Page 72 of Hostage of the Russian
“Nothing fancy. I can’t exactly take you out in my condition.” His grin was rueful. “But I could order from that Italian place you like. We could eat in the dining room.”
It was such a simple request, but it felt significant, like a step toward something normal, something that looked like forgiveness.
“Okay,” she said, and watched his whole face transform with relief and joy.
An hour later, they were seated at the formal dining table, candles flickering between them and the scent of garlic filling the air. Kostya had changed into a button-down despite the difficulty, and Azriel had put on a dress, wanting to mark this moment as special.
“You look beautiful,” he said as she settled into her chair.
“You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“Even with the bandages?”
“Especially with the bandages.” The admission slipped out, and she felt her cheeks warm. “You look like a dangerous pirate.”
His laugh was loud and genuine. “A pirate? That’s a new one.”
They ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing. He told her stories about his childhood, about pranks he and his brothers used to pull. She found herself sharing memories too, the good ones from before her life had gone dark.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said as they finished the main course. “About what you said this morning. About not knowing where you fit.”
“Oh.” She set down her fork, suddenly nervous.
“I want you to know that you fit with me.” His voice was quiet, sincere. “However you want that to look. Whether you want to work or go back to school. Whether you want to be involved in family meetings or stay separate. Whatever makes you happy, that’s where you fit.”
The words hit her like a physical blow; they were so unexpectedly perfect. “You mean that.”
“I mean it.” He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “I know this started as something you didn’t choose. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret staying.”
“Kostya...” Her voice came out breathless.
“I’m not asking for an answer tonight,” he said quickly. “I know I still have a lot to make up for. I’m just asking you to think about it. About us. About whether what we have might be worth fighting for.”
She looked at him across the candlelit table, this dangerous, complicated man who had turned her world upside down, and felt something settle into place in her chest. Maybe she was still working through her anger. Maybe there were still conversations they needed to have. But sitting here with him, seeing the hope and vulnerability in his dark eyes, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
“I’ll think about it,” she said softly.
His smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. “That’s all I can ask for.”
They lingered over dessert, neither wanting the evening to end. When Kostya finally started to flag, exhaustion overtaking him, Azriel helped him to his room without being asked.
“Thank you,” he said as she helped him ease out of his shirt. “For dinner. For today. For not giving up on me.”
“Thank you for being honest with me. Finally.”
“No more secrets,” he promised, catching her hand as she turned to go. “Whatever happens from here, we face it together.”
She squeezed his fingers, feeling the truth of his words settle into her bones. “Together.”
As she made her way to her own room, Azriel found herself thinking about what he’d said. About fitting with him, about building something worth fighting for. The anger was still there, a small flame in her chest, but it was surrounded now by something warmer. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Maybe forgiveness wasn’t something that happened all at once. Maybe it was built slowly, in quiet moments and honest conversations, through the simple act of choosing to stay. Maybe it was found in scrambled eggs and candlelit dinners, and in the way someone could look at you like you were their whole world.
Chapter 23 - Kostya
Kostya adjusted his tie for the third time in five minutes, his reflection in the bathroom mirror looking back with dark eyes that held more vulnerability than he cared to admit. The bouquet waiting on his desk cost more than most people made in a month, white roses mixed with peonies, Azriel’s favorites that he’d memorized from watching her linger at flower shops during their walks together.
He’d fucked up. Badly.
