Page 71 of Hostage of the Russian
“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?”
