Page 9

ZOYA

“ W elcome back,” a deep, rumbling voice said.

It sounded far away as I struggled to open my eyes.

My head pounded, and my limbs were heavy. Immovable.

How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours?

He was here.

The bastard who attacked me, who took me.

I needed to wake up.

I needed to be clearheaded to fight whatever bullshit he was about to throw at me.

The world around me tried to fade back into blackness, but I refused to let it. I fought tooth and nail to not let the cold, blissfully numbing abyss take me.

It wouldn’t win. I needed to be present and focused.

The pounding in my head intensified, like a vice squeezing my temples. The pressure was excruciating. But pain was good.

Pain meant I was alive, and if I was alive, then I could still fight. If I was alive, there was a chance that I’d be able to get myself out of this.

Death was the only thing that would stop me. I had come too far to let anything short of my mortality slow me down.

Roman was just another monster I had to face.

I fought against the man who bought me and won; I fought against my father, and I won.

This time would be no different.

When my eyes finally fluttered open, they landed straight on him.

Roman sat in a large leather wing-back chair across from me, leaning back, one arm draped over the side, his long, powerful legs crossed casually, like he had all the time in the world.

Everything about his body language was relaxed—from the way he held the short crystal glass of dark amber liquid up to the glow of the candlelight, to the way he was practically reclining in the chair.

Sitting there like he didn’t have a care in the world, because everything, and everyone, answered to him.

Then there were his eyes.

Those dark eyes watched me with quiet amusement, a smirk ghosting over his lips as he swirled the glass, making the candlelight dance on its surface.

“Always a pleasure to see you, printsessa .”

He was so cocky, so arrogant. My palm ached to slap that smirk off his beautiful face.

The attack came back to me in waves. The way he held me down, the way he grabbed me, the way his hands roamed my body as his lips… how I responded in kind…

Okay, maybe he deserved the cocky smirk. This time.

Then I remembered the way his fingers cut off the oxygen supply to my brain, rendering me completely unconscious and giving me the excruciating headache I was feeling now.

This son of a bitch took me, and I didn’t know why.

What I knew was that I needed to leave.

I also knew that he wasn’t just going to let me walk out the front door. My muscles tensed, ready to flee, as he slowly lowered his glass.

His long legs uncrossed, and I knew I only had seconds.

The moment he stood up I would lose any advantage from speed… not that I had much of one to start with.

Men that big should not be that fast—but I knew he was.

Using all the strength left in my heavy-limbed body, I tried to stand, only to find I couldn’t.

Chains rattled, and the cold steel of shackles bit into my ankles and wrists.

Red-hot anger filled me.

It crept up my neck from my chest to my face; it moved faster with every single elevated heartbeat.

Chains? Really?

He had shackles around my wrists and ankles.

Who had shackles just lying around?

When did I walk into a medieval dungeon?

I thrashed and flailed, trying to break free.

He just watched, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips while he enjoyed his drink.

“Where the fuck am I?” I demanded.

Roman took his time, bringing his glass back up to his mouth, swirling the liquid inside again before taking a long sip. It was a power play. He was showing me I had absolutely no control over any of this. He was the master of this situation, and I was on his time, not the other way around.

Well, fuck that.

“Where the hell am I?” I repeated through clenched teeth.

“You are exactly where I want you to be. Somewhere safe. Somewhere your men will never find you—and no one will ever hear you scream.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, but I refused to let him see the panic slowly creeping over my body.

He would never see my fear. He would never see my weaknesses.

One quick look around told me we were in a cabin somewhere.

The décor was nice—really nice.

The quietly luxurious kind of nice, but still rustic.

It reminded me of an updated version of an old-world hunting lodge. Everything was wood and leather, in deep earth tones. A roaring fire in the fireplace giving off hints of sweet wood smoke, like from cherry or applewood.

We were in a family cabin that was outfitted with cozy furnishings by someone who cared.

Heavy drapes covered the windows and there was no hint of light around them, so I had no idea what time of day it was.

