Page 21

ROMAN

I gritted my teeth as the needle pierced my skin over and over.

Each pull of the thread wasn’t just pain—it was punishment.

Fire streaked through my shoulder, radiating down my chest and into my spine.

Sweat clung to my skin, salty and cold.

My vision blurred at the edges, but I held still.

I needed to feel every second of this.

Mikhail was stitching me up, asking me again if I wanted an anesthetic.

I didn’t.

I had fucked up and let them take her.

There wasn’t a single bit of pain that I hadn’t earned.

If I was smarter, stronger, faster, then Zoya would be safe.

No, I would take my punishment like a fucking man, and I would use this pain as a reminder of my failure and make sure I never failed her again.

God only knew what they were doing to her.

She had looked so scared as she called out to me.

I knew she had an iron will; she was smart, cunning even, and a fighter. But that didn’t erase the image I had of a scared girl standing in the middle of a firefight wearing nothing but my thin T-shirt.

We were all in Gregor’s house, his wife with one of the other wives and the kids.

I was lying on the fucking kitchen table, with Mikhail’s talented and only slightly sadistic hands working on stitching me back up, while the rest of the men in the family were discussing the plan.

No fancy medical clinic for the mongrel Ivanov, I guessed.

It wasn’t Mikhail’s needle that had my temper boiling and my fists clenching. It was the conversation taking place on the other side of the fucking room.

They were grouped just inside my peripheral vision, but even if they hadn’t been, the smoke from the Cuban cigars that I’d brought to congratulate Pavel on his wedding and the splashing of whiskey in crystal as one of the men filled the others’ glasses from the decanter that someone had given Gregor as a wedding present would have been dead giveaways to their presence.

So many wedding gifts, people would almost mistake the Ivanov boys as domesticated, civil even.

They would be dead wrong.

All anyone would have to do would be to listen to the cold, calculating words that came from their lips to realize they were the same frozen-hearted bastards they had always been. That we all had always been.

Maybe my father was wrong.

Love didn’t change you.

It may have changed something on the outside, how you presented yourself. But it didn’t change who you were at your core.

It just made my cousins hypocrites.

They played at being better. Tamer. Housebroken by their wives and softened by fatherhood.

But the moment the wives and children were out of sight, the masks slipped and they revealed their true selves. Their mouths still spoke like killers. Their plans still smelled of blood. Educated or not, they were their fathers' sons—bratva to the bone.

They, like myself, were products of our lineage.

We may have presented more modern, refined versions, but we were still murderers, still criminals, still outlaws.

We were bratva and our veins ran colder than pure Russian vodka fresh from the ice.

I didn’t hold any of this against them… until they turned that cold calculation against Zoya.

They spoke about her like she was nothing.

Like she wasn’t the most incredible and strong woman I had ever met.

They talked like the same fire that forged them didn’t also create her.

“Look, I think the situation has resolved itself,” Artem said.

I could practically hear the way he was likely sitting back in his chair, a look of boredom and indifference on his face as he crossed his leg, bouncing one ankle on his knee, and tapped the ash from his cigar.

Asshole.

“I agree,” Gregor said. “I don’t really care why this girl was after our family if the threat has been neutralized.

She tried to play with the big boys, and Los Infideles decided they didn’t want to throw in with her anymore.

I say we let them have her. While they’re distracted, we can go in and do her job. We’ll clean house.”

Jackass.

“Roman killed at least a dozen tonight, and assuming they had the same numbers that I saw beforehand, it’s not even going to take a large team to go in and knock them all out,” Pavel, the traitorous bastard, added.

He may have had a legitimate claim for retribution, but it still pissed me off.

This was my mission, my problem, my woman.

And they were sitting around chatting about it like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

“I mean, it doesn’t seem very sporting. They’re all going to be distracted by the girl.

But I’m up for an outing,” Damien’s arrogant voice added.

“It’d be nice to practice my knife skills a little bit.

Yelena has been keeping me busy at home getting ready for her next fashion show.

I love the woman, but I’m fucking sick and tired of trying to figure out the difference between antique white, cream, and ivory. That shit’s way outside my skill set.”

They laughed. The sound grated through my skull like broken glass.

Heat crawled up my spine, and my jaw locked so hard something popped.

My fists clenched until my nails bit through my palms. Rage coiled in my chest, dark and primal.

My ears rang, and for a second, their laughter disappeared, hidden beneath the pulse pounding in my head.

