Page 10 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

“Do you always drink alcohol during the day?”

He tucked the flask into his pocket and gave me a level look. “No.”

End of discussion. I’d conducted enough interviews to know when a subject didn’t want to elaborate. Okay, so perhaps a different angle.

“Your servant called you a prince.”

“Arlo is my steward, not my servant. And, yes, he uses my title.”

The car, the contract, the hyper-realistic claw hand. Einar’s accent was American, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Plenty of European countries had princes running around the globe.

“If you’re a prince,” I said, “that implies you’re the son of a king.”

His chest lifted as he stretched his other arm along the seat. He was tall enough for the position to be comfortable instead of awkward. He exhaled on a sigh. “That’s usually how these things work, yes.”

“So your father is the king?”

“No.”

Now, I did take a second to clench my jaw. “Your uncle?”

“My brother is king of all lycans. And that’s enough questions for now, Miss Ward.”

Instant tension arced between us. The car’s engine purred as we continued to race toward some unknown destination. The sun was long gone, but Einar’s eyes still shone so brightly they didn’t seem real. Or human, a little voice whispered in my mind.

I squeezed my hands together in my lap. “Where are you taking me?”

“That’s another question.” He withdrew his flask and drank again. A bead of clear liquid clung to his bottom lip. He rubbed it away with his thumb.

I looked down at my hands, where I’d dug my nails into my palm, leaving little half-moons in my skin.

“Draithmere,” Einar said, bringing my head back up. As I realized he’d answered my question, he pocketed the flask and turned his gaze to the darkness beyond the window. “It’s the name of my home—and yours for the foreseeable future.”

Chapter

Four

EINAR

Harper was quiet for the rest of the drive, but I could almost see the gears turning behind her big blue eyes.

She sneaked glances at me, undoubtedly taking my measure. Trying to figure me out. When the drive stretched for two hours, she twisted her fingers in her lap, her body vibrating with anxiety. I waited for her questions to start up again—or for the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose to crinkle as she demanded I release her. But she said nothing.

Which was…well, it would be ridiculous to call it disappointing. Because I wasn’t disappointed. She was a busybody reporter just like her father, and she’d obviously decided to try to crack me open and read me like a book. I’d given her enough material to let her think I was a willing participant in her scheme.

But I preferred her silence. I certainly didn’t need to hear her husky voice again, or to see her gnaw at her plump lower lip when she was thinking. I didn’t need to notice the swells of her full breasts lifting under her gray sweater when she sighed in obvious exasperation. I didn’t need to inhale slowly, catching the notes of vanilla and honeysuckle in whatever perfume she wore.

And I didn’t need to wonder why she continuously nudged her beaten-up backpack with her foot when she thought I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t afford to be curious about the woman I’d taken. If I was honest with myself, I shouldn’t have taken her. I’d resisted the idea, recognizing it for the folly it was. But Orson Ward owned nothing of value. Arlo had left no stone unturned, and the reports he’d presented painted a stark portrait of Ward’s finances. The man was within weeks of complete financial ruin. Harper was the only thing Orson had left in the world. So I’d taken her.

When we arrived at Draithmere, I was going to send her to her room, order Arlo to keep her out of trouble, and then put her out of my mind until I was satisfied her father had turned over all the evidence of my shift. But with a weasel like Orson Ward, I’d have to be careful. And that could take a while.

Fucking Orson Ward. I didn’t have time for this shit. I most definitely didn’t have time to babysit a twenty-two-year-old female with a doll’s face and a bombshell’s body.

Fuck.

As Arlo slowed the car, Harper leaned forward, her attention on the scenery outside the window. I didn’t follow her gaze. I knew what she saw—a dark, thick forest with trees so tall they appeared to scrape the sky. The moon peeked from between clouds heavy with rain, revealing little of the narrow private road that cut through the woods.

We rounded a bend, and Draithmere appeared, its chimneys as tall and dark as the trees that surrounded it. Four stories of weathered brick, the house sat on a rise with the Olympic Mountains as a backdrop.

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