I could just make out the sounds of crickets from outside.

Okay, so we were no longer near the city but I couldn’t have been knocked out more than an hour or so, so we must be somewhere in Virginia.

Probably at the infamous Ivanov compound. Fuck.

One more look at him told me he was waiting for me to realize how fucked I was and start the show again. Well, mission accomplished. I’d guessed how fucked I was, the trick now was not to show it.

The sick fucker probably got off on my fear.

Well, it would suck to be him.

It didn’t matter what I felt. He would never see fear in my eyes.

Instead, I leaned back, tilting my chin up and stared him down like he was nothing more than an annoying inconvenience.

“So you kidnapped me,” I said.

It wasn’t a question.

“It appears so.” He smiled, setting his glass back down and pouring another finger of the amber liquid. The bottle was beautiful, glass with a crystal stopper. I thought it was whiskey, but it didn’t smell right for whiskey.

It was dark, but with a spicy aroma that whiskey lacked. It had a sweetness that was different.

Rum?

What kind of Russian man drank rum?

The bratva all drank vodka. Stereotypical but true.

Actually, all the mafia men drank whiskey too. It was the universal language they all spoke.

But rum? No.

My head pounded, and it was hard to focus my thoughts. It was like trying to think through a cloud of confusion and distraction.

Shaking my head, I refocused on the situation at hand. What he drank was none of my concern…even if it was odd.

I needed to get the upper hand here, chained to a chair while a man that was three times my size and stronger than an ox looked at me like I was the best source of entertainment he had ever run across.

It was fine; I had gotten out of worse dilemmas than this. I just needed to figure out how to control the situation to get the upper hand.

“What now?” I asked. “Are you going to put me in a cage, feed me scraps? Are you going to break me and make me beg?”

I batted my eyes.

Maybe if he wanted to fuck me, he would unchain me and turn his back long enough for me to kill him and make my escape. He wouldn’t have been the first man with his dick in his hand I killed.

“No,” he said with a sinister laugh.

God, I hated how that laugh was so smooth and made my heart skip a beat.

I hated how I could almost feel that laugh traveling over my skin, leaving trails of electricity and fire.

When he didn’t expand, I waited.

Staring him down, making him fill the silence.

“Although the idea of you underneath me, begging for me, is incredibly enticing, I don’t think you beg for anything. It’s not how you were made. Begging is beneath you. You don’t beg, you demand. Why beg for something when you can fight and take it?”

Again, I said nothing.

Though I liked the way he saw me. He saw the woman I was trying so hard to be.

I fought the urge to preen under the compliment. Reminding myself that it was not a good thing.

If he saw me as strong, capable, and determined, he was less likely to underestimate me.

I had always relied on men underestimating me.

“Am I wrong?” he asked. Before I could answer, he continued. “No, I’m not wrong. You are the type of woman who claws and bites and pushes until you break the hand that feeds you.”

He drained his glass and sat it down and leaned forward, leveling me with a look.

“Tell me, Zoya—why the fuck did you throw in with Los Infideles ?”

Ah. There it was. That was the real reason he took me.

He didn’t want me.

He wanted what I knew.

The secrets.

The strategy.

The reason Los Infideles had teamed up with me in the first place.

Who the fuck was this man, and why did he care?

I could tell him. But then I wouldn’t be the strong, badass boss he thought he had chained in front of him.

So instead, I smiled at him. A slow, condescending, even mocking, smile. “Go to hell.”

Tension filled the room between us.

His eyes dragged over me slowly, and I couldn’t help but stare at his lips—the same lips that had kissed me so intensely before he abducted me.

Flashes of what had happened between us danced through my mind, and I couldn’t push them away.

Not with him looking at me like that.

Not with him watching me with more heat, more respect, than any man had ever given me before.

And that was the pathetic part. This man who took me, who kidnapped me after kissing me, looked at me with more reverence than the men who were supposed to serve me.

He grabbed my chair by the legs and pulled me forward, closer to him.

