Page 9 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

“When you know, you know,” Kostya replied, pulling Azriel closer to his side with easy familiarity. His fingers brushed against her neck in a gesture that appeared loving but felt like a warning, a reminder of his ability to control even this innocent interaction. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Azriel forced a smile that felt like it might crack her face. “It certainly was... unexpected.”

“Love often is,” Professor Mercer agreed with a soft smile, clearly charmed by what she perceived as a romantic story. “How did you two meet? If you don’t mind my asking. I’m always fascinated by how couples find each other.”

“Family connection,” Kostya replied smoothly, his hand sliding down to rest at the small of Azriel’s back, the warmth of his palm seeping through her thin sweater and making her acutely aware of every point of contact between them.

“Her father and I have known each other for years, and moved in some of the same circles. But it wasn’t until recently that Azriel truly caught my attention. ”

The half-truth made Azriel’s stomach turn. Yes, her father had facilitated their meeting, but not in the romantic, serendipitous way Kostya was implying. There had been nothing romantic about Danny Hartford offering his daughter as collateral for his gambling debts.

“A whirlwind romance, then?” Professor Mercer asked, her academic curiosity clearly engaged by what she saw as an interesting love story.

“Something like that,” Azriel muttered, the words barely audible.

Kostya’s hand pressed more firmly against her back, his fingers splaying possessively across the curve of her spine.

“I knew she was special from the moment I saw her. Her determination, her intelligence, the way she approaches every challenge with such fierce focus.” His voice dropped lower, taking on an intimate quality that drew the attention of several nearby students. “Her fire.”

Despite herself, despite knowing it was all an act designed to maintain their cover, Azriel felt heat rising to her cheeks.

The intensity in his dark eyes as he spoke seemed genuine, as if he actually meant the words rather than simply performing for their audience.

It was disconcerting how effectively he played this role, how easily he slipped into the persona of a devoted husband.

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear it,” Professor Mercer said, clearly charmed by the display. “Azriel is one of our brightest students. Her thesis on power dynamics in modern literature is quite remarkable, really sophisticated analysis for an undergraduate project.”

“Power dynamics,” Kostya repeated, amusement coloring his voice as his fingers traced idle patterns on Azriel’s back, the touch maddeningly distracting. “How appropriate. I find myself increasingly interested in that subject lately.”

“I’m focusing on how power shifts between characters,” Azriel explained, unable to resist the opportunity for a subtle jab, “particularly in situations where one party appears to hold all the cards initially, but the other finds ways to subvert that control through intelligence and determination.”

Kostya’s smile widened slightly, and she could see that he’d caught her meaning perfectly. “Fascinating,” he said, his voice carrying undertones that made her pulse quicken. “I’m finding that subject increasingly relevant to my own recent experiences.”

Professor Mercer glanced between them, apparently sensing some undercurrent she couldn’t quite identify but not seeming overly concerned by it. “Well, I should let you two go. I’m sure you have plenty to discuss. Azriel, don’t forget your comparative analysis paper is due next Wednesday.”

“I wouldn’t let her forget,” Kostya assured the professor, his hand moving to cup Azriel’s shoulder again, thumb brushing against her collarbone in a gesture that seemed both possessive and intimate.

“Her education is clearly a priority for both of us. I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with something so important to her future. ”

After Professor Mercer left, gathering her materials and heading toward her office with a friendly wave, Azriel immediately stepped away from Kostya’s touch, breaking contact and creating as much distance as the narrow space between desk rows would allow.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing attention from the few remaining students who were slowly gathering their belongings.

Kostya’s expression shifted back to its usual controlled mask, the charming husband disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. “That was me ensuring your academic career continues smoothly. You should be thanking me for handling a potentially awkward situation with such finesse.”

“Thanking you?” Azriel repeated incredulously. “For what? Nearly starting a fight with a classmate? Lying to my professor? Announcing our sham marriage to the entire academic department?”

“There’s nothing sham about our marriage,” he corrected, his tone hardening slightly. “The paperwork is quite legal, properly filed, and recognized by the state of Illinois. What we have may not be conventional, but it’s legitimate in every way that matters.”

“Forced signatures tend to undermine authenticity,” she shot back.

Kostya stepped closer, deliberately invading her personal space in a way that made her acutely aware of his size and strength. “Being married at your age isn’t unusual, Azriel. And it provides you with certain protections that you wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“Protection?” Azriel couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “From whom? You’re the one I need protection from. You’re the threat in my life.”

“Not from me,” he replied, his gaze intense and unwavering. “From the world I inhabit. A world your father dragged you into the moment he offered you as payment for his debts. Being my wife affords you certain... immunities that simply being my captive would not.”

The words sent a chill down her spine, a reminder of just how precarious her situation truly was. But she refused to let him see her fear.

“I never asked to be part of your world,” she said quietly.

“Few people do,” Kostya acknowledged with something that might have been sympathy.

“But here you are nonetheless—and being my wife, both legally and publicly, provides you with a level of protection that other arrangements would not. No one in certain circles would dare touch what belongs to a Nikolai.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she insisted, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

“The legal documents say otherwise,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“But if it helps you accept the situation, think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. You can complete your education, live in comfort and security, and pursue your academic goals without financial worries. I get...” He paused, considering. “Well, we’ll see what I get.”

