Page 6 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

“No!” I started forward, only to be brought up short by a hand around my bicep. The young man hauled me back, his grip surprisingly solid. We were the same height and possibly the same weight, but he was obviously much stronger than he looked.

“Stay out of this, Miss Ward,” he said. “Prince Einar doesn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Prince?

“You play a dangerous game trying to blackmail me,” Einar told my father. “You want an interview? Fine. Let’s have one.” He pulled my father off the wall, carried him to the desk chair, and slammed him into it. Immediately, my father curled over the desktop, gasping and coughing.

Einar looked at me, then pointed to one of the lawn chairs. “Sit.”

Before I could respond, the dark-haired man propelled me to the chair and pushed me into it. Einar snagged the other chair, positioned it in front of my father’s desk, and sat. The metal groaned but held his weight. He lifted his paw, examining it as if he found it interesting. Slowly, it slid back into a human hand.

My heart tried to pound from my chest. I’m hallucinating. It was the only explanation that made sense. Maybe the pharmacy had messed up my medication, and I was in the throes of some kind of weird, trippy side effect.

Einar focused on my father. “Look at me, Ward.”

Gasping, my father lifted his head. The movement was jerky, like he was a marionette on a string. By some miracle, his glasses still clung to his face. Capillaries had burst in his eyes, and the whites were smeared with red.

“That’s better,” Einar said. His tone was conversational, as if he’d popped by for tea. He settled more deeply in his lawn chair, his body dwarfing the flimsy metal frame. “Arlo, please show Mr. Ward the terms.”

The younger man stepped forward, producing a bundle of papers from somewhere. He placed them on the desk in front of my father, then pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and set it next to the paperwork.

“Now,” Einar said, “here’s how this is going to work. You took footage and photos of me without my consent. I’m here to take those things back.” He made a regal gesture in Arlo’s direction, and the younger man sprang forward and seized my father’s laptop.

My father made a pained noise, but kept his mouth shut.

Einar continued. “I assume you’ve made copies of your materials and squirreled them away in all kinds of places. Regretfully, I don’t trust you to hand everything over. So I’ll be taking your daughter with me to incentivize your cooperation.”

“What?” I gasped. He couldn’t be serious. I looked at my father. “Dad?”

“My terms are spelled out clearly in the contract,” Einar said as if I hadn’t spoken. “Miss Ward will live under my protection until I’m satisfied you’ve returned every scrap and shred of my likeness, along with whatever story you were writing.” Einar’s voice went low. “And let me be plain. If you ever attempt to write about me or my kind again, neither you nor your daughter will enjoy what happens afterward.”

Fear gripped me. What was he saying?

My father paled. “You won’t hurt her,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

“That’s up to you,” Einar said. He nodded toward the contract. “Honor the agreement, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

My father looked down at the papers in front of him. Slowly, he reached out and pulled the contract toward him.

“Dad!” I came out of my chair, outrage searing my veins. “Are you actually considering this?” I swung my gaze to Einar. “You can’t take me with you. I won’t go.”

He frowned. “You’re not a party to these negotiations, Miss Ward. I don’t require your acquiescence.”

“I’m making myself a party!”

“That’s not how contract law works.”

“I—” Wait, was I really arguing the ins and outs of contracts with him?

Einar turned to my father. “One more thing. Page twelve. If you don’t sign, I’ll be forced to go public with how you fabricated the details for that story you did about the President of the Hartling Foundation.”

The blood drained from my father’s face.

Disappointment washed through me in a sickening wave. The Hartling story was a highlight of his career—and one of the pieces that earned him a Pulitzer. A beloved philanthropist had spent a decade siphoning money from a charity he founded. My father’s reporting exposed him as a fraud more interested in rubbing elbows with celebrities than helping people. The scandal had spanned several countries and implicated a number of government officials.

“Dad,” I said, hearing the censure in my voice. “The President of the Hartling Foundation went to jail over that.”

My father swallowed. “He did all the things he was accused of. I just…supplemented with some quotes.”

---