Page 61 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

Chapter

Twenty

HARPER

Iopened my eyes, and everything was gray. An unpleasant odor hung in the air, like cheap cleaner mixed with mold. As my eyes adjusted, I took stock of my surroundings.

I lay on my side on a surface so hard it had to be concrete. Damp seeped into my clothes, which were thankfully still on my body. I had no reason to think Armand had designs on me, but self-preservation meant assuming everything was on the table.

The pain in my forearm had faded to a dull ache. The pain in the back of my skull was a bright, shiny beacon of motherfucking ow. I squeezed my eyes shut as I took shallow breaths, willing away my sudden nausea. Wherever I was, it wasn’t good. Puking would make everything worse.

“Harper?”

My eyes flew open. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, and I sat up and turned toward the sound of my father’s voice. Dizziness slammed into me, followed by another wave of nausea. My head throbbed, and I groaned as I leaned forward, saliva flooding my mouth.

“Harper!” Shoes shuffled on concrete, and then my father knelt next to me. His hand shook as he touched my shoulder, and his voice was low and hoarse. “Oh god, what have they done to you?”

The pain and nausea receded enough for me to lift my head. My eyes focused enough for me to make out the windowless concrete cell around us. No bars, though. Just a big metal door painted the same dingy gray. An open toilet stood against one wall. There was nothing else. Just concrete.

And my father.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. He looked terrible, his jaw covered in what appeared to be several days’ worth of white stubble. His hair stuck up in greasy spikes, and he’d lost his glasses. A yellowish stain ringed his neckline where he’d obviously sweat.

Dad’s face crumpled. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was only trying to help. The gauze came in the mail, and I didn’t know what to do, so I went to the Sound. I never should have let you go with Rothkilde. Your mother always said my pride was going to eclipse my talent, and she was right.” He gave a short, broken sob. “Maggie was always right. She was so smart…so good, she?—”

“Dad,” I said, cutting off his babbling. I gripped his shoulders and tried to ignore the way the movement made a fresh spike of pain stab the back of my head. “What do you mean about gauze? What came in the mail? Give me the facts as they happened.”

Those were the magic words. My father’s gaze sharpened, and he drew a shuddering breath. “A couple days after you left, Rothkilde sent bloodied gauze to the house, along with a note letting me know I could expect worse if I didn’t turn over all the footage of his shift.”

My breath froze in my lungs. In my mind’s eye, Einar bent over my foot, his long, elegant fingers skillfully wrapping gauze around my toe. He’d tended my injury—and then shipped the bloodied aftermath to my father.

“I was terrified,” Dad said, “and I was so ashamed. The footage wasn’t important anymore. My only priority was getting you out of Rothkilde’s house.” A hard edge entered my father’s voice. “Contrary to what he might think, I don’t have contacts in the supernatural world. I didn’t know where to turn, so I returned to the place where everything started.”

“You went back to the Puget Sound,” I said.

Dad nodded, his eyes filling with tears. “I took a tent and made camp near the spot where I saw Rothkilde shift. The first night, nothing happened. But the second night, the werewolves found me. They promised to help if I gave them the gauze. They said Rothkilde was a horrible man, and they could track you through your blood. The second I handed it over, they beat me and then brought me here.” My father ran his bloodshot gaze over my face. “Did they hurt you?”

I reached up and probed the back of my scalp. A knot rose from the center of my skull, but my hair was dry, and I didn’t feel any open wounds. “I think I’m okay,” I said. “How long have I been here?”

“A few hours.” My father’s expression turned grave. “Harper, listen to me. Whatever happens, cooperate as much as you can. Armand is more dangerous than you think.”

“Sage advice,” Armand said through the door. It swung open with a loud squeal, and he entered with Hector behind him. Armand smiled at me. The expression didn’t reach his icy blue eyes. “You should listen to your father, chère.”

Dad stood. His voice trembled, but he looked Armand in the eye as he spoke. “Harper hasn’t done anything wrong, Mr. Reverdin. She’s innocent in all of this.”

“Hector,” Armand said softly.

Hector moved around him, gripped my father by the throat, and flung him against the wall.

A scream ripped from me as I surged to my feet. Hector delivered a brutal kick to my father’s stomach. I screamed again as Armand gripped my upper arm and dragged me from the cell.

“Please!” I pleaded. “Don’t hurt him!”

“That’s up to you,” Armand said, manhandling me into what appeared to be a massive warehouse. Giant metal shelving soared toward the ceiling that had to be forty feet high. Stone statuary and plastic fencing materials lined the shelves, but even at a distance, I could see that everything was coated in dust. Wherever Armand had brought me, it wasn’t an active business.

I struggled to stay on my feet as he strode down a broad aisle, his fingers biting into my bicep. We rounded the end of a row of shelves, and my heart plummeted at the sight of Arlo tied to a metal chair. He was in human form, and his face was a black-and-blue mess. One eye was half swollen shut. Blood ran freely from a cut on his cheekbone. His arms were secured behind his back. A rope ran around his chest, binding him to the chair.

Four men with gold-sheened eyes stood in a half circle behind him. One broke from the group, grabbed a second metal chair from behind a stack of wooden pallets, and set it down. He grinned at me as he stepped back and bowed.

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