Page 19 of Hostage of the Russian
“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.
