Page 1 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

Chapter

One

EINAR

Draithmere was quiet. Just the way I liked it.

I sat at my desk, my shoulders relaxed and my gaze on the roaring fire across the room. The flames in the hearth snapped and danced, throwing shadows on the walls. Through the window, a crescent moon cast a silvery glow over the October night. Already, the air held winter’s bite. But the chill was no match for Draithmere’s chimneys.

The sprawling estate perched on a bluff overlooking 25,000 acres at the base of the Olympic Mountains—and every acre, tree, and blade of grass belonged to me. As far as empires went, Draithmere was modest. But I didn’t need space. Unlike some people, I didn’t need to feel important. No, my needs were simple. Food, forest, and fucking quiet.

The last commodity had been difficult to come by lately. Between running Draithmere and preventing the Puget Sound werewolf pack from terrorizing the supernatural community, my days were…noisy.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the Puget Sound alpha was dead, Draithmere was quiet, and I was going to celebrate the shit out of my solitude. The human newscasters could announce a meteor was on course to annihilate the planet, and it wouldn’t disturb my peace. I’d fought Rex Addington and the rest of the Puget Sound wolves for nearly a decade. Like so many other werewolf alphas, Rex was determined to see werewolves raised above humans.

Well, had been determined. Past tense. The arrogant fucker was dead now, courtesy of my claws and one well-timed swipe across his throat. Hopefully, seeing their alpha’s head spin across the Sound like a Frisbee was enough to deter the remaining pack members from stirring up trouble for a while. Although, knowing werewolves, Rex’s death wouldn’t keep them down for long.

The fire popped. Embers eddied into the air. A few spilled onto the hardwood and flared briefly before winking out.

I let a sigh fill my chest as I leaned back in my chair and stretched. As I released my breath, my worries fled with the oxygen. Addington was dead, the Puget Sound Pack was neutered, and I had an entire evening of peace and quiet on tap. No duties. No demands. Nothing was going to disturb my?—

“Sir?”

I jerked my attention from the fire to the study’s doorway. My steward, Arlo, stood there, a hesitant expression on his face and a manila folder held close to his chest. As he waited for me to acknowledge him, a ghostly pair of black horns flickered around his head—there and gone so quickly most people wouldn’t have noticed them.

But I knew Arlo. He’d served me for fifty years. And his horns didn’t come out unless he was nervous or angry.

“What is it?” I asked.

His gaze landed on the book at my elbow. “Light reading?”

In my peripheral vision, the book’s cover shifted, the black leather changing to a deep, alluring red. Gold letters rearranged themselves and began to glow.

“Always,” I told Arlo, ignoring the book.

Disapproval touched Arlo’s eyes, but he kept his reprovals to himself as he drew a deep breath. “We have a bit of a problem, sir.”

I pointed to his chest. “Is it in that folder?”

Arlo crossed to the desk and sat in one of the chairs angled in front of it. Regret swam in his dark eyes as he placed the folder on the desk’s surface and slid it toward me. “Apologies, Prince Einar. I know you hoped to pass a quiet evening alone, but this is a somewhat urgent development.”

I grunted as I slapped a hand on the folder and clawed it toward me. No matter how many times I told Arlo to drop my title, he insisted on maintaining a layer of formality between us. I shot him what I knew was an exasperated look as I opened the folder.

“Let’s see this urgent develop—” The rest of my sentence caught in my throat as photos spilled onto my desk. Glossy and grayscale, they’d obviously been taken at night. Nevertheless, they showed their subject in startling detail. My throat went dry as I lifted the first image.

It was me, my face in profile as I unbuttoned my shirt.

The next image showed me bending to remove my jeans.

In the third photo, my body contorted as I began to shift.

The next few images showed me in various stages of transformation. The camera was ruthless and invasive, capturing my disjointed limbs and the grotesque in-between stage where pulpy organs and naked bone protruded from half-formed flesh. One frame appeared to zoom in on my face, catching my lipless grimace as my jaw lengthened into a canine snout.

In the final photo, I stood on four legs, my body fully shifted into my lycan form.

“I found the images in our post office box when I ran into town today,” Arlo said. “They were sent by way of a private courier service. I already checked out the courier. It’s a legitimate company. I couldn’t find any ties between them and the sender.” A hint of anger laced Arlo’s voice. “The sender didn’t attempt to hide his identity. He wanted us to know who he is.”

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