Page 86 of Captive Prize

ROMAN

Pain radiated through my shoulder as I pulled the T-shirt over my head, the fresh stitches protesting every single movement.

It didn’t matter.

The pain grounded me.

Reminded me I was still alive.

Every breath was fire, every movement a threat to the torn muscle, but I welcomed it. Let it sink into my bones. Let it make me sharper. Stronger.

I locked the vest into place with a grunt, tightening each strap as if preparing my body for war—and my mind for the possibility I wouldn’t come back.

Gritting my teeth through the pain, I strapped on my holster and checked the magazine of the Glock. My movements were sharp and deliberate. They were not meant to baby my injuries, but to ignore them. I needed pain to be second nature. I needed it to not interfere with my mission.

“You’re not going there to kill her, are you?” Pavel’s voice came from the doorway. “For you, this isn’t about finishing a mission. It’s about her.”

“No, it’s not about finishing the mission,” I said as I slid a fresh magazine into another Glock and slid it into the holster under my left arm. There was one under each arm and another at the small of my back.

The holster was thin enough to fit under my Kevlar tactical vest.

“Are you taking backup?”

“No.” I didn’t volunteer any other information.

“Why not?”

I let out a deep breath. There wasn’t time for this, but I owed him answers. He had until I was ready to leave.

“Because I’m not going to kill her. The men, on the other hand, work for the Ivanov name, for Artem or Gregor. And this mission isn’t on their orders. It goes against them.”

I slid two more magazines into my vest.

I didn’t know what kind of condition Zoya was in—if her disease had flared up, if she was bleeding again, if the stress had pushed her over the edge. She needed a hospital. She needed help.

And instead, she was locked up, surrounded by men who only saw her as a pawn or a threat. I’d seen what she looked like when she was pale and fighting for breath. I couldn’t let her slip through my fingers—not like that.

There was no telling what I was walking into or what state I was going to find her in when I did. I was going to be alone, and I needed to be prepared for absolutely anything.

“Then why?” Pavel asked.

“Because I have to. Zoya is…”

“Zoya, is it? You on a first name basis now, cousin?”

“Yes,” I said with a shrug, instantly regretting the movement. “Why do you care?”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Going into a warehouse full of high, drunk, barely trained men who also happen to be heavily armed, to reclaim a girl that they kidnapped from my property after I rightfully stole her.”

“You are doing more than that, and you know it.” There was an edge to his voice, and I could hear it. Not anger, but confusion laced with pain. I was hurting him.

Going to get her was hurting him.

I was betraying my family for a girl.

Did Pavel’s father give my father the same hurt, confused look? Was history just repeating itself?

---