Page 33 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

“I know you can. You can do everything by yourself, Azriel.” He moved toward the refrigerator with careful steps. “The question is whether you’ll let me do it for you anyway.”

She watched him pull eggs and cheese from the fridge, his movements slow but determined. There was something domestic about the scene that made the anger in her chest loosen.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.” He cracked eggs into a bowl with practiced ease. “I’ve got nothing but time, and apparently a lot of making up to do.”

Despite everything, she found herself smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but I make excellent scrambled eggs.”

The normalcy of it, watching him move around their kitchen like he belonged there, made something settle in her chest. Maybe she was still angry, still hurt. But she was also here, in this moment, and he was alive, healing, and making her breakfast.

“Fine,” she said, settling onto a stool. “But I’m not forgiving you just because you can cook.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He whisked the eggs with more vigor than was wise, given his injuries. “I’m thinking it’ll take at least a week of groveling. Maybe two.”

“Try a month.”

“Deal.” He poured the eggs into the heated pan. “But I should warn you, I’m very good at groveling.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The eggs were perfect, fluffy and rich with cheese, and she found herself eating with more appetite than she’d had in days. They ate in comfortable silence, morning sun streaming through the windows.

“This is good,” she said finally.

“My grandmother’s recipe.” His smile was soft, tinged with a hint of memory. “She used to make them for me when I was sick.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Babushka was tiny, maybe five feet tall, but she could make grown men cry with just a look. She kept the whole family in line.” His voice was warm with affection. “But she made the best food, and she never let any of us go hungry.”

“I would have liked to meet her.”

“She would have loved you.” The certainty in his voice made her look up. “You remind me of her. Small but fierce. Beautiful but dangerous when crossed.”

“I brought you to your knees without even trying,” he said quietly. “If that’s not dangerous, I don’t know what is.”

The admission hung between them, heavy with meaning. Azriel felt her cheeks warm.

“I know you’re still angry,” he continued. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness yet. But I need you to know that everything I’ve done has been about keeping you safe. Even when I was wrong.”

“I understand that.” Her voice was careful. “But I need you to understand that I can’t live like this, always wondering what you’re not telling me.”

“You’re right.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “No more secrets. From now on, we face everything together.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.” His thumb traced across her knuckles. “Including whatever happens with your father.”

The mention of Danny made her stomach clench. “Do you really think he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know.” His honesty was brutal but appreciated. “The wound was bad, but not immediately fatal. It’s possible he got medical attention, went underground.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it,” she admitted. “Part of me hopes he’s dead, and that makes me a terrible person.”

“It makes you human.” His grip tightened. “He hurt you, Azriel. For years. Wanting to be free of that doesn’t make you terrible.”

“But he’s still my father.”

“Biology doesn’t make someone family. Love does. Care does.” His voice was fierce, protective. “He forfeited any claim to being your father the first time he laid a hand on you.”

The conviction in his voice made her throat tight. This was what she’d been afraid of, this feeling of being seen and understood and fiercely protected.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For saying that.”

“It’s the truth.”

The rest of the day passed quietly. Kostya dozed intermittently while Azriel caught up on work emails. She brought him lunch, helped change his bandages, and pretended not to notice the way he watched her with soft, grateful eyes.

By evening, she could feel the last of her anger beginning to fade, not completely, but enough that she didn’t flinch when he reached for her hand.

“Would you have dinner with me?” he asked as the sun began to set. “I mean, really have dinner. Not just making sure I eat enough.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing fancy. I can’t exactly take you out in my condition.” His grin was rueful. “But I could order from that Italian place you like. We could eat in the dining room.”

It was such a simple request, but it felt significant, like a step toward something normal, something that looked like forgiveness.

“Okay,” she said, and watched his whole face transform with relief and joy.

An hour later, they were seated at the formal dining table, candles flickering between them and the scent of garlic filling the air. Kostya had changed into a button-down despite the difficulty, and Azriel had put on a dress, wanting to mark this moment as special.

“You look beautiful,” he said as she settled into her chair.

“You clean up pretty well yourself.”

“Even with the bandages?”

“Especially with the bandages.” The admission slipped out, and she felt her cheeks warm. “You look like a dangerous pirate.”

His laugh was loud and genuine. “A pirate? That’s a new one.”

They ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing. He told her stories about his childhood, about pranks he and his brothers used to pull. She found herself sharing memories too, the good ones from before her life had gone dark.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said as they finished the main course. “About what you said this morning. About not knowing where you fit.”

“Oh.” She set down her fork, suddenly nervous.

“I want you to know that you fit with me.” His voice was quiet, sincere. “However you want that to look. Whether you want to work or go back to school. Whether you want to be involved in family meetings or stay separate. Whatever makes you happy, that’s where you fit.”

The words hit her like a physical blow; they were so unexpectedly perfect. “You mean that.”

“I mean it.” He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “I know this started as something you didn’t choose. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret staying.”

“Kostya...” Her voice came out breathless.

“I’m not asking for an answer tonight,” he said quickly. “I know I still have a lot to make up for. I’m just asking you to think about it. About us. About whether what we have might be worth fighting for.”

She looked at him across the candlelit table, this dangerous, complicated man who had turned her world upside down, and felt something settle into place in her chest. Maybe she was still working through her anger.

Maybe there were still conversations they needed to have.

But sitting here with him, seeing the hope and vulnerability in his dark eyes, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly.

His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. “That’s all I can ask for.”

They lingered over dessert, neither wanting the evening to end. When Kostya finally started to flag, exhaustion overtaking him, Azriel helped him to his room without being asked.

“Thank you,” he said as she helped him ease out of his shirt. “For dinner. For today. For not giving up on me.”

“Thank you for being honest with me. Finally.”

“No more secrets,” he promised, catching her hand as she turned to go. “Whatever happens from here, we face it together.”

She squeezed his fingers, feeling the truth of his words settle into her bones. “Together.”

As she made her way to her own room, Azriel found herself thinking about what he’d said.

About fitting with him, about building something worth fighting for.

The anger was still there, a small flame in her chest, but it was surrounded now by something warmer.

Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Maybe forgiveness wasn’t something that happened all at once.

Maybe it was built slowly, in quiet moments and honest conversations, through the simple act of choosing to stay.

Maybe it was found in scrambled eggs and candlelit dinners, and in the way someone could look at you like you were their whole world.