Page 77 of Captive Prize

Maybe my father was wrong.

Love didn’t change you.

It may have changed something on the outside, how you presented yourself. But it didn’t change who you were at your core.

It just made my cousins hypocrites.

They played at being better. Tamer. Housebroken by their wives and softened by fatherhood.

But the moment the wives and children were out of sight, the masks slipped and they revealed their true selves. Their mouths still spoke like killers. Their plans still smelled of blood. Educated or not, they were their fathers' sons—bratva to the bone.

They, like myself, were products of our lineage.

We may have presented more modern, refined versions, but we were still murderers, still criminals, still outlaws.

We were bratva and our veins ran colder than pure Russian vodka fresh from the ice.

I didn’t hold any of this against them… until they turned that cold calculation against Zoya.

They spoke about her like she was nothing.

Like she wasn’t the most incredible and strong woman I had ever met.

They talked like the same fire that forged them didn’t also create her.

“Look, I think the situation has resolved itself,” Artem said.

I could practically hear the way he was likely sitting back in his chair, a look of boredom and indifference on his face as he crossed his leg, bouncing one ankle on his knee, and tapped the ash from his cigar.

Asshole.

“I agree,” Gregor said. “I don’t really care why this girl was after our family if the threat has been neutralized. She tried to play with the big boys, andLos Infidelesdecided they didn’t want to throw in with her anymore. I say we let them have her. While they’re distracted, we can go in and do her job. We’ll clean house.”

Jackass.

“Roman killed at least a dozen tonight, and assuming they had the same numbers that I saw beforehand, it’s not even going to take a large team to go in and knock them all out,” Pavel, the traitorous bastard, added.

He may have had a legitimate claim for retribution, but it still pissed me off.

This was my mission, my problem, my woman.

And they were sitting around chatting about it like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

“I mean, it doesn’t seem very sporting. They’re all going to be distracted by the girl. But I’m up for an outing,” Damien’s arrogant voice added. “It’d be nice to practice my knife skills a little bit. Yelena has been keeping me busy at home getting ready for her next fashion show. I love the woman, but I’m fucking sick and tired of trying to figure out the difference between antique white, cream, and ivory. That shit’s way outside my skill set.”

They laughed. The sound grated through my skull like broken glass. Heat crawled up my spine, and my jaw locked so hard something popped. My fists clenched until my nails bit through my palms. Rage coiled in my chest, dark and primal. My ears rang, and for a second, their laughter disappeared, hidden beneath the pulse pounding in my head.

Every muscle in my body twitched, vibrating with rage. My jaw ached from clenching. Still, I locked everything down and forced my body to remain still. I couldn’t afford to flinch.

Mikhail was deliberate and quick with the needle, but if I started moving around, he was just going to rip more skin, and I wouldn’t be able to get Zoya out of this.

I needed my strength.

I also needed to make sure my family didn’t kill her before I had time to save her.

“Are you sure you want to be awake for this?” Mikhail asked again. “It’s a nasty fucking wound and your heart rate is crazy high. If you stroke out or something, I can’t fix you.”

“Yeah, man.” Gregor came over and stood next to me, his cigar and a cut crystal glass of whiskey in one hand.

---