Page 13

ZOYA

I ’d been screaming for the last hour, and no one bothered to come in.

Roman had left some time ago.

He stormed out of the room, pissed off—his fragile male pride wounded as I laughed in his face.

He thought I had won that round, and I was perfectly content letting him believe it.

Roman didn’t need to know the way he fed me was one of the more intimate moments of my life.

It wasn’t necessary for him to know the need painted on my face was real.

And there was absolutely no way I was going to tell him it was the best meal I ever had.

I’d rather die than admit I was so easily seduced by a man who probably heated something up from a restaurant to-go container and then fed me.

It was easier to bury the hunger and throw it back in his face.

I mocked him. Insulted him. And just like I knew he would, he stormed out, giving me a few moments to clear the hormones from my brain and get myself under control.

Before the door closed all the way, he told someone that no one was to go in or out of this room.

So I wasn’t alone.

There was at least one guard on the other side of that door. I wasn’t sure how big the house was, but I’d bet there were a few others.

They were going to be how I escaped.

I needed the closest guard to break his orders and come in. Help me. Free me.

There was no way I could get out of the shackles on my own. They were too strong, and the bastard had made sure they were tight enough that I couldn’t dislocate my thumb and slip free.

“Hey! Can you come in here? I need help, and I’ll pay you!” I yelled.

Nothing.

“I have more money than God! Whatever you want!”

Finally—footsteps.

I locked my attention onto the bronze door handle, waiting for it to turn.

Instead, a low voice came through the door. “Doesn’t matter how much you offer. We’d be dead before we spent a cent. You’re stuck. Best tell the boss what he wants. Maybe he’ll make your death a quick one.”

I scoffed.

The voice continued. “Lady, I don’t know what you did to piss off the Ivanov devil, but I’d pick a god and start praying. He isn’t known for mercy.”

The footsteps faded, and a scream ripped out of me, tearing through my already-raw throat.

Of course he was a fucking Ivanov.

He was there for Pavel.

I didn’t realize it at first; Roman didn’t look Russian. But the more I thought about his sharp features, his square jaw, and the way he called me printsessa , I realized he wasn’t mocking me.

He was owning me.

He didn’t look like them. But he acted like them.

Which meant I needed to get the hell out of here.

Even I knew about the Ivanov devil.

The fact that I was still alive was a miracle.

There had to be a reason for that. But I had no interest in sticking around to find out what it was.

Roman’s men were better trained than mine. They were disciplined and actually followed orders.

It didn’t matter how much I screamed, swore, or begged now—no one was responding again or coming through that door.

I was going to have to get more creative.

The chains were solid.

But the chair? It creaked when I moved. It was old. Wooden.

Wood broke.

I threw my body against the armrests, restraints twisting violently, digging into my skin.

Thankfully, not hard enough to break it.

Bleeding was a complication I didn’t need.

A dangerous one.

A weakness Roman, the Ivanov devil, could exploit the second he discovered it.

My breath came in ragged bursts, my throat aching. I shoved the pain down.

I was used to pain.

And I’d be in a lot more of it if I let this man keep me here.

It was only a matter of time before his restraint snapped—and when it did, he’d do a lot more than just spank me.

The chair arms wiggled a little when I pressed against them. Not enough. I just needed the wood to crack. Or one of the posts to loosen.

I let out another scream, my heart pounding, sweat dripping down my spine, soaking my shirt.

“Motherfucker!” I shouted. I swore someone laughed.

I was going to kill that guard before I left.

I just needed to get free.

The arms of the chair weren’t giving.

But the chair itself wasn’t bolted down.

I inched it toward the desk—one awkward thrust at a time. No more than an inch with each hop.

There had to be something, anything I could use to break the chains or pick the locks.

Not that I had much leeway for my fingers to be of much use. I couldn’t even bend far enough to use my mouth.

This wasn’t going to be solved with clever little tricks.

I needed brute strength.

Something I’d never had much of.

What did I have?

I looked around the room. Nothing. Just me in a not-so-rickety chair. And I was too damn weak to rip the arms off.

