Page 5 of Hostage of the Russian
With renewed determination, she returned to her textbooks, this time bringing them to bed where she could read more comfortably. The Constitutional Law cases were fascinating, a complex web of interpretations and precedents that challenged her analytical mind. This was what she wanted to do with her life: use the law that had failed to protect her to shield others from similar fates.
Azriel was so engrossed in her reading that she almost missed the sound. A faint scraping from the direction of her window. She froze, senses suddenly alert, heart accelerating.
Probably nothing. The building was old, prone to strange noises. Or maybe a branch against the glass, there was a tree outside her window, after all.
The sound came again. Not a branch. More deliberate. More precise.
Azriel set her book aside slowly, eyes fixed on the window. The curtains were drawn, preventing her from seeing outside, but also blocking anyone from seeing in. Small comfort as the scraping evolved into the unmistakable sound of her window sliding open.
Years of hypervigilance kicked in. Azriel moved silently from her bed, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. Before her fingers could close around it, the curtains were thrust aside, and a large figure filled her window frame.
A man. Tall. Powerfully built. Dressed entirely in black.
For one suspended moment, they stared at each other; Azriel frozen in shock, the stranger’s dark eyes calculating as he took in her appearance, the room, the distance between them.
Then training overcame paralysis. Azriel lunged for her bedroom door, adrenaline surging through her veins. She’d made it halfway across the room when an arm like iron wrapped around her waist, lifting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing.
“No!” The scream tore from her throat as she thrashed against her captor’s grip. Her elbow connected with something solid, his ribs perhaps, eliciting a grunt but no loosening of his hold.
“Be still,” a voice near her ear commanded, deep and accented, Russian, her brain registered absurdly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Let me go!” Azriel’s hand grabbed his face, nails tearing down in desperate retaliation. She felt skin give way beneath her assault.
The man cursed in what was definitely Russian, his grip tightening painfully around her waist as he used his free hand to capture her wrists, immobilizing her arms with effortless strength.
“Enough,” he growled. “We’re leaving. Make this easy on yourself.”
“Who are you?” Azriel demanded, still struggling despite the futility of it all. “What do you want?”
“Kostya Nikolai,” he replied, the name offered casually as if they were meeting at a social function rather than during her abduction. “And I want you, Azriel Hartford.”
The use of her name sent ice through her veins. This was targeted. Specific. Not a random attack.
“How do you know my name?” Fear made her voice higher than usual.
“Your father told me all about you.”
Her father. The words struck like physical blows. After all these years, after everything she’d done to disappear, to build a new life, her father had found her. Or worse, sold her out.
Before she could process this revelation, Kostya was moving toward the window, carrying her struggling form with apparent ease. Outside, another man waited, taller, with pale features partially visible in the dim alley lighting.
“Take her,” Kostya instructed, passing Azriel through the window like a package.
The second man’s grip was equally unyielding but somehow more impersonal as he restrained her, allowing Kostya to climb out after them. Despite her continued resistance, they moved efficiently through the darkness toward a waiting vehicle, a black SUV with tinted windows.
“Please,” Azriel tried, adrenaline giving way to cold fear. “Whatever he owes you, I have nothing to do with it. I haven’t spoken to my father in years.”
Neither man responded as they opened the rear door and placed her inside. The interior was luxurious, with leather seats, wood paneling, and the scent of expensive cologne. The taller man pulled out zip ties, securing her wrists before stepping back and closing the door.
Kostya took the seat beside her while his companion moved to the driver’s position. The engine purred to life, and they pulled away from the curb, leaving behind everything Azriel had worked for.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, determined to maintain composure despite the panic threatening to overwhelm her. Her mind raced through options, memorize the route, look for landmarks, identify any potential weapons in the vehicle, and assess the restraints for weaknesses.
“My home,” Kostya replied, turning to study her in the dim light of the car’s interior. He was handsome, she noted from a distance, almost criminally so, with dark hair and eyes that might have been warm under different circumstances. A fresh set of scratches marred one cheek, evidence of her resistance. “We have matters to discuss.”
“I have nothing to discuss with anyone associated with Danny Hartford.”
Something like surprise flickered across Kostya’s features. “You truly hate him.”
