Page 38 of Princess Claimed

“There.” I narrow my gaze, trying to lessen the impact of her image.

“Thank you.” She smiles at me in a way that makes me even more angry. She’s acting like I’m a stranger who performed a minor act of kindness. Like I’m nothing to her. Like she’s not even afraid of me.

And now I’m angry at myself for helping her, and angry that she’s indifferent to my frustratingly foul mood.

She scans the shelves of fine spirits, and then, clearly deciding to stick with a row she can reach without help, she selects a vodka. “Would you like some?” she asks as she removes the cap.

“That one’s best chilled.” I grab a cocktail shaker, wrench open the freezer, scoop some ice, and then reach for the bottle.

Her hands fly off it.

I pour a generous amount of the vodka into the shaker, nearly filling it. Booze might tranquilize my ire—for a few seconds.

Keeping my gaze away from hers, I shake the liquid, rapidly chilling it without letting it get too diluted, then I take down a second glass and pour some for us both.

“Lemon? Olive?” I ask. She probably wants a fucking maraschino cherry or some sweet shit.

“No, thank you.” She picks up her glass, and I fight not to notice the way her delicate fingers wrap around the cut crystal. They’re so tiny some of them fit inside the indentations. “But you go right ahead.”

Taking my glass, I move to the other side of the room, needing distance between us.

“What is it I’ve done?” She slowly rounds the bar and drifts toward me, her top half sparkling over the floating cloud of lavender. “Perhaps it might help if you talk about it? Perhaps I can do something to fix it.”

“Fix it?” I spit out. “You think you can fix me? You think I need fixing?”

She shakes her head. “That is not what I said.” Her lips part as if she’s about to add something else, but instead she lifts her glass and has a sip of her vodka.

She wants to understand my anger, but how can I possibly explain something that’s consuming me? Something I don’t understand myself?

Dropping into a chair, I stare through the liquid in my glass, one eye focused on her. I can’t help it, and I work to unwind the conflicting threads fighting against each other inside me.

I’m angry that we risked her safety—and ours—by leaving Freetown tonight. And for what? A fancy party? But I could just as easily blame my brothers for that decision.

I’m angry that I grabbed her and ran. Why did I do that?

I want her gone. Why not let her go to some meeting at DEFTA, even though every fiber of my being said it didn’t feel right.

I’m angry that Diederik thinks he can just summon her to a meeting. That he can tell us what to do. I don’t trust him. Never have.

I’m angry at Blade for making me worry that Rasputin, the monster who hurt Ana, could still be alive, even after I fucking killed him.

I’m angry at myself for forgetting to blindfold her on our way here just now.

I’m angry that she ever came into our lives.

But most of all, I’m angry about how Ana makes me feel.

I don’t do feelings. Not these ones.

Rage, sexual pleasure, loyalty—amusement. That’s my complete repertoire of emotions.

But ever since Ana barged into our lives, I’ve felt other things. Things I can’t squash, or even process. Strange intrusions in my mind, in my heart.

I know better. The Master taught us how to push soft feelings aside, and I’ve been ignoring my training.

I’ve never cared about the holes I fuck, but for weeks, my body has been screaming that it wants to fuck hers. Only hers. I’ve never gone so long without fucking.

I should have just done it when she first arrived. I came close that day. Humping her against the wall through her clothes.

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