Page 70 of Hostage of the Russian
“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.”
“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 somethingdomestic 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.”
