Page 11 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

Harper’s eyes widened, her blue irises ringed by a darker navy color. The scant moonlight caught in her hair, which spilled over one shoulder. It was neither blond nor red, but something in between. Strawberry blond. Wasn’t that what people called it? It was a fanciful color. Feminine, like her. She looked nothing like her father.

No, she’d inherited her looks from her mother. According to the information Arlo found, Margaret Ward died of early-onset dementia just before Orson’s scandals broke. The medical bills for her care had put the family finances on shaky ground. A series of bad investments on Orson’s part made everything worse. His professional misconduct was the final straw. To raise funds, he’d sold the newspaper the Ward Family founded over a century prior. The family home was protected by a trust set up by Harper’s mother, but the rest of the money was gone, and the house was in such a deep state of disrepair it would cost tens of thousands of dollars to restore it.

Harper had learned of her father’s fall from grace during her first semester in journalism school. Arlo’s research cleared her of any wrongdoing. She didn’t deserve to pay for her father’s crimes. Sharing his name would almost certainly make it difficult for her to work in her chosen profession. A good man wouldn’t have used her as a bargaining chip with her father. A decent man would have put her on a plane to Chicago and wished her the best finishing her degree.

Unfortunately for Harper Ward, I was neither good nor decent.

The car jolted, and static electricity rushed through the cabin.

Harper yelped as she jerked in her seat. She glanced around the car, her shoulders tightening. “What was that?”

“The second of three magical boundaries that circle the property. They increase in intensity, so you probably didn’t notice the first one. The third will hurt.”

“Hurt?” She hugged her midsection. “How? And what do you mean by magical boundaries?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. They’re defensive spells designed to keep out unwanted guests.”

Skepticism shimmered in her eyes. “Spells,” she said flatly.

“That’s right.”

“So you’re a witch as well as a lycan?” She tilted her head. “Or is it wizard?”

I pulled out my flask. The damn thing was nearly empty. “I sense sarcasm, Miss Ward. It’s almost as if you don’t believe I’m a lycan.” I downed the last of the witch’s brew and tucked the flask in my pocket. Harper tracked every movement, her jaw set in a way that let me know she’d clenched her teeth.

She seemed to realize she’d wrapped her arms around herself, and she moved her hands to the edge of the seat on either side of her slim, denim-clad thighs. “I like to think I have an open mind. But I admit it’s difficult to believe.”

A hum filled the air. Energy built, and magic pushed at me from all sides. Harper gasped. A second later, the car crossed the third boundary. Magic sizzled, then rained tiny sparks over my skin.

“Ow!” Harper jumped. Panic flitted through her eyes, but she covered it quickly. She couldn’t control her heart rate, though. Her chest heaved as the rapid boom, boom, boom filled my ears.

“How about now?” I asked, letting a smile touch my lips.

Anger brimmed in her eyes. She opened her mouth like she meant to issue a sharp retort. Then she seemed to think better of it, and she snapped her jaw shut and stared out the window.

And, once again, I was not disappointed.

We reached the house a moment later. Arlo stopped the car outside the long stone building that had once served as a stable but now functioned as a garage. He fetched Harper’s sole suitcase from the trunk, and I led us through the low-lying fog that hovered above the path connecting the garage to the main house.

“I can carry my own bag,” Harper said behind me. Arlo’s response came in the mild voice he used any time someone made an absurd suggestion.

“I’ve got it, Miss Ward. Watch your step. The pavers are old, and some might be uneven.”

The fog swirled more thickly as we approached the steps. Vanilla teased my nose, followed by hints of honeysuckle. I clenched my jaw. The trip was over. Now, it was time to get back to the business of running Draithmere—and put my unwilling house guest out of my head for good.

The house guest in question made no effort to hide her curiosity as she trailed me inside. Her head moved on a swivel as she took in Draithmere’s large, two-story foyer with a grand staircase that split halfway up and led to separate wings. A large pedestal table dominated the center of the space, which was decorated in rich mahogany. Paintings hung here and there, depicting landscapes and bowls of fruit. Things I didn’t care about but kept around because they filled the walls. The furniture was nice enough, I supposed. Old and solid, unlike the modern garbage that came in flat boxes and ended up in landfills a decade later. As we passed an antique curio cabinet, Harper slowed, peering more closely at the design painted on the front.

“No dawdling,” I said. Her sharp intake of breath hit my ears, and her stare was a laser between my shoulder blades as I led her to my study. Arlo brought up the rear, his footfalls audible because he allowed them to be.

The fire leapt high in the hearth as we entered the study, and Harper jumped in place, her startled gaze going to the flames.

“Sit,” I said, pointing to one of the chairs in front of my desk as I strode to it and seated myself.

Her reddish brows pulled together. “I’m not a dog.”

I looked at Arlo, who’d stopped just inside the door. He lowered Harper’s suitcase to the ground and gave me an inquisitive look.

“Do you need something, Your Highness?”

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