Page 13 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

Harper’s regard was a weight against the side of my face. Pressing. Seeking. Delving under my skin. The heat from Arlo’s fingers sank through my shirt.

“Yes,” I said. “A drink would be…good.”

Arlo stepped back. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it at once.” He rounded the desk, his gaze on Harper. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Ward, I’ll take you to your room.” As he spoke the last word, the fire in the hearth roared so high, the flames licked at the mantel.

Harper jumped to her feet and spun toward the fireplace. The fire continued to blast from the hearth as if a dragon hid behind the stone and vented its ire on the study. A whiff of brimstone floated on the air. The lycans carved into the stone around the mantel appeared to shift and writhe among the flames.

Harper stood rigidly, tension in every line of her body. Arlo waited next to her abandoned chair, his gaze on the flames and his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Slowly, Harper looked at him, her profile illuminated by the blaze.

Arlo offered her a polite smile. “Do you have any food allergies or dietary restrictions?”

She blinked. “No.”

“Very good.”

Harper stared at him for a beat. Then she turned her gaze to mine, her expression wary once more.

I rested my hands on the arms of my chair. “You have nothing to fear under my roof, Miss Ward. As long as you follow the rules.”

Chapter

Five

HARPER

Istood in the center of my new prison with my arms wrapped around my midsection.

Admittedly, the room didn’t look much like a prison. For one thing, it was actually two rooms: a bedroom and an attached sitting room.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” Arlo had said moments ago when he placed my suitcase on a low bench at the foot of the bed. He didn’t mention the fire in the study—or Einar’s strange, sudden rigidity behind the desk.

The bedroom was as beautiful as the rest of the house, with a huge four-poster bed, an upholstered chair with a matching ottoman, and a big, glossy chest of drawers with a large mirror on top. A fireplace opposite the foot of the bed was cold, its grate littered with dead leaves. As visions of the raging fire downstairs filled my mind, I turned my attention to the rest of the room.

The bed was crafted from dark wood, with an intricately carved headboard and plush-looking bedding. The oversized chair and ottoman were a soft cream with gold stitching. Side tables flanked the bed. The grand mirror above the chest of drawers boasted a gilded frame. If I had to guess, the gold leaf was the real deal.

The sitting room was just as luxurious, with an inviting-looking sofa, another big chair, and more Victorian furniture. I was by no means an expert, but my mother had loved the period, and I had an eye for distinguishing replicas from true antiques. Einar’s house was like a well-kept time capsule.

Or the home of someone born a hundred and fifty years ago.

I shoved that thought aside as pressure in my bladder had me scanning for a bathroom. My gaze snagged on a slightly open door, and I crossed the room and then exhaled in relief as I stepped into a spacious en suite with a claw foot shower-tub combo and modern plumbing. I relieved myself, then washed my hands with lavender-scented soap and tried to ignore how the basic, everyday task amplified the extreme oddness of my predicament.

After I dried my hands, I examined my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My eyes were red-rimmed, my face pale. It had to be close to midnight. I was late taking my medication. I fetched my backpack from the bedroom, returned to the bathroom, and dug the orange prescription bottle from the bottom of my bag. Shaking a pill into my hand, I downed it with handfuls of water from the sink. Then I splashed more water on my face and blotted it dry. As I finished, a knock sounded from the bedroom. Arlo’s muffled voice drifted after it.

“Miss Ward? I brought you something to eat.”

A hunger strike probably wouldn’t get me anywhere. Besides, I hadn’t locked the door. And, anyway, something told me Arlo had the key for every door in the house. Suppressing a sigh, I went to the door and opened it.

Arlo stood on the threshold, a polite smile on his boyish face and a large tray of covered dishes in his hands. “May I?” he asked, hefting the tray a little.

I stepped back. He breezed past me, then placed the tray on a table next to the chair.

“I hope you like roasted chicken,” he said, straightening.

“As long as it’s not poisoned.” The minute the words left my mouth, I wanted to claw them back. Arlo seemed nice enough, but he worked for Einar. Anyone who went along with threats and kidnappings was dangerous by association.

He regarded me now, his expression as unflappable as ever. “If Prince Einar wanted you dead, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

I swallowed. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

---