Page 68 of Hostage of the Russian
Instead, she spoke without turning around, her voice steady but distant.
“I’m glad you’re alive, Kostya. But I can’t do this anymore. Not if you’re going to keep making decisions about my life without consulting me.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like the end of everything he’d built with her. Kostya stared at the empty space where she’d been standing, the silence of the room pressing down on him like a physical weight.
He’d thought the hard part was over. Had believed that surviving Danny’s bullets and the subsequent infection meant he’d paid the price for his reckless pursuit of revenge. But watching Azriel walk away, seeing the trust drain from her eyes, he realized the real consequences were just beginning.
The woman he’d fallen in love with was gone, and this time, he had no one to blame but himself.
Chapter 22 - Azriel
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.
