Page 41 of Captive Prize

The memories were my vice.

Not the rum I sipped while the sauce simmered.

Them. My parents.

They were the indulgence I refused to give up.

If the first ten years of my life were about love, the next ten were about pain. Loneliness.

I worked hard to prove myself, knowing full well I’d never get my grandmother’s approval.

But it made me stronger.

That cruel old woman turned me into the weapon the Ivanovs needed.

And when she died, I pissed on her grave—just like she always said she wanted to do to my mother’s.

Shaking off the memories, I focused on the food. Stirred the sauce. Let it cook evenly.

What the hell was it about that girl?

I should’ve starved her. Let hunger soften her resolve.

Instead, I was making her my mother’s comfort food.

When the meat was tender, I plated a bowl. Black beans. Seasoned rice.

Mama would’ve been proud.

But would she have approved of the girl I had tied up in the other room?

Would she have understood?

My father might’ve.

I took a deep breath. It didn’t matter.

They weren’t here.

The only person I needed to live up to was me.

And I was going to do whatever it took to protect my cousins. My name.

No matter how pretty our enemy was, she was still the enemy.

Even if I was feeding her like a lover.

I walked into the room with the tray balanced in one hand.

Zoya was still shackled to the chair, breathing sharp, chest rising and falling with rage.

The flush on her skin told me she hadn’t cooled off in the hours since I left.

She looked up at me through her thick lashes, those damn green eyes cutting through me.

I held the bowl under her nose.

“If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll release you so you can eat,” I said, keeping my tone even. Reasonable.

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