Page 47 of Captive Prize

Roman had left some time ago.

He stormed out of the room, pissed off—his fragile male pride wounded as I laughed in his face.

He thought I had won that round, and I was perfectly content letting him believe it.

Roman didn’t need to know the way he fed me was one of the more intimate moments of my life.

It wasn’t necessary for him to know the need painted on my face was real.

And there was absolutely no way I was going to tell him it was the best meal I ever had.

I’d rather die than admit I was so easily seduced by a man who probably heated something up from a restaurant to-go container and then fed me.

It was easier to bury the hunger and throw it back in his face.

I mocked him. Insulted him. And just like I knew he would, he stormed out, giving me a few moments to clear the hormones from my brain and get myself under control.

Before the door closed all the way, he told someone that no one was to go in or out of this room.

So I wasn’t alone.

There was at least one guard on the other side of that door. I wasn’t sure how big the house was, but I’d bet there were a few others.

They were going to be how I escaped.

I needed the closest guard to break his orders and come in. Help me. Free me.

There was no way I could get out of the shackles on my own. They were too strong, and the bastard had made sure they were tight enough that I couldn’t dislocate my thumb and slip free.

“Hey! Can you come in here? I need help, and I’ll pay you!” I yelled.

Nothing.

“I have more money than God! Whatever you want!”

Finally—footsteps.

I locked my attention onto the bronze door handle, waiting for it to turn.

Instead, a low voice came through the door. “Doesn’t matter how much you offer. We’d be dead before we spent a cent. You’re stuck. Best tell the boss what he wants. Maybe he’ll make your death a quick one.”

I scoffed.

The voice continued. “Lady, I don’t know what you did to piss off the Ivanov devil, but I’d pick a god and start praying. He isn’t known for mercy.”

The footsteps faded, and a scream ripped out of me, tearing through my already-raw throat.

Of course he was a fucking Ivanov.

He was there for Pavel.

I didn’t realize it at first; Roman didn’t look Russian. But the more I thought about his sharp features, his square jaw, and the way he called meprintsessa, I realized he wasn’t mocking me.

He was owning me.

He didn’t look like them. But he acted like them.

Which meant I needed to get the hell out of here.

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