Every muscle in my body twitched, vibrating with rage. My jaw ached from clenching. Still, I locked everything down and forced my body to remain still. I couldn’t afford to flinch.

Mikhail was deliberate and quick with the needle, but if I started moving around, he was just going to rip more skin, and I wouldn’t be able to get Zoya out of this.

I needed my strength.

I also needed to make sure my family didn’t kill her before I had time to save her.

“Are you sure you want to be awake for this?” Mikhail asked again. “It’s a nasty fucking wound and your heart rate is crazy high. If you stroke out or something, I can’t fix you.”

“Yeah, man.” Gregor came over and stood next to me, his cigar and a cut crystal glass of whiskey in one hand.

He placed his other hand on my good shoulder. “You’ve done enough. Let us take it from here. It’s going to be a snap. You already did all the hard work. I doubt any of our men will get more than a paper cut.”

I gritted my teeth but said nothing.

“I mean, how many men could they have left here?” Damien asked.

“Twenty, tops. But most of them aren’t very well trained. It’s going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. They were distracted by the girl, but it wouldn’t matter.”

“I don’t know, seems a little mean,” Kostya added. “Should we give them a fighting chance? Like maybe only send in five men or give them a heads-up?”

“Nah, but we will give them a few hours alone with the bitch first, I think that will—” Gregor’s words were cut off as my one good hand shot up and grabbed him by the throat.

I didn’t remember standing. One heartbeat I was clenching my fists, the next I was on my feet, body screaming, blood soaking through the bandages.

My hand clamped around Gregor’s throat, I slammed him into the wall so hard a picture frame crashed to the floor.

His eyes widened, but not with fear—with surprise. As if he forgot what I was. Who I was.

“What the fuck?” Mikhail yelled. The needle was ripped from his hand, hanging from the thread dangling from my shoulder.

“Get off,” Gregor said in a low, threatening tone.

I didn’t back down.

“She is mine. Not yours to play with or allow others to harm.” I spoke through my teeth.

“Last warning,” Gregor said.

“If you kill her, I swear I’ll make you regret it. If she is harmed in any way, you will pay. I will hold you personally fucking responsible.”

Silence dropped in the room like a guillotine.

Gregor’s face hardened, confusion flickering into something darker. “You’ve lost your damn mind, Roman. Are you choosing her over your family?”

Arms wrapped around my torso and biceps, pulling me off of Gregor.

But only because I let them.

“Nah, brother,” Damien said. “He means he wants to take her out. You know how the Ivanov devil is. Letting one live is going to fuck with his stats.”

Damien shoved me back onto the table, his forearm heavy across my neck. His hand pinned my good shoulder with more force than necessary. His eyes met mine—tight with suspicion. He didn’t trust my act. Not fully. He was buying me time, not offering belief.

Mikhail cursed as he sat back down and started restitching the few stitches I had ripped.

Gregor said nothing for a moment.

The entire room was dead silent, waiting for his reaction.

He and Artem may have been in the middle of a cold war, but my attack had been against Gregor, and it was up to him to respond.

He pulled out a wooden chair from the table and sat right behind my head. I was forced to look up to face him.

“Why? What is it about this girl that has you all worked up?”

I said nothing.

“Are you choosing her over your family?” he asked again.

Was I?

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.

I needed to get her back. Once I had her, and she was safe, then I’d get my shit together and figure out what to do with her.

If I had to crawl out of this house with my shoulder barely held together with fucking duct tape, I would do it.

If I had to take on an entire army by myself with one arm literally tied behind my back, I would.

Because if anyone was going to decide Zoya’s fate, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the men who didn’t understand her strength.

They looked at her and only saw a woman.

She had fought, bled, and survived more than most men I knew. I wouldn’t let her die reduced to anything less than what she was.

“Are you done?” I asked Mikhail.

“You should really get some blood?—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yeah.” He clipped the line and wrapped a bandage around my shoulder. “I’m done. But you need rest and?—”

I didn’t listen to whatever the fuck else he said.

I sat up. The room buckled and spun, but I stayed upright, fists pressed hard into the table. When I opened my eyes again, the room was steady, and I was determined. Heat flushed my face. My shoulder screamed. But the thought of her dying sobered me fast.

“No one touches her,” I said as I got to my feet.

“You—” Pavel started, but I cut him off with a deadly look.

“I said no one touches her.”

She was going to survive the night.

I didn’t care if I had to tear through the entire Ivanov family tree to save her.

She was mine.

Only mine.