Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) by Kat Shehata

there for him as a friend —nothing more.
    Even though I was the weakest member of Team Ivanov, the guys credited me with thwarting the intruders. They were proud of me for using my brains and knocking out the light. Vladimir said if I hadn’t blacked out the room, those guys would’ve succeeded in capturing me and would’ve killed Dmitri to cover their tracks. And by stopping them from delivering me to the Ovechkins, I had saved Vladimir’s life as well.
    According to the guys, the most important thing I could’ve done in that moment was to find a weapon to use against them—like Dmitri had done. It was encouraging that they believed I had a chance at hand-to-hand combat against two bad dudes more than double my size.
    Mentally retracing my steps in the Dungeon Suite, there was a flower vase, a heavy glass ashtray, and I had a handful of sharpened pencils at my disposal. Like Dmitri had done when he was caught without a weapon, I could’ve whizzed whatever was nearby to slow them down, or even immobilize them with a good shot to the head—that was plan A.
    Assuming I was unsuccessful, Plan B focused on strategic strikes, AKA kicking my attacker in the testicles or gouging out his eyes. Dmitri loved my shiv idea, but he had a whole arsenal of ways to fight dirty along with tips on who was a real threat and who was just a poser.
    He said the guy who’s yelling and waving his hands in your face has got nothing but a big mouth. The guy to watch out for was the one with his hands at his side, listening with little or no reaction. That’s the guy who’s plotting how to kill you. Boris would be the poster child for the latter personality type.
    Dmitri slid off his shirt and tossed it aside. His muscles rippled as he waved Vladimir over for a self-defense demonstration. Vladimir accepted the invitation and stared down Dmitri. Vladimir was taller and much thinner than Dmitri in his present state, and Dmitri had about thirty extra pounds of pure muscle to his advantage.
    “This is a demo, right? You’re not going to fight for real, are you?” The way they were eyeing each other and jawing in Russian was terrifying. It didn’t take much to set off Vladimir, and Dmitri sure wasn’t going to take shit from anyone—not even the boss. If those two decided to go after each other for real, I would have to hoof it back to the house and fetch Boris. They could do a lot of damage to each other in that amount of time.
    The tone of their conversation escalated, and Vladimir struck first, drilling Dmitri in his side. Dmitri grabbed Vladimir’s wrists in self-defense and cautioned him to back down just by making his nasty fighter face.
    “Knock it off, guys.”
    Vladimir lifted his knee and tried to bust him in the balls, but Dmitri turned away and got nailed in the hip. Now he’s pissed. Dmitri released Vladimir, wiggled his fingers to spur him on, and crouched down in ready position.
    Oh, shit. “Seriously, this is not cool.”
    Vladimir swung first, but Dmitri blocked him and punched him in the side in rapid fire succession. I yelled for them to stop, but they kept at it. Those two testosterone junkies were going to pound the life out of each other.
    Plan A: Find a weapon.
    Plan B: Fight dirty.
    Both options were a no-go. I wasn’t going to use a weapon on either of them, and no way would I attempt to get between them to fight dirty. I had come up with a new strategy.
    Plan C: Play to your opponent’s weakness.
    Both guys were strong, bull-headed, and determined to go at each other until one of them was knocked out cold, but both of them had the same weakness—me. Let the games begin, guys. I screamed, covered my arms over my head, and crouched on the ground. The guys stopped fighting, unwilling to give me a nervous breakdown just to satisfy their egos. Vladimir rushed over to me and pulled me up to my feet.
    “Carter, it’s okay. We’re not—”
    I seized my opportunity and mock-punched him below the belt. Then I