With a deep breath, I looked around again. Desperate.

If I was still here when Roman came back in, it would be worse. So much worse.

I yanked at one of the arms again. It wiggled—but held fast.

That gave me an idea.

I might not be able to rip the arm off. But maybe I could knock the whole thing over.

It was stupid. But when a girl ran out of smart options, she used whatever she had left.

I wrapped my fingers around the wooden armrests and shifted my weight from side to side.

The chair rocked. Groaned.

I threw my body into it, over and over.

Each time it landed back on all four legs, I cursed and started again.

It took more effort than I thought it would.

The manacles chafed. Sweat covered me. My lungs burned. My throat screamed.

But I kept going.

Finally, the chair tilted far enough. My stomach lurched.

I twisted to control the fall—but I was too late.

The chair slammed into the desk. My shoulder hit first. Something on the desk tumbled to the floor as I went down with it.

The bang echoed through the room.

White-hot pain exploded through my shoulder, sending shockwaves down my back and into my ribs.

I winced. That was going to bruise—badly. Maybe worse.

There was a real chance I might’ve cracked something. Maybe even started to bleed inside.

If I was seriously injured, it would take me out faster than whatever Roman had in mind.

All that work—and still neither of the damn arms broke.

Now I was chained to a chair on my side. Possibly injured. With even less mobility than before.

Fuck my life.

Then—miracle of miracles—the door opened.

A guard rushed in, gun drawn.

“What the hell is happening?” he shouted, sweeping the room with his weapon. Then he saw me.

His brow scrunched as he tried to figure out what he was looking at.

Time to move.

“Help,” I gasped.

He sneered. “You did that to yourself. You can stay there.”

“Help,” I said again, choking the word out. “I…I can’t breathe—something’s wrong…I think?—”

The words dissolved into coughs. Choking sounds.

That fall had knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t have to fake much.

He hesitated again.

I had him.

The weak link in any operation was always the human element.

And men—especially men like this—were genetically wired to respond to a damsel in distress.

At least, if they weren’t the ones causing it.

I didn’t need him to save me. Just hesitate.

He stood there, staring at me. Then back at the door. Then back at me.

Too much indecision.

I had to sell it.

I lurched forward, my arms twisting at odd angles, trembling like I was about to seize.

The fear hit his eyes.

Instinct was winning. And logic had already left the building.

If I died on his watch, Roman would put him in the ground.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Hang on.”

He knelt beside me, placing his gun on the floor as he rushed to undo the restraints.

The moment my wrists were free, I moved.

My hand closed around the heavy bronze double eagle figurine that had fallen from the desk.

One brutal swing.

His head snapped back. He collapsed in a heap. A thin trail of blood trickled from his temple onto the floor.

I didn’t wait.

I grabbed the key, unlocked my ankles, took the gun, and slipped into the hallway.

Empty. Silent.

My shoulder throbbed. My heart pounded in my ears.

I moved fast, barefoot and sweating, every nerve screaming.

The second I stepped outside, it would be worse. Getting back to my men—injured, barefoot, without even a coat—would be hell.

But I didn’t need to get to the warehouse.

Just to the street.

I turned a corner—and froze.

Another guard.

Bigger. Alert. Facing me.

No chance to sneak by.

He saw me the second I saw him.

His eyes widened. I lifted the gun.

“I already killed one,” I said, aiming at his chest. “Move, or I’ll shoot.”

His hands went up.

Then his eyes flicked past me.

Everything changed.

He relaxed. Lowered his arms. His expression shifted from shocked to smug.

But he wasn’t smiling at me.

He was smiling at whatever was behind me.

“Put your hands up!” I yelled, voice sharp with panic.

Then I froze at an unexpected sensation.

Cold metal. Pressed between my shoulder blades.

The weight of a muzzle.

The warmth of a body behind me.

And that scent—spice, sweet smoke, and masculine arrogance—wrapped around me like a curse.

Roman.

His voice, dark and amused, purred against my ear.

“Leaving so soon, my pet?”