Page 15 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

Then a little more.

There. Now they were even.

Tendrils of panic crept through me. Wait, were they really even? I crouched, eyeing the travel-size bottles of shampoo and face wash. After a moment of examination—and a few more nudges—the panic receded. Still crouching, I rested my forehead against the sink’s cool porcelain. When the last of the anxiety faded, I stood, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face, then piled my hair in a messy bun and slathered night cream on my skin. Maybe I was a captive but, dammit, I was going to be a well-moisturized one.

Returning to the bedroom, I grabbed my notebook from the bottom of my suitcase. My heart squeezed as I flipped through the notebook’s first few pages, where my mother’s neat, careful handwriting marched down the lines. I knew every word by heart, which wasn’t difficult since the handwriting only spanned a handful of pages. She’d recorded notes and recipes from her final interview. Here and there, the sentences trailed off. Even then, she’d struggled to remember things.

But she passed on her love of old-fashioned pen and paper to me. She always hated using a laptop on the job. “It puts a barrier between you and the person you’re interviewing. Writing by hand is so much more personal. It takes more effort, and it shows the person you’re speaking with that they’re worth your time.”

If only I’d had more time with her. But I had pieces of her life. I carried the notebook to bed and climbed in, sitting cross-legged against the pillows. Pen in hand, I flipped to a blank page in the back. When she died, I never intended to write in her notebook. How could I desecrate it that way? Then I imagined my mother laughing at me, her blue eyes crinkled in the corners.

Desecrate, Harper? Really?

Mom never took herself too seriously, even though she had every right to. I couldn’t talk to her anymore. But I could reach her in other ways. I’d inherited her love of cooking—of tinkering in the kitchen and trying new things. I could make the recipes she’d collected over the years. And I could put my words in her notebook, carrying on the career she’d loved so much. All voices died eventually. But words were permanent. If you wrote something powerful enough, it could outlast you.

I balanced the notebook on my knee and began to write, describing my long day of travel. My anger and frustration at being forced to put my semester on hold. The bitterness of arguing with my father. My shock at seeing the photos and videos. When I got to Einar, I paused, visions of him pinning my father to the bookcase popping into my head. After a second, I started writing again.

He’s tall. When I squint, he could almost be Chris Hemsworth.

Immediately, a different memory flooded my mind. I stood at my father’s desk in the newspaper office, a school essay I’d written in my hand. My father took it, plucked a red pen from the holder on his desk, and marked up my paper while I tried not to fidget. A second later, he handed the essay back.

“You described your main character as Tom Holland. It’s lazy writing to use a known person as a reference. Do the hard work and tell the reader what your character looks like.”

Biting my lip, I crossed out “Chris Hemsworth” and substituted “dark blond hair” and “silver eyes.” I filled in more detail, describing Einar’s build and demeanor. His clothing and obvious wealth. The arrogance that set my teeth on edge. I stopped again. Then I drew a deep breath.

He claims he’s a lycan prince.

I stared at the words. Outside, the wind picked up. A moment later, it howled down the fireplace and into the bedroom, sending a gust of cold air over the bed.

What if Einar wasn’t just an eccentric rich guy with odd habits? What if he was exactly what he claimed to be? And if he was, where did that leave me?

I set the notebook aside, scrambled under the sheets, and yanked the comforter to my chin. A lamp on the bedside table filled the bedroom with a soft glow. Exhaustion swept me, and my eyelids grew heavy. Einar couldn’t keep me shut in the bedroom forever. Problems always looked better in the morning.

I’d figure out my next steps then.

Chapter

Six

HARPER

Ibolted upright in bed, a loud noise ringing in my ears. For a second, I swam in my muddled thoughts as I stared at a strange fireplace. Sunlight filled an unfamiliar room full of dark wood and elegant furniture.

All at once, recognition slammed into me. This was Einar’s home. And I was his prisoner.

A high-pitched shriek sounded from the direction of the window, the sharp sound lifting the hair on my nape.

I tossed the blankets back and scrambled out of bed. Another scream split the air as I rushed to the window and yanked the curtains wide. On the grass below, a woman in a tattered white dress swayed on her feet at the entrance of the hedge maze.

The morning sunlight painted her in stark colors, emphasizing her pale skin and long black hair. Her dress clung to a painfully thin body, holes in the fabric showing her skin underneath. She paced, her bare feet sinking into the grass, which was covered with a layer of frost that sparkled like diamonds in the sun.

It was too cold for her to be barefoot, let alone wearing a dress that looked ready to fall apart.

She flung her head back and gave another broken cry. Even from a distance, I could see tears running down her cheeks and the tendons of her neck stretching taut.

Had Einar locked her up, too? Whoever she was, she clearly needed help. I reached for my phone, but of course I didn’t have it.

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