Page 93 of Captive Prize

I pressed my lips to the cold metal of the Glock, whispering a silent prayer to whatever gods still listened to men like me.Let this be enough. Let me reach her in time.

Mateo walked around the room. His footsteps echoed as he taunted me, asking me to come out, saying didn’t I want to see my girlfriend? While she was still breathing?

I hated that I let his words get to me, but they really got to me.

She was bleeding. I knew what kind of danger she was in. I could not have come this far just to lose her.

For the first time in my life, I really understood my father. I had always known he loved my mother too much to live in a world without her, but for the first time I really felt what he felt.

If Zoya was gone, there was no reason for me to stay here.

No reason to keep fighting.

There would be no light at the end of the tunnel.

Jesus fuck, how was I going to get out of this?

A window, up high and over to the right, shattered, glass raining in from the outside.

Then another on the other side.

Snipers.

Mateo started cursing, so he wasn't the one hit, but someone had been.

Then….

Footsteps.

Several pairs of footsteps. All in perfect synchronization, echoing from the hall, getting louder as they got closer.

Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

It was like hearing death itself walking closer and closer.

Two more sniper shots, and then the cavalry arrived.

Artem, Damien, Kostya, and Gregor were all dressed in black and strapped up with more weapons than a small army. They didn't flinch as they walked into the room, guns drawn, and they started firing.

I got to my feet and moved to take my place next to Gregor, who shot me a look, eyes meeting mine for a split second—steel gray and unforgiving, but there was something else there.

Something that looked like understanding. Like forgiveness, maybe. He gave me the slightest nod, barely perceptible, but it hit me like a physical blow.

My cousins. My family.

They'd come for me when I'd gone rogue, when I'd chosen her over everything we'd built together.

"We finish this," Gregor said, his voice carrying the weight of our shared history, our shared purpose. "Then we talk."

Artem moved to flank my left without being asked. Kostya took point. Damien covered our six. Like we'd done a thousand times before, like we'd do a thousand times again.

The Ivanov name meant something, and we protected our own—even when our own were being goddamn idiots.

Thank you, I wanted to say, but the words got stuck in my throat.

Instead, I checked my magazine and fell into formation.

They'd understand.

---