Page 65 of Hostage of the Russian
Azriel turned and walked back down the hallway, her heels clicking with purpose now instead of nervous energy. She had a destination, a plan forming in her mind with crystalline clarity. No more waiting, no more professional boundaries, no more being protected from her own life.
The elevator ride to the parking garage felt endless. She kept her breathing steady, her hands folded neatly in front of her, the picture of professional calm. Other employees nodded politely as they passed, probably assuming she was heading home after another long day at the office. If only they knew she was really going to confront her husband about murdering her father.
It wasn’t until she was alone in her car that she let the mask slip, her carefully controlled expression cracking as the full weight of the situation hit her. Her hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white against the leather.
Danny Hartford was dead. The man who’d terrorized her childhood, who’d sold her to pay his debts, who’d never shown her a moment of genuine affection in twenty-one years of life. She should feel relief, or satisfaction, or at least some sense of closure. Instead, she felt empty. Hollowed out in a way that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with finality.
There would be no reconciliation now. No chance for him to become the father she’d always hoped he might be, no opportunity for closure or understanding. Just death, violent and final, delivered by the man she loved.
Azriel started the engine, her movements mechanical and precise. The private clinic wasn’t far, maybe fifteen minutes if traffic cooperated. She’d been there before, back when she’dbeen shot during that campus attack. She remembered the discreet entrance, which looked like any other medical building from the outside, while hiding state-of-the-art equipment and doctors who asked no questions about unusual injuries.
She pulled out of the parking garage and into the late afternoon traffic, her mind spinning with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answered. How badly was he hurt? Why had he gone after her father alone when he had brothers who would have helped him? And why, despite everything Danny Hartford had done to her, did some small part of her feel hollow at the news of his death?
The radio was playing something soft and innocuous, but she turned it off, needing silence to think. The city moved past her windows in a blur of glass and steel, people going about their normal lives while hers shifted fundamentally once again.
She’d thought the hard part was over. The kidnapping, the forced marriage, and the gradual transformation from victim to willing participant. She’d thought they’d found their rhythm, built something real and lasting from the wreckage of their violent beginning. But now she realized they were still figuring out what their marriage meant, still learning how to be partners instead of captor and captive.
The traffic light ahead turned red, and she drummed her fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. Rush hour was starting, office workers streaming out of buildings and into cars, everyone eager to get home to their families. Normal people with normal problems, worrying about dinner plans and weekend errands instead of dead fathers and wounded husbands.
She’d planned to invite him to dinner tonight, to celebrate her raise and maybe steal a few minutes of normalcy between them. The reservation she’d tentatively made at that Italianplace seemed laughably naive now. What was she supposed to do, congratulate him on successfully committing murder? Ask him how he was feeling about avenging her honor while they shared breadsticks?
The light turned green, and she pressed the accelerator harder than necessary, earning an annoyed honk from the car behind her. She didn’t care. Whatever conversation awaited her at the clinic, she was done being the protected wife who only learned about important events after they had passed. Done being managed like a fragile asset instead of being treated like an equal partner.
Kostya was about to learn that the woman he’d married was stronger than he’d given her credit for. Strong enough to handle the truth about her father, strong enough to face the realities of their world, strong enough to be furious with him for nearly getting himself killed without consulting her first.
The clinic came into view, its bland exterior hiding the sophisticated medical facility within. She’d been here as a patient, scared and hurt and dependent on others to make decisions for her. This time, she was here as a wife demanding answers from the man who’d promised to share his life with her.
Even if she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for whatever those answers might reveal.
Chapter 21 - Kostya
The leather chair in the private clinic felt like torture against Kostya’s wounded shoulder, but he’d endured worse. Dr. Petrov had insisted he stay for observation, muttering about blood loss and potential complications in that thick Russian accent that reminded him too much of childhood lectures from his father. The old man meant well, but Kostya had work to do—operations to coordinate, loose ends to tie up, and damage control from his impulsive decision to handle Danny Hartford alone.
His brothers were right, of course. Going after Danny solo had been stupid, reckless, the kind of move he’d lecture Ivan or Fedya about if they’d pulled the same stunt. But the moment he’d gotten confirmation of Danny’s location, rational thought had fled. All he could see was Azriel’s face when she’d told him about her father’s abuse, the way she’d tried to hide her pain behind careful words and steady breathing.
The bastard had deserved to suffer for what he’d done to her. Still deserved it, considering he was probably bleeding out in some rival safe house instead of rotting in the ground where he belonged.
Kostya shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that didn’t send fire shooting through his left shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through, missing major arteries by millimeters. Lucky, Dr. Petrov had called it. Kostya called it sloppy. He’d been so consumed with rage that he’d walked into Danny’s ambush like an amateur, letting emotion override training.
The door to his room opened without a knock, and he expected to see one of the nurses with another lecture about bedrest. Instead, Azriel stood in the doorway, still wearing her work clothes, her dark hair slightly mussed from what looked like a frantic drive across the city.
But it was her eyes that stopped his heart. Red-rimmed, bright with unshed tears, carrying a devastation so complete it made his chest ache worse than any bullet wound.
“Did you kill my father?”
The question hung in the air between them, simple and terrible. She knew. Somehow, she’d found out about Danny, and now she was looking at him like he’d ripped her world apart all over again.
Kostya opened his mouth to answer, to explain, to find some way to make this easier for her. But before he could speak, her gaze dropped to his shoulder, taking in the bandages visible beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt, the IV line running to his arm, the careful way he held himself to minimize movement.
“Oh my God.” The anger vanished from her voice, replaced by something that sounded like panic. “How bad is it?”
She was across the room before he could blink, her hands hovering over his shoulder like she wanted to touch but was afraid of causing more damage. The tears she’d been holding back spilled over, tracking down her cheeks as she took in the extent of his injuries.
“Azriel.” He tried to reach for her with his good arm, but the movement sent a spike of agony through his shoulder that made his vision blur. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Her voice cracked on the words. “You’re bleeding through your bandages, and you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Was he? Kostya tried to focus, but the edges of his vision kept going soft, the room tilting at odd angles. Dr. Petrov had pumped him full of painkillers, but he’d been fighting them, trying to stay alert and functional. Now, with Azriel’s hands gentle on his face, he felt himself losing the battle.
