Page 56 of Captive Prize

And yet, holding her lifeless hand, watching her chest barely rise with each labored breath, there it was: a splintering of the mission straight through the middle.

Zoya wasn’t just my enemy anymore.

She was my weakness.

CHAPTER 15

ZOYA

Pain brought me back to the world.

Not all at once. It was more like a slow drip. At first, I awoke to a throbbing in my skull, radiating through my temples before I slipped back into blissful nothingness.

The second time I woke, the pain had lessened but my throat was raw and dry. I tried to swallow and failed; it didn’t matter, though. The gloriously numbing dark saved me again.

The third time I returned to awareness, there was no escape.

Every single cell in my body ached.

I had never really known what people meant when they said they felt like they got hit by a truck, but now I got it.

My body felt heavy, foreign. Like it wasn’t really mine, and newly installed circuits had yet to be connected.

I didn’t move. I had learned the hard way to never let people know you were awake until you knew what was waiting for you.

I needed to figure out where I was, and who else was in the room before I opened my eyes.

The sheets surrounding me were too soft to be hospital linens. And I wasn’t at home; the soft, thick but warm coverings I was under were made from luxurious cotton, not the silk ofmy sheets. The room smelled like antiseptic and iron, suggesting some type of medical ward. That was, until the scent of dark spices wafted over them.

I knew that smell. It was deep, mysterious, and addictive. I knew it, but I couldn’t place it. My mind wasn’t racing; it was trudging through mud. My thoughts were slow, tedious, and fuzzy.

Slowly, I opened my eyes to find Roman standing at the foot of the bed, glaring at me.

"Are you awake this time?" he asked, a threat low in his voice.

I nodded and instantly regretted it. Pain echoed through my head, all originating from a spot on my temple that was stiff and tender.

"Good," he said, moving to the side of the bed. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burned with rage, but his touch was gentle as he helped me to sit up. His movements were caring as he settled on the edge of the mattress then poured a glass of water for me and held it to my lips, letting me take a few long sips.

This man and his never-ending contradictions made my head spin, head injury or no.

I took my time with the water, sipping slowly, buying myself time to understand what was happening.

I was in a dark bedroom. The lights were dimmed low, casting long shadows over the dark navy walls and wood furniture. The room screamed masculine, with old money taste.

And it smelled like him.

I was in his bed.

Why would he put me in his bed?

As soon as the glass was drained dry, he set it on the bedside table and immediately got to his feet and paced around the room. His fists opened and closed at his sides, anger and frustration radiating from his body.

I said nothing.

I sat and waited for him to make the first move. There was no way I was going to be the first to speak. Not when I didn’t understand what was happening.

"How dare you," he seethed. Finally saying something.

---