Page 69 of Hostage of the Russian
“When did you last take your medication?” she asked, reaching for the pill bottle.
“This morning. Early.”
“How early?” She shook two pills into her palm, then grabbed water.
A sheepish look crossed his face. “Maybe four.”
“Kostya, it’s almost nine.” She pressed the pills into his palm, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent that familiar electric current racing up her arm. “You can’t just suffer through this.”
He swallowed the pills obediently, but his eyes never left her face. “I didn’t want to be unconscious. In case you needed something.”
The admission was so quietly sincere that it made her throat tight. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” His free hand covered hers where it rested on his shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”
They stayed like that for a moment, morning light casting them both in gold, and Azriel felt her anger begin to crack around the edges. He was hurt, genuinely hurt, and not just physically. The guilt was eating at him.
“I need to check your bandages,” she said finally, stepping back. “The doctor said to watch for signs of infection.”
He nodded, reaching for the hem of his shirt. She helped him ease it over his head, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened. Even injured, even pale and drawn with pain, he was beautiful in that dangerous way that had always made her breath catch.
The bandages were clean, but she could see the tension in his muscles, the way he held himself rigid. Her fingers were gentle as she checked the edges of the dressing.
“It looks good,” she murmured, smoothing a piece of tape. “Healing well.”
“Thanks to you.” His voice was soft, intimate. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there that night.”
The memory of finding him bloodied and barely conscious made her hands shake slightly. She’d been so angry when she’d stormed in, ready to confront him. But the moment she’d seen him lying there, pale and broken, all her fury had evaporated into pure terror.
“You scared me,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “When I saw you like that, I thought...”
“I’m okay.” His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her skin with devastating gentleness. “I’m right here.”
The tenderness in his touch nearly undid her. This was the part of him that confused her most, the contrast between the ruthless killer and the man who looked at her like she hung the moon.
“I should hate you,” she said, leaning into his touch despite herself. “For lying to me. For keeping secrets.”
“Do you?” The question was barely audible, but she could hear the fear underneath.
She closed her eyes, feeling the war between her head and heart. “I’m trying to.”
A soft laugh escaped him, rusty but genuine. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“One of us should be.”
The barb hit its mark, and she saw him flinch. Good. She wasn’t ready to let him off the hook completely.
“I deserve that,” he said quietly. “I deserve a lot worse.”
“You do.” But her fingers were already moving to help him put his shirt back on. “You deserve to have me walk away and never look back.”
“But you won’t.” It wasn’t a question, and the quiet confidence made her want to prove him wrong.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I am sure.” He caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that her breath caught. “Because despite everything, you’re still here. Still taking care of me when you should be telling me to go to hell.”
“Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.”
