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

He’d caught her watching him sometimes, her gray eyes analytical and unafraid.

Not the reaction he was accustomed to from people who found themselves in her position.

Most people faced with Kostya Nikolai’s displeasure became stammering, terrified versions of themselves.

Azriel had simply observed him, as if he were a particularly interesting specimen she was studying for a research paper.

The thought went unfinished, but a dark promise settled in his chest as he navigated the increasingly dense campus traffic.

No one escaped Kostya Nikolai. Especially not his own wife.

She could run to her books, her professors, and her thesis project, but she couldn’t hide from the fundamental truth of their situation.

Twenty minutes later, Viktor confirmed what Kostya had already suspected.

Campus security footage showed Azriel entering the Humanities building two hours earlier, dressed in dark jeans and a forest green sweater, carrying the familiar canvas messenger bag she’d used for her books.

She’d walked with purpose, someone with every right to be there, which was probably why security hadn’t given her a second glance.

The parking lot was crowded when he arrived, forcing him to park some distance from the building.

Students streamed across the campus in small groups, animated conversations about upcoming exams and semester-end parties creating a constant buzz of youthful energy.

Kostya adjusted his Italian wool jacket, knowing he stood out among the casually dressed undergraduates like a wolf among sheep.

He didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them wonder what someone like him was doing in their academic sanctuary.

Inside the Humanities building, the familiar scent of old books and industrial cleaning supplies brought back unwelcome memories of his own university days, back when he’d still believed that education and hard work could provide legitimate paths to success.

Before his father’s death, he had been taught that some debts could only be paid in blood, and some empires could only be built on foundations that respectable society preferred not to examine too closely.

He consulted the directory mounted near the main entrance, scanning for the classes Azriel might be attending.

His research had been thorough, perhaps more thorough than he’d initially realized he’d need.

Literature major, minor in Psychology. A senior year dominated by upper-level seminars and thesis preparation.

A 3.8 GPA that spoke to both intelligence and dedication.

The first two classrooms he checked were either empty or filled with students he didn’t recognize. But the third classroom, tucked away on the second floor at the end of a corridor lined with faculty offices, revealed what he sought.

Through the small window in the door, he spotted her immediately.

Azriel was seated near the front of a half-filled lecture hall, her dark hair pulled back in the neat ponytail she’d favored since childhood, according to the photographs his investigators had provided.

Her attention was completely focused on the professor, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and animated gestures, who was discussing what appeared to be poetry analysis, gesturing toward lines of text projected on a screen.

For a moment, Kostya simply watched her, his anger temporarily suspended by the unexpectedness of the scene.

She hadn’t run away, not really. She hadn’t fled to another city or thrown herself on the mercy of distant relatives.

She’d gone to class, as if nothing had changed in her life.

As if she hadn’t been kidnapped and forced into marriage just days earlier.

The audacity was breathtaking.

The professor asked a question about metaphorical imagery, and Azriel’s hand rose immediately; her response was confident and articulate, even though Kostya couldn’t hear the specific words through the door.

Whatever she said clearly impressed the instructor, who nodded enthusiastically before building on her point, launching into an extended analysis that had several other students scribbling notes.

This was Azriel in her element, he realized.

Here, surrounded by literature and analysis and intellectual discourse, she was confident, passionate, alive in a way he hadn’t seen at the mansion.

The careful distance she’d maintained, the polite but guarded responses, all of that fell away when she was discussing something that genuinely engaged her mind.

Kostya pushed the door open quietly, slipping into the back row with the practiced silence of someone accustomed to moving unnoticed when necessary.

A few students glanced his way, his expensive suit and obvious maturity marking him as distinctly out of place, but most remained focused on the lecture or their laptops.

From this vantage point, he could study Azriel properly without the barrier of glass between them.

She was completely engaged in the discussion, her posture alert and attentive, occasionally scribbling notes in the margins of the textbook open before her or highlighting passages with a yellow marker.

When another student made a comment she disagreed with, her eyebrows drew together slightly, and she raised her hand to offer a counterpoint that was both respectful and devastating in its precision.

“Excellent point, Miss Hartford,” the professor said, responding to another comment from Azriel. “The author’s subversion of traditional romantic imagery serves as both critique and homage. Can you expand on how this technique reflects the broader literary movement of the period?”

Hartford, not Nikolai. Of course she wouldn’t have changed her name in the university records yet.

