Page 5

ZOYA

" W ho the hell is he?" I demanded, staring at the out-of-place stranger in the expensive suit.

I’d just walked into the concrete room holding my prisoner.

I hated this dirty little basement room under the warehouse. It always reeked of sweat, desperation, and bodily fluids. Today was no different.

The second I stepped through the door, all the men stopped and stared. Some were nervous around me, others were pissed they were taking orders from a woman, but none were stupid enough to say anything about it.

Then there were the two men who didn’t react at all.

The first was my prisoner, Pavel Ivanov.

He had been tied to a chair in the middle of the room, directly under the single caged bulb hanging from an extension cord someone had secured to the ceiling.

It cast long shadows across the floor and up the walls, turning anyone not under the light into bigger, scarier versions of themselves.

It was an impressive effect that would terrify anyone weaker than a fucking Ivanov.

The other man was unknown to me... and yet somehow strangely familiar.

I came in expecting Pavel to be awake and weakened from hunger. I wanted him ready to answer my questions.

What I wasn’t expecting was a stranger. I tightened my fingers around the handle of my gun, sliding the safety off, the distinctive click still audible in the near silent room.

Mateo placed his knife on the table then leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, as if he found answering my questions to be inconvenient.

"We needed new recruits. With the Ivanovs circling, we can’t afford weak links or being down so many men.

This one is strong and smart. He will take the place of those the Ivanovs’ dog killed. "

Mateo jerked his chin toward the man standing in front of me. "Meet Roman. He reports to me."

That last part was more of a flex than necessary information. God, he was such a misogynistic, posing prick. I hated that I needed him to control the men I hired.

I narrowed my eyes as I took the measure of this stranger he hired without my permission or approval. He was a massive man with golden skin decorated in swirling tattoos that peeked from under his sleeves and the collar of his black shirt. His dark, deep-set eyes assessed me as I assessed him.

The respectful thing would have been for him to look away, or look down, or give some type of acknowledgment that I was the one in charge.

Instead, he met my gaze directly, staring me down as if issuing a challenge... or a claim.

My heart rate picked up, but I ignored it. I let the shiver of electricity that trailed down my spine piss me off instead of turn me on.

There was something about him, something in the way he studied me, the direct confidence that veered toward arrogance as he looked me up and down, not even trying to hide his appraisal.

I had never met him before; I was sure of it. There was no way I could forget a man built like this with eyes so dark and piercing. And yet something about the way he stared at me felt familiar.

I couldn’t place it, and it irritated the hell out of me.

Almost as much as the slow-burning hunger in his gaze.

He didn’t look at me like a man seeking a job, like he was trying to impress me. There was no fear in his eyes, no anticipation, not even a hint of anxiousness or unease.

No, he looked at me like he was already imagining what I’d taste like.

Like he’d already decided I was going to be his.

The answer was never. It was never going to happen.

Not with him. Not with any man.

I knew that, but the hubris in his eyes told me he thought otherwise.

If he kept looking at me like that, I wouldn’t just shoot him—I’d carve my initials into his chest first.

I took a step closer to him, pulling back the hammer on my gun with my thumb, wanting to see if he had any self-preservation instincts.

He didn’t have a single one. This large beast of a man in a suit just stared at me with that same challenge in his eyes.

"Mateo," I said, tilting my head to the side, still staring at this man. "Why does he look at me like he knows me?"

Roman didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

"Maybe I do," he said, his English perfect, with just a hint of an accent I couldn’t place.

My jaw tightened at his audacity.

"You’re a plant," I said, letting the accusation hang in the air. "Who sent you?"

"No one sent me."

"Liar," I accused, and his nostrils flared. "Are you with the Mexican cartel, or do you work for the Ivanovs?"

His lip curled, just a little at the corner, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes. "If I were, you’d already be dead."

He was a predator in a tailored suit. A killer. Of that I was certain.

My fingers twitched with the urge to wipe that smug expression off his face. I could shoot him, end his life right here. Or I could slap him hard enough to turn his chiseled cheek red, but I didn’t.

With my luck, I’d break my hand on his jaw.

Instead, I pressed the barrel of my gun to his chest, just over his heart. Standing close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. Close enough to breathe in his cologne.

It brought thoughts of danger. Of skin on skin in the shadows and hot, dirty tropical sex on the beach at night.

"Why should I trust you?" I asked. "How do I know you don’t work for my enemies?"

He still didn’t blink. The arrogant bastard leaned into my gun as he towered over me, filling my senses with that delicious dark scent.

"Because if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead."

The words slithered under my skin, and my thighs clenched before I could stop them.

Something in his tone pulled at my stomach. I didn’t know if it was the heat in them, or the promise of violence. Or both.

"He is good," Mateo said, his easy agreement disrespecting me. "I found him in an underground fighting ring. He is well known, respected, but unaffiliated."

I ground my teeth but lowered the gun for the moment, turning my attention back to the reason I was in this sad, dirty little room.

Pavel Ivanov.

He was awake, his lip and chest battered, a trail of blood seeping from a new head wound where someone must have pistol-whipped him.

"Has he given us anything?" I asked.

"Not yet, but I haven’t been working him over for long," Mateo answered, sounding bored.

He wasn’t supposed to have been working the prisoner over at all. Not until I came down and gave him the word.

With Roman and the others here, I couldn’t argue with Mateo. I couldn’t put him in his place without it appearing as though my command was being threatened.

Instead, I swallowed the insult and moved on. It was better for everyone else that they not know Mateo took liberties he shouldn’t have.

"You want my trust, Roman?" I circled the room slowly, gun still in my hand at the ready. I looked every man there in the eye until they turned their gazes away. They all needed to be reminded of who was in charge.

I stepped around the various stains of god only knew what, until I came back face-to-face with the man in question.

"You think you deserve my trust?"

I kept myself cold, controlled. This was my mission, my prisoner, and these were my men. They all needed to feel the weight of my authority. He needed to know he didn’t answer to Mateo. He answered to me, and me alone.

"I do," he said, and I nodded before putting the gun away and picking up the knife from the dirty, rusty table, placing the tip at his throat. I pressed hard enough he would feel it, but not enough to break the skin.

He needed to know what I could decide to do. It was all up to me if he lived or died.

I ran the edge of the dirty knife over his black shirt from his collarbone to his sternum and abs, leaving flakes of dried blood in a broken trail down his body.

His chest rose with each breath, but his eyes didn’t leave mine.

Not even when I sliced the top button of his shirt clean off.

He needed to know who was in control. More than that, he needed to feel it.

Then I turned my back to him and stood in front of Pavel, using the side of the blade to tip his chin up so I could look into his bloodshot eyes.

"Then prove it."