Page 113 of Captive Prize

I didn’t think my refusal was enough to deter Roman.

Not with the way he was looking at me, the anger, frustration and just a little pain reflected in his eyes.

No, he was here to punish me, not kill me.

Still, this entire convoluted situation meant I had nothing to lose.

I refused to lose my independence, so they had to get rid of me, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

I knew I would lose the fight. I just never considered how I would lose the fight.

Roman had me in his arms almost immediately.

He devoured my mouth with savage, filthy hunger—his tongue plunging deep, like he was already fucking me with it, before pinning my body against the wall, every thick, hard muscle demanding my surrender.

Breathing ragged, he had one hand in my hair, pulling my head back, the other on my hip with a too-tight grip, bruises forming under his fingers.

His scent—leather, sweat, and sin—flooded my senses as his cock ground against me like punishment.

The heat rolled off of him in a barely contained inferno.

This wasn’t just anger.

Lust and desire mixed with the anger in his eyes, a primal need, and despite how I wanted to refuse my instincts and deny my desires, my body responded in kind.

Roman was nothing but power and rage, all bottled up and ready to explode.

I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t.

That same potent mix of hate, rage, and need flooded my veins. I did the only thing I could.

I gave in to it.

I didn’t know if we were going to fight or fuck, but what did it matter if he killed me now or Gregor did it later?

When I opened my mouth to scream at him, Roman claimed my lips again.

Why couldn’t his kiss be soft and pleading?

Why couldn’t he be sweet and loving?

I could fight soft and sweet.

I could deny pleading and loving.

But the violent demands in his touch, the power and the control were too much.

They hit like a shot of raw Russian vodka—dangerous, numbing, and dirty enough to make me drunk on him.

This kiss didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t.

It didn’t need to.

It was far more intoxicating when pure.

He was brute, carnal power—demanding I fuck him with my rage.

Not obedience, but a challenge.

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