Page 96 of Captive Prize

CHAPTER 23

ZOYA

Voices dragged me from the depths of sleep—sharp, angry, and far too close.

I didn’t recognize the first voice. It was deep, masculine, and radiated with anger and power. I had no idea who it was, or why they were pissed, but that voice demanded respect in a way that even made me ready to cower and give in to whatever it was they were demanding.

It was met with another voice, one that didn’t back down. The second voice was just as strong, just as angry, and backed with the same power and determination. It was a voice that I would recognize anywhere.

Roman.

My head was foggy. I could hear the voices, but I couldn’t understand them. It was like my brain was getting all the data but just couldn’t make sense of it.

I tried to concentrate and was met with a sharp pain stabbing through my temples. The entire world seemed to tilt on its axis as I opened my eyes and blinked.

It took a few minutes for the world to come into focus. And I still didn’t understand. I was in a bedroom; one I’d never been in before.

At first, I thought it was maybe a hotel room. It was tastefully decorated but lacked any personal touches. There were no photos, no paintings on the walls. And the thick curtains over the window looked luxurious, their color a deep oxblood, not the nameless inoffensive beige that finer hotel rooms preferred, or the stain-hiding patterns in cheaper rooms.

No, this had to be someone’s home. A guest room maybe? Sunlight shone around the top and bottom edges of those thick, heavy curtains. And I wasn’t sure if it was to keep the light out—which, given the way my head pounded I was eternally grateful for—or if it was to make sure I couldn’t tell where I was.

Next to the bed, there was a table with a pitcher of water and a single glass covered in condensation. And there was a water ring on the deep mahogany tabletop. It had been there for quite a while.

How long had I been here?

I knew the water could have been drugged or poisoned. And I shouldn’t drink it, but my mouth was so dry my tongue felt thick, and my lips were on the verge of cracking.

I reached for the water just to have my hand freeze midair, stopped by the pull of the links of the handcuff that attached me to the bed.

I was restrained. Someone had taken me, put me in a lavish bedroom. And chained me to the bed.

No, not someone.

Roman.

But where was I? This wasn’t his room, it wasn’t his bed. It didn’t smell like him, didn’t have the same dark wood and rich, navy blue tones. Whoever had decorated this room preferred jewel-toned reds and creams.

It was beautiful, but not Roman.

The men whose voices woke me up were still right outside the door, their words still booming. I pushed past the pain and struggled through the fog to see if I could hear something useful.

Whoever Roman was talking to was pissed. He spoke mostly English but swore in Russian.

The words betrayal, family, and obligation were said, over and over.

My eyelids drooped. Sleep pulled at the edges of my mind, but I refused to give in to it. Instead, I sat up.

It was awkward with one hand cuffed and the other tightly bandaged. It took several minutes of shimmying and head-piercing movements that made my stomach roll, but finally I was able to sit up. With my back pressed against the headboard, I gingerly reached across my body with my injured arm and snagged the glass of water.

It was cool, not cold, but I didn’t care. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. I drained it and then refilled it and drained it again. With every gulp of water, the haze cleared a little more. There was still an icepick stabbing through my temples, but a much smaller, sharper icepick.

“You’re not listening to me,” Roman said, irritation coloring words that I was finally coherent enough to understand.

“I am listening,” the other man snapped. “You’re delusional. And have forgotten where your loyalties should lie.”

“You had no right to restrain her,” Roman yelled. The rage in his words made my heart beat faster.

Was he actually defending me? Fighting for me?

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