Page 28 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

With an angry sound, she grabbed for the notebook.

I jerked from her reach, then held the notebook aloft. Ignoring her frustrated growl, I scanned the page, where my name appeared over and over. What else had she written about me?

“That’s private,” Harper said.

“Chris Hemsworth?” I looked at her, interest tugging at me. “You think I look like him?”

“Absolutely not. That’s why I crossed it out.”

I thumped my knuckle against the page. “It says it right here, along with broad shoulders. Your descriptions are rather colorful. Are you writing a romance novel?”

“No.” A look of disgust crossed her features. “I’m a journalist. I have no interest in writing romance.”

I let a slow smile curve my lips. “Is that so? Sounds awfully elitist, don't you think?”

Her nostrils flared as she clearly recognized I’d flung her earlier words back at her.

“Well, either way,” I said, “I’m flattered you used me for inspiration.”

She held out her hand. “Give me the notebook, Your Royal Highness.” She said the honorific the way someone might say dickface.

Deliberately, I flipped pages, skipping to the front of the book. But the handwriting changed. Now, recipes lined the pages. Here and there, notes explained an ingredient or clarified the directions.

Harper made a pained noise. When I looked at her, she’d gone pale.

“These are recipes,” I said. “Whose handwriting is this?”

She swallowed hard. “My mother’s. That was the last notebook she used for work before she died.”

Silence fell. My chest tightened, and a powerful emotion swept me. It took me a minute to recognize it for what it was.

Shame.

I cleared my throat. “Arlo told me she was a well-known food critic.”

“Yes,” Harper said. She paused, as if debating whether to say more. “We used to cook together when I was young. Then she got sick…” Harper glanced at the notebook. “I planned to make all the recipes she left behind, but I got busy with school.”

The shame intensified. I closed the notebook and held it out. Harper snatched it from my hand and held it against her chest like a shield.

“And my prescription?” she asked. “Am I allowed to have that too?”

I looked down at the bottle I’d forgotten I held. “I smelled chemicals,” I said, handing it over.

She grabbed it and stuffed it in her jeans pocket, the round bottle snug against her hip. Something vulnerable huddled in her eyes, which were more violet than blue in the bedroom’s soft light.

“Arlo has the night off,” I said. “I realized you didn’t get any dinner, so I came to ask what you wanted to eat. I knocked.”

Harper stayed silent, her expression stony even as hurt swam in her eyes.

“You didn’t answer the door. I wanted to make sure you were all right, so I came inside. When I didn’t find you in the sitting room, I checked the bathroom.” I nodded toward the white bottle cap poking from her pocket. “Like I told you, my sense of smell is much better than a human’s. I scented chemicals. I wanted to make sure you’re not hurting yourself.”

Anger sparked in her eyes. “I’m not hurting myself. I’m helping myself. There’s no shame in taking medication.”

“That’s not what I meant. Man-made medicines smell different than remedies that come from the earth.” I hesitated, something cautioning me against calling the chemicals “unnatural.” I gestured to the bottle again. “Do you need more of it? Are you sick?” Dammit, Arlo should have known if she had some kind of medical condition. I would have never brought her to Draithmere. I would have found another way to deal with Orson.

“I’m not sick,” she said. She rubbed her lips together, clearly trying to decide whether to elaborate. Finally, she sighed. “I have an anxiety disorder. Medication keeps it from taking over my life.”

I’d heard of such things. Worries that grew out of control. Goodness knew she had reasons enough to worry.

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