Page 79 of Captive Prize

I wasn’t sure.

Maybe? Maybe I was.

Would that be so terrible?

Maybe my grandmother’s curse about how I wasn’t really an Ivanov, how I was a mongrel, a watered-down mistake, had merit after all.

“My family?” I scoffed.

“Yes, we are your family.” Pavel looked a little hurt. For a second, that same little boy who would get into all kinds of trouble with me was in front of me.

“I’m not even sure I know what that means,” I said, instantly regretting the words. The word “family” scratched at something raw in me. I never wore it comfortably. Not then. Not now.

I wasn’t like them. Not really. I wasn’t treated like them; I didn’t act like them. Grandmother made sure I knew it.

I didn’t think like them. But I was still one of them.

Denying it felt wrong, but letting them hurt Zoya? That wasn’t possible.

“Roman,” Gregor said before draining his glass and slamming it down on the table next to my head. “We are family, in every way that counts. You did not fail Pavel, you saved him. The only thing left in this mission is cleanup. Let us handle it.”

Is that what he thought this was about?

My head swam. Between the blood loss, the sleep deprivation, and the more than probable concussion, I wasn’t sure how many of my thoughts I could trust.

“He’s right,” Artem said, standing behind Mikhail. “I know you want to exact the vengeance on your own, you always have. But the girl has sealed her fate. You got us there. Let us take care of the rest. You did your family proud.”

Mikhail was the only one who didn’t nod or grunt in agreement. He was like me, an outsider let into the inner circle, part of the family but separate.

He didn’t speak. But his stare cut through me like a blade. Cold. Knowing. Mikhail wasn’t just watching—he was calculating. Reading between every word. He didn’t need confirmation. He already knew.

The rest of them were under the misguided impression that I wanted to kill Zoya myself.

That I wanted to end this for the family.

Like any other possibility was an absurdity.

Maybe they were right. Or maybe the blood loss was turning my thoughts inside out. The room tilted every time I blinked. My heartbeat stuttered, irregular, too fast. I couldn’t tell what was anger and what was panic. I was unmoored, like part of me had snapped loose and drifted into something dangerous.

I wasn’t sure.

The reasons didn’t really matter.

One thing was crystal clear, and it was the only thing that did matter.

Zoya wasn’t dying tonight.

Not by her former men.

And she sure as hell was not going to die at the hands of my family.

When I said she was mine, I meant it. Not as property, not as a trophy. Mine to guard. Mine to bleed for. Mine to fucking save. That right didn’t belong to anyone else.

I didn’t mean her life was mine to take.

I meant it was mine to protect.

That was exactly what I was going to do.

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