Page 44 of Captive Prize

Instead of breaking her, I’d been the one to fracture. I was seconds from giving in to whatever spell she was weaving when she reminded me exactly who she was.

“No one goes in that room, but no one comes out either,” I snapped at the guards. “Lock the whole place down.”

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. I stepped outside, letting the cold air cut through the heat still burning within me.

I needed a plan. Winging it wouldn’t work with Zoya.

I didn’t want that pretty little mouth of hers laughing at me. I wanted it used for what God intended—spilling secrets and sucking cock.

I thought about going back in, but I was too keyed up. Zoya wasn’t going to break from fear. And even as the Ivanov black sheep, I had rules.

We didn’t hit women or children. That was how my cousins and I brought some civility to the carnage. We had limits.

And that little girl was pushing me to the edge of mine.

I got in my car and drove toward the hotel penthouse in D.C., where all my research waited. There had to be something in those files I’d missed—some thread I could pull to unravel her.

Maybe something with her father?

I could send someone to the asylum. Hell, I’d break him out if that was what it took.

But no. He wasn’t worth it.

He sold his daughter to a monster—that, or sold a monster to an unsuspecting man. Either way, he’d stay where he was unless I had no other option.

I wasn’t out of cards yet.

Two minutes into the drive, still surrounded by trees, my phone buzzed.

Pavel:Need to see you. Come to the compound. In medical wing.

Fuck.

I hadn’t even thought to check on him. I got him out, sure, but the man was beat to hell and running on fumes. Anyone could see he needed medical care.

Getting him out was my job. Patching him back together was someone else’s.

Still, I hit the turn signal and headed for the compound Gregor had built here in Virginia.

It was past time I returned anyway.

There were bigger issues at hand. And questions that still needed answers.

I went straight to the medical wing. Gregor had it installed after the attack on Artem—private hospital suites in the heart of the compound. Our family had graduated from digging bullets out on kitchen tables to full-on surgical facilities.

Clean. Bright. Understated luxury with state-of-the-art equipment.

Only one room had lights on. Voices and the steady beeping of a monitor filtered through the open door.

I expected to see Pavel in bed, bruised and half-dead, with his wife yelling at him not to go toward the light.

Instead, Alina was the one in the bed—hooked up to machines, bruised but not broken. More annoyed than injured.

Pavel sat beside her, holding her hand. One leg in a cast, his ribs wrapped, an arm bandaged. His face was a mess. The swollen eye, neck brace, and gauze on his nose? Probably my fault.

And, like all married couples, they were mid-argument.

I tried to back out of the room, but Alina’s eyes locked on mine instantly.

---