Page 4 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

My father’s deadlines had always come between us. But he shouldn’t have a deadline right now. He hadn’t worked in three years.

Images from the kitchen rose in my mind. Oh god, what if he was losing it? His scandals had finally broken him, and now he was “working” on his computer, probably typing nonsense. Should I call someone? I shifted my backpack higher on my shoulder. My phone was tucked in a side pocket. If he became suspicious or combative, I could step outside and call for help. But who would I call? And how would I pay for it?

My father beckoned me forward. “Don’t just stand by the door! I need another set of eyes on this.”

I drifted closer, more resentment brewing. If he’d forced me out of my classes and onto a plane so I could edit for him, I was going to lose my everloving shit. “What are you working on?”

He leaned forward in his chair, an aura of excitement hovering around him. “The biggest scoop of my life. You’re not going to believe this story. It’s going to turn things around for us, Harper.”

Doubtful. There was no coming back from what he’d done. Manufacturing evidence about one country selling nuclear weapons to another—and accusing US government officials of being party to the scheme—was the career equivalent of pouring gasoline over a forest fire. My father was lucky he wasn’t in prison.

I stopped in front of his desk, my hand tight on my backpack strap. “What kind of story is it?”

“Sit, sit,” he said, gesturing to one of the folding metal lawn chairs that had replaced the tufted leather set. “This is the sort of thing you really need to see to appreciate.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink as he flipped his laptop around. “Luckily, I’ve got everything on video. Prepare to be stunned.”

“All right.” I heard the wariness in my voice as I lowered my backpack to the ground and sat. A fresh spike of irritation prompted me to add, “I can’t wait.”

If my father heard the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. His eagerness was palpable as he pulled up a video player. With a final, bright-eyed glance at me, he clicked play.

A tall, powerful-looking man filled the screen. The video, which bore my father’s name as a watermark in the lower left corner, had been taken at night in what appeared to be a forest. The footage was soundless, and the image was bleached of color. But a full moon bathed the man’s face and body in bold light.

The video zoomed in, capturing the man’s features in more detail. His eyes were gray…no, silver. And they appeared to glow.

Against my will, I leaned forward. The man was handsome, with rugged features and dark blond hair. But his looks alone didn’t draw me. No, something else about him held my attention. I’d covered enough plays and music festivals as a student journalist to know what it was. He had a certain presence, like a movie star or stage actor who owns a scene regardless of the script. This man would attract attention in baggy sweatpants in the middle of a grocery store.

On screen, he lowered his head and began unbuttoning his shirt.

I jerked my gaze to my father’s. “Dad?—”

“Shh, shh,” he said, not looking away from the laptop. “It’s all right. Keep watching.”

The man dropped his shirt, then reached for the fastening of his jeans.

“Oh my god?—”

“Harper, it’s fine.”

“He’s stripping!” And my face was on fire. At the same time, disbelief swept me. My father had coerced me into traveling two thousand miles so we could watch homemade porn together. I shot to my feet, one hand reaching for my backpack.

Nude now, the man began to…change.

I froze, one hand still extended toward the ground.

The man’s skin rippled. Then his whole body rippled. Waves of muscle and bone moved in ways they absolutely should not have been able to move. After a second, the man dropped to his hands and knees.

And I forgot about his nudity. Now, my heart thumped painfully as the man’s limbs lengthened. Hair rushed over his skin like a video in fast forward. Only this footage wasn’t sped up. The trees in the background continued moving normally, the branches swaying in a light breeze.

The man’s face elongated, forming a snout like a…

No.

The video was doctored. Some kind of editing trick my father had cooked up. Because there was no way I’d just watched a man transform into a werewolf.

The animal lifted its head, and a pair of bright golden eyes gleamed like car headlights.

“Keep watching,” my father said. “There’s a time jump because I followed him down the beach.”

“What? Where?”

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