Page 8 of Captive Prize

He made it so damn easy. Why would he ever suspect that his innocent, barely legal bride would bring a knife to her marriage bed?

His was the first life I ever took. It wasn’t the last.

I stared down at my pale hand, remembering how it was stained red after I slit my husband’s throat. I could still feel the sticky warmth even though I had scrubbed my hands over and over until the blood running down the drain was mine.

How much more was going to stain my hands before I was satisfied?

I forced the memory away. Now wasn’t the time for ghosts.

Pavel Ivanov was now in my custody. Tied to a chair, still unconscious.

His passenger had seen us take him. Mateo had fucked the plan so thoroughly that not only was there a witness, but physical evidence in the form of his car which went skidding off the road would be found. There was no way to hide that accident scene.

The Ivanovs would be looking for him sooner than I planned, and they would spare no expense.

Because of Mateo’s recklessness, I was also down four men—three dead, one gravely wounded—and my brand-new helicopter was filled with bullet holes.

And that led to my biggest problem. The man with the dark eyes who almost ruined everything.

Who was he?

How did I find him?

He didn’t recognize me… but he didn’t have to.

I’d just taken his cousin.

And as I watched him through that windshield, dread slid beneath my carefully constructed calm.

Not fear.

Not regret.

Just the chilling sensation that I’d miscalculated.

A rare occurrence.

He wasn’t collateral damage—he was a variable I hadn’t accounted for.

An unknown threat I hadn’t seen coming.

And that made him dangerous.

CHAPTER 4

ROMAN

“Her name is Zoya Vladislava Novikova,” I said, tossing a manila folder of photos onto the conference table between Gregor and Artem.

I took a seat across from Gregor and crossed my arms over my chest.

Damien leaned forward, flipping the folder open and plucking a photo out to examine it. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I answered, picking up a small mother-of-pearl spoon to slather caviar on an unsalted cracker.

“No.” He put the picture back into the folder and chose another. “There is no way this woman is Egor’s daughter. It’s not possible. Egor’s daughter would be under a bridge somewhere tormenting hikers for tolls. This woman is beautiful. She looks nothing like her brothers, Dumb and Dumber…what the fuck were their names?”

Mikhail spoke up. “Leonid and Lenin.”

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