The legal paperwork establishing their marriage was barely seventy-two hours old, hardly enough time for bureaucratic systems to catch up with reality.

But hearing her called by her maiden name irritated him nonetheless, a reminder that in this space, surrounded by these people, she still belonged to her old life rather than the new one he’d created for her.

As if sensing his annoyance, or perhaps just the weight of his stare, Azriel suddenly stiffened, her head turning slowly until her gaze found his in the back row. The color drained from her face in an instant, her eyes widening with shock and something that might have been fear, or anger, or both.

The transformation was immediate and complete. The confident scholar disappeared, replaced by the wary captive he’d grown accustomed to seeing at the mansion.

The professor asked her another question, building on her previous comment, but Azriel didn’t respond, her attention fixed on Kostya with the intensity of a deer caught in headlights.

He offered her a small smile, deliberately calm and controlled, taking pleasure in her visible discomfort.

Let her wonder what he would do. Let her stew in the anxiety of not knowing whether he’d cause a scene, drag her out of the classroom, or simply sit and wait for her to make the next move.

“Miss Hartford?” the professor prompted when several seconds passed without a response. “Your thoughts on the final stanza?”

Azriel visibly collected herself, tearing her gaze away from Kostya with what appeared to be considerable effort. “I, um, I think the...” She stumbled over the words, her usual eloquence deserting her as she struggled to regain her academic composure.

Kostya watched the internal battle play out across her expressive features, noting how her hands trembled slightly as she gripped her pen.

A warm satisfaction spread through him. Good.

Let her feel the consequences of her actions.

Let her understand that there was no corner of her life he couldn’t reach if he chose to.

For the remainder of the lecture, Azriel’s participation diminished dramatically.

She kept stealing glances toward the back row, each time finding Kostya’s unwavering gaze waiting for her.

Her shoulders grew progressively tenser, her posture rigid with the strain of trying to focus on the lesson while acutely aware of his presence.

When the professor finally dismissed the class, announcing that she’d post the reading assignments for next week online, Azriel gathered her belongings with deliberate slowness, clearly hoping to avoid a confrontation until the classroom emptied.

Kostya remained seated, content to let her stew in anxiety a little longer while he observed the other students filing out, most of them chattering about weekend plans or upcoming assignments.

As the crowd thinned, a young man approached Azriel’s desk, and Kostya’s attention sharpened.

Tall, conventionally handsome in that bland way of university athletes, with sandy hair and an easy smile that suggested practiced charm and the kind of confidence that came from a lifetime of doors opening easily.

“Hey, Azriel,” the young man said, loud enough for Kostya to hear clearly. “That was an amazing point about the imagery in the second poem. I never would have made that connection between the seasonal metaphors and the protagonist’s emotional journey.”

Azriel glanced nervously toward Kostya before responding, her voice carefully neutral. “Thanks, Jason.”

So this was Jason, Kostya noted, filing the name away for future reference. The young man’s body language was unmistakably interested, his posture slightly angled toward Azriel in a way that invaded her personal space without being overtly inappropriate.

“So, about that study group for finals,” Jason continued, leaning closer than strictly necessary, his voice dropping to a more intimate register.

“My place is free tomorrow night if you want to come over. I’ve got some notes from Professor Mercer’s previous exams that might help, plus my roommate’s out of town, so we’d have plenty of quiet space to really focus. ”

The invitation was transparently more than academic.

Kostya’s eyes narrowed as he catalogued the tells: the way Jason’s gaze lingered on Azriel’s lips when she spoke, how he’d positioned himself to block her exit from the row of seats, the casual mention of privacy and being alone.

This wasn’t a study session; it was a poorly disguised attempt at seduction.

Something possessive and primal stirred in Kostya’s chest, a reaction that surprised him with its intensity.

Before he’d fully processed the feeling, he was moving toward them, his steps silent despite his size, closing the distance with the predatory grace that had served him well in more dangerous situations.

“I’m not sure I can make it tomorrow,” Azriel was saying, her voice slightly strained as she spotted Kostya approaching in her peripheral vision.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Jason pressed, apparently oblivious to the danger materializing behind him. “Just a few of us reviewing material, maybe order some pizza afterward. No pressure, just a chance to hang out outside of class. We’ve barely had a chance to really talk this semester.”

Kostya reached them, placing a proprietary hand on Azriel’s shoulder with deliberate possession. “My wife is otherwise engaged tomorrow evening.”