Page 12 of Captive Prize

Then there were the two men who didn’t react at all.

The first was my prisoner, Pavel Ivanov. He had been tied to a chair in the middle of the room, directly under the single caged bulb hanging from an extension cord someone had secured to the ceiling. It cast long shadows across the floor and up the walls, turning anyone not under the light into bigger, scarier versions of themselves. It was an impressive effect that would terrify anyone weaker than a fucking Ivanov.

The other man was unknown to me... and yet somehow strangely familiar.

I came in expecting Pavel to be awake and weakened from hunger. I wanted him ready to answer my questions.

What I wasn’t expecting was a stranger. I tightened my fingers around the handle of my gun, sliding the safety off, the distinctive click still audible in the near silent room.

Mateo placed his knife on the table then leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, as if he found answering my questions to be inconvenient. "We needed new recruits. With the Ivanovs circling, we can’t afford weak links or being down so many men. This one is strong and smart. He will take the place of those the Ivanovs’ dog killed."

Mateo jerked his chin toward the man standing in front of me. "Meet Roman. He reports to me."

That last part was more of a flex than necessary information. God, he was such a misogynistic, posing prick. I hated that I needed him to control the men I hired.

I narrowed my eyes as I took the measure of this stranger he hired without my permission or approval. He was a massive man with golden skin decorated in swirling tattoos that peeked from under his sleeves and the collar of his black shirt. His dark, deep-set eyes assessed me as I assessed him.

The respectful thing would have been for him to look away, or look down, or give some type of acknowledgment that I was the one in charge.

Instead, he met my gaze directly, staring me down as if issuing a challenge... or a claim.

My heart rate picked up, but I ignored it. I let the shiver of electricity that trailed down my spine piss me off instead of turn me on.

There was something about him, something in the way he studied me, the direct confidence that veered toward arrogance as he looked me up and down, not even trying to hide his appraisal.

I had never met him before; I was sure of it. There was no way I could forget a man built like this with eyes so dark and piercing. And yet something about the way he stared at me felt familiar.

I couldn’t place it, and it irritated the hell out of me.

Almost as much as the slow-burning hunger in his gaze.

He didn’t look at me like a man seeking a job, like he was trying to impress me. There was no fear in his eyes, no anticipation, not even a hint of anxiousness or unease.

No, he looked at me like he was already imagining what I’d taste like.

Like he’d already decided I was going to be his.

The answer was never. It was never going to happen.

Not with him. Not with any man.

I knew that, but the hubris in his eyes told me he thought otherwise.

If he kept looking at me like that, I wouldn’t just shoot him—I’d carve my initials into his chest first.

I took a step closer to him, pulling back the hammer on my gun with my thumb, wanting to see if he had any self-preservation instincts.

He didn’t have a single one. This large beast of a man in a suit just stared at me with that same challenge in his eyes.

"Mateo," I said, tilting my head to the side, still staring at this man. "Why does he look at me like he knows me?"

Roman didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

"Maybe I do," he said, his English perfect, with just a hint of an accent I couldn’t place.

My jaw tightened at his audacity.

"You’re a plant," I said, letting the accusation hang in the air. "Who sent you?"

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