The implication in his words sent a shiver down her spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, which only increased her irritation with herself and the entire impossible situation.

Before she could formulate a response, her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, the sound echoing embarrassingly in the quiet classroom and breaking the tension between them.

Kostya’s eyebrows rose, genuine amusement replacing the intensity in his gaze. “Hungry?”

Azriel felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. She’d been so focused on getting to class early that she’d barely eaten the breakfast provided to her earlier in the day, surviving on nothing but coffee and sheer determination to maintain some semblance of normalcy in her disrupted life.

Kostya’s amusement was infuriating, the way his mouth curved into that insufferable smirk, how his dark eyes sparkled with genuine mirth at her expense. He looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, which only made her more determined to deny him any satisfaction.

“Come,” he said, the command softened by what sounded almost like genuine concern. “I’ll take you to lunch.”

“No, thank you,” she replied stiffly, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder with more force than necessary. The strap bit into her shoulder, but she welcomed the small discomfort as a distraction from her growling stomach and his penetrating gaze.

“Azriel.” His voice carried a note of warning that she’d learned to recognize, but she ignored it, stepping around him toward the door.

“I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself,” she said over her shoulder, not bothering to slow her pace. “I’ve been doing it for twenty-two years without assistance.”

She made it exactly three steps before his hand closed around her wrist, not painfully, but with enough firmness to stop her forward momentum.

The contact sent an unwelcome jolt of awareness through her, his skin warm against hers, his grip just strong enough to remind her of the power contained in his deceptively elegant hands.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he said, his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the few remaining students gathering their things. “You’re hungry, I’m offering food. There’s no need to make this more complicated than it has to be.”

Azriel turned to face him, acutely aware of how close they were standing, how his thumb had begun tracing absent circles against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. The gesture was probably unconscious, but it was distracting enough to scatter her thoughts for a moment.

“Everything is complicated with you,” she said, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened under his touch. “I can’t even go to class without you turning it into some kind of territorial display.”

“Jason was flirting with you,” Kostya stated matter-of-factly, as if this explained everything.

“So?” The word came out sharper than she’d intended. “People flirt. It’s a normal human interaction. Just because you’ve dragged me into your world of violence and control doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to function in polite society.”

His grip on her wrist tightened fractionally, and she saw something dangerous flash in his eyes. “You’re my wife now. That changes things.”

“On paper,” she shot back, pulling against his hold even though she knew it was futile. “A signature obtained under duress doesn’t constitute a real marriage. It’s a legal fiction designed to serve your purposes.”

“The law disagrees with your assessment,” he replied, his voice taking on that maddeningly calm tone that made her want to scream. “As does anyone who might be watching us right now.”

As if to emphasize his point, his free hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that would look tender and loving to any observer. But she could see the steel behind his dark eyes, the quiet warning that accompanied the seemingly affectionate touch.

“Let me go,” she said quietly, though she wasn’t entirely sure whether she was referring to his physical hold or the broader situation.

“Have lunch with me,” he countered, his thumb continuing its maddening stroke across her skin. “One meal. We’ll discuss the parameters of your continued education, establish some ground rules that work for both of us.”

“Parameters,” she repeated flatly. “Ground rules. You make it sound like a business negotiation.”

“In many ways, it is,” he acknowledged, and she had to admit she appreciated his honesty even as it frustrated her. “But it doesn’t have to be adversarial. We both want something; you want to finish your degree, and I want to ensure your safety and cooperation. Surely we can find a middle ground.”

Her stomach chose that moment to growl again, even louder than before, and Kostya’s smile widened into something that was almost genuine.

“Your body is making a compelling argument for my side,” he observed.

“Traitor,” she muttered, glaring down at her rebellious midsection.

“Come,” he said again, releasing her wrist but keeping his hand on her cheek, fingers threading through the hair at her temple. “There’s a café two blocks from here. Good food, quiet atmosphere, plenty of witnesses to ensure I behave myself.”

The last part was clearly meant to be reassuring, but something in his tone suggested he found the idea more amusing than restrictive. Still, the promise of public scrutiny was oddly comforting, and her hunger was becoming impossible to ignore.

“Fine,” she said, stepping back and breaking contact with his hand. “One lunch. But we eat, we talk, and then I go home to study. No detours, no surprises, no impromptu meetings with your associates.”

“Agreed,” he said, though his easy acquiescence made her suspicious. “Shall we?”

He gestured toward the door with mock gallantry, and despite herself, Azriel found herself wondering if she was making a mistake. Every interaction with Kostya felt like walking through a minefield; one wrong step and everything could explode around her.

But her stomach was cramping with hunger, and the alternative was returning to his house, where she’d be entirely on his territory. At least in public, surrounded by witnesses, she might maintain some illusion of control over the situation.

“After you,” she said, not trusting him to walk behind her.

His laugh was low and rich, genuinely amused by her obvious distrust. “Such faith in your husband,” he murmured as they moved toward the door. “I’m wounded.”

“You’ll survive,” she replied dryly, very carefully not thinking about how easily the word ‘husband’ had rolled off his tongue, or how her traitorous body had responded to the casual intimacy of his touch.

This was going to be a very long lunch.