So close he spread his own thighs, placing me in between them so I couldn’t escape that dark, addictive aroma, or the heat radiating off his skin.

“Zoya, that wasn’t an answer.”

His words were barely more than a whisper.

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get.”

His hands moved to the edge of my seat, just outside my thighs, his thumbs grazing me. Just a brush. Barely a touch. But I felt it. I felt everything.

And worse—he knew I felt it.

“Zoya, this doesn’t have to get ugly.”

He was so close it made it hard to think.

It was a distraction.

It had to be a distraction.

A cold, determined fury settled in my core, and I straightened my spine.

Did he think that because I was a woman he could show me just a little bit of attention and I would give him whatever he wanted? Like I was some silly little girl that could be played?

The attraction and chemistry didn’t go away.

God, my life would be so much easier if they went away.

Instead, I used that energy and forced it toward anger and control.

Two could play his game, but I didn’t want to play his game.

I wanted to force him to play mine.

Throwing my head back, I let out a laugh.

A dark taunting laugh that sounded a little hysterical even to my own ears.

He sat back, his eyes widening, not expecting that.

Good. If I wanted to survive this, I needed to throw him off his stride.

“You expect me to spill my secrets just because you asked nicely?” I laughed again, then cocked my head and spoke slowly, using small words like I was talking to a child. “Just because you say please doesn’t mean I’m going to give you what you want.”

He shook his head, his dark curls falling in front of his face.

“I was hoping you’d make this easy,” he said. “But of course, you just had to be difficult.”

“Were you, really?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

He gave me another knee-weakening smirk. “You’re right. I wanted you to be difficult. It’s so much more fun for me if you fight.”

I opened my mouth to snap back, but he stood up to his full height and I couldn’t help but marvel at how big he was.

I had stood next to him, in front of him, and even had his body pressed against mine, and somehow his sheer size still caught me off guard.

His hand cupped my cheek and tilted my face up as he leaned down, hovering over me.

For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

My lips parted as I waited for the feel of his mouth devouring mine, but it stopped just a breath from touching me.

He was close enough that I could count the thick, dark lashes that framed his eyes as he looked into mine.

“Last chance. Be my good girl, and I’ll…

reward you. I can take away all your pain, all your stress, and protect you.

All you have to do is tell me what I need to know.

All you have to do is give in to me and I will give you the world. ”

And just like that, I went from my heart racing and heat pooling in my core to dead cold.

Why couldn’t men understand?

I didn’t want his protection.

I didn’t need him to give me the world.

The world meant nothing if it was handed to me.

I wanted to take it for myself.

I leaned up, closing the distance between our lips even more. Now I could practically taste the dark spicy rum as it danced across my tongue, and I wanted more.

But I refused to be a little girl who just gave in to her wants on a whim.

I was a woman who was in control of her wants and desires.

There were more important things to fight for than a quick, meaningless fuck with this man.

“Go fuck yourself,” I said before collapsing back in the chair.

He stood to his full height and shook his head like he was disappointed in me.

I refused to acknowledge the pang of regret that echoed in my chest.

He didn’t back away.

Instead, he pushed a little closer.

His hands hovered at his belt, unmoving.

He wasn’t rushing.

He wanted me to think about it.

To anticipate it.

To wonder—was this about power, about pain, or about something else entirely?

He held my gaze.

Then, deliberately, he unhooked the belt buckle with a soft metallic clink .

One loop at a time, he slid the belt free from his slacks, the leather whispering with each slow tug.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

The sound alone was a threat.

Finally, he held the belt loosely in one hand, letting it dangle between us.

“I wanted to be nice to you, printsessa .”

My heart raced as I swallowed around the fear I desperately tried to hide.

My breath hitched, and the cold steel on my ankles felt tighter.

He wasn’t rushing.

He wanted me to think about it. To wonder.

Was it punishment? A threat? Or something worse?

“Don’t do me any favors,” I said with more bravery than I felt.

“Fine. If you want to act like a brat, I have no problem punishing you like one.”