.”

The conversation was interrupted by the rumble of her stomach, loud enough to make them both pause. She hadn’t eaten much in days, too worried to have much appetite.

“When did you last eat?” Kostya asked, concern replacing tenderness.

“I had some toast yesterday.” Maybe.

“Azriel.” The reproach was gentle but firm. “You can’t take care of me if you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“I’m not trying to take care of you,” she lied. “I’m just making sure you don’t bleed out on my kitchen floor.”

“Our kitchen floor.”

The correction was casual, but it made something warm unfurl in her chest. Their home. Their kitchen.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she said, but there was no real heat in it.

“Too late for that.” He stood carefully, one hand braced against the counter. “Come on. Let me make you breakfast.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Right now, I’m going to make my wife breakfast because she’s too stubborn to take care of herself.”

“I can cook my own food.”