Page 30 of Captive Prize

“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 withLos Infideles?”

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