Page 17 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

He ignored my attempts to break free, and he kept his gaze straight ahead as we neared the patio steps. “I don’t have time for a reporter’s questions.”

“Then you shouldn’t have imprisoned one in your house!” His strides were so much longer than mine, I had to practically run to keep up with him. As we started up the steps, I stumbled, banging my big toe against the concrete. “Ow! Motherfucker!”

Einar stopped, and he relaxed his grip on my elbow as I bent and clutched at my foot. Pain shot up my injured toe, and I hissed in a breath.

“Shit!”

“You have quite the potty mouth, Miss Ward,” Einar said.

I glared up at him. “If you don’t like it, let me go, and you’ll never have to hear it again.”

He gave me a mild look. “What makes you think I don’t like it?” Without warning, he bent and swept me into his arms. I gasped in surprise, clutching at his broad shoulders to steady myself. His bare chest brushed my arm where my T-shirt sleeve had ridden up.

“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to sound more indignant than flustered.

“You’re hurt,” he said as he carried me up the rest of the stairs and into the house. “I don’t have time for injured reporters, either.”

Now, my indignation threatened to choke me. “I wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you hadn’t dragged me across your backyard!”

He grunted as he strode down the hallway, carrying me like I weighed nothing. “Stay inside like you’re supposed to, and things like this won’t happen.”

Oh, he was an asshole. I clamped my mouth shut, holding my body rigid in his arms. His chest was warm against my shoulder.

No. He was hot, almost as if he ran a fever. But he didn’t look sick.

Because he’s not human. The thought landed like an arrow thunking into my brain.

Everything Einar had told me was true. Having just witnessed a woman transforming into a bird and flying away, I couldn’t deny reality anymore. Einar was everything I’d seen in the video in my father’s office.

A lycan.

A prince.

Over a century and a half old.

I swallowed the whimper that tried to rise in my throat. My father’s actions were even worse than I’d thought. He’d known exactly what Einar was, and he’d signed me over to him anyway.

Einar didn’t even break a sweat as he ascended the stairs and carried me down the hall. He shouldered into my bedroom and deposited me on the rumpled bed.

“Stay there and don’t move,” he said, stepping back. Before I could protest, he left the room.

I stared after him for a second, indecision warring within me. Did I get up and make a run for it? But where would I go? It wasn’t like I could sneak downstairs and steal a car.

At least not just yet. Not in broad daylight, with Einar and probably Arlo ready to catch me.

Filing that plan away for later, I leaned forward and examined my toe. The skin was bloodied, but the injury was little more than a scratch. The pain had dwindled to a dull ache.

Einar returned with a white metal box in his hands. Immediately, the room felt smaller.

“Don’t touch the wound,” he said. “Your hands are dirty.”

I bristled. “My hands are fine.”

The bed dipped as he sat on the edge. He flipped the box open, revealing an impressive first aid kit.

“I don’t need any of that,” I said, drawing my knees to my chest. With mild horror, I realized my feet were dirty from running barefoot outside. But at least my toenails were painted. I couldn’t afford professional pedicures anymore, but I did the best I could. Not that I cared what Einar thought.

He snagged my ankle and pulled my leg straight, and he huffed as he shoved the leg of my pajama pants to my knee. “Which is why you’re bleeding on the sheets. Don’t move, or I’ll tie your ankle to the bedpost.”

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