Page 132 of Captive Prize

They were going to have to drop me like a rabid dog if it did.

Their wives sat in the waiting room, together with the children.

Everyone especially doted on Pavel’s sweet baby girl, Irina—a beautiful name his wife had chosen, one that meant peace.

They were offering support and sympathy as we waited for news. Or they would’ve been, if I’d let them get close.

No one was dumb enough to approach me.

My thoughts must have been reflected in my eyes.

All I could think about was blood.

Zoya’s blood.

The liquid that gave her life was pouring from her body in endless rivers, flooding the floor of the surgical suite, draining her life from her.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her beautiful ivory skin getting whiter, closer to death, and the brilliant green of her eyes fading as she slipped from existence.

That—and blood. So much blood. Pouring from her, draining the light and the fight from the woman I loved more than anyone or anything.

I was scared.

No, that wasn’t true. I was so far past scared.

For the first time in my life, I was just as terrified as I was livid.

She knew. She knew months before she told me.

She waited until there was nothing that could be done about it because she wanted to give this to me. To us.

And the other wives helped her.

God help them if she didn’t get out of this alive.

I would burn the entire Ivanov empire to the ground.

Zoya was supposed to be untouchable. She should have been safe. It was my job to keep her safe. She should have lived forever—because how the hell was I supposed to exist in a world without her?

I always said I understood what my father went through when my mother died. That I didn’t blame him.

But in truth, I did blame him.

I blamed him my entire life for leaving me with that horrible woman.

Leaving me without a father.

Chasing a vendetta.

My mother would’ve hated him for abandoning a scared ten-year-old child in an unfamiliar country with people who didn’t love him.

She would’ve hated what his family made me.

She wanted me to be a diplomat, a scholar.

Instead I was a brute. I was the man who had never shied away from blood and gore… until now.

My mother’s death—and my father’s abandonment—made me this.

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