Page 14 of Captive Prize

Not even when I sliced the top button of his shirt clean off.

He needed to know who was in control. More than that, he needed to feel it.

Then I turned my back to him and stood in front of Pavel, using the side of the blade to tip his chin up so I could look into his bloodshot eyes.

"Then prove it."

CHAPTER 6

ROMAN

Ilocked eyes with Pavel.

A silent message passed between us—quick and sharp.

By the way his gaze hardened and his jaw clenched, I knew he understood. He knew why this had to happen.

Pavel could take whatever I gave him.

He was the one who taught me how to throw a punch… and how to take one.

But that was when I was fifteen—before I shot up in height and packed on a hundred pounds of muscle to put behind every strike.

This wasn’t about punishment.

It was theater. Survival. And I hated every second of it.

As if being locked up, away from his pregnant wife, wasn’t hell enough.

I just hoped, when this was all over, he’d forgive me.

Pavel sneered at me then—that cold, cruel smile he usually saved for our enemies.

I smirked right back and slowly peeled off my jacket, setting it aside on the one cleanish corner of the table. I unbuttoned my sleeves, rolling them up to my forearms.

“So you think a cheesy demon tattoo makes you a killer? Fuck off.”

His words were pure venom. “I’m not telling you or that ice queen cunt a goddamn thing. You can go to hell and take the rest of the goat fuckers with you.”

Yeah. He understood. He was playing along.

This wasn’t our first time pulling something like this.

But the last time, I was the one being pinned down—and Pavel was the one doing the hitting.

We were teenagers. Some other family thought they’d score points with the Ivanovs by wiping out the half-breed disgrace.

We were outnumbered, and too young to matter.

If Pavel hadn’t stood up for me, we’d both be dead.

But between blows he got a weapon in my hand. And once I was free…we burned that place to the ground.

One of those racist fucks called my father a goat fucker. It didn’t even make sense—it just stuck in my mind. And in Pavel’s too, apparently.

The tattoo he mentioned was on my hand. Tribal. Disguised. But if you knew the reference, you knew.

I got it on my eighteenth birthday. Pavel took me out, got me drunk, and thought it was hilarious to turn our grandmother’s insult into ink.

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