Page 68 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

I startled, meeting his eyes. “You haven’t called me that since I was little.” The nickname was silly—the end result of him pretending he’d named me after all the instruments in an orchestra. He never got around to “harp,” instead listing all the other options.

“No shoes in the house, Oboe.”

“Daddy!” I’d protest. “My name isn’t oboe.”

“You’re right. Put them on the shoe rack, Viola.”

The game could last for hours, irritating my mother and making me laugh. Feigning defeat, my father would finally throw up his hands. “Fine! You win. I named you Strings.”

Dad’s smile was tired as he looked at me now. “It drove your mother nuts. I think I got all the way up to sixty instruments one time.”

“She secretly liked it, though.”

“Yeah. She did.” My father stood. With a glance at the door, he crossed the cell and sat beside me.

I tensed, and I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice as I whispered, “They could come in.”

“Let them,” Dad said, putting an arm around me.

I rested my head on his shoulder, the weight of captivity easing slightly. We sat, wordless conversation passing between us. My father had been a journalist in war zones. He’d covered coups and civil unrest around the world. And while I didn’t yet have my degree, I had enough journalistic training to understand the reality of our situation.

Armand didn’t care if we talked. He wasn’t worried about us scheming. And he didn’t mind if we overheard him talking with his men. Because Armand didn’t intend for my father and me to live. Our value as captives dwindled with every moment Einar failed to appear.

Eventually, our value would wilt to nothing. And Armand would kill us.

Dad tipped his head to the side, leaning it gently against mine. “Your mother always wanted more children,” he said. “She was heartbroken when we couldn’t give you a sibling. But then you grew, and we both realized we got it right on the first try. You’re the best story we ever wrote.”

Tears flooded my eyes. I drew a shaky breath. “I miss Mom a lot.”

“Me too.” He paused, and then tears filled his voice. “I’ve done so many things I’m not proud of. But I have never once failed to be proud of you. I love you, Harper, and when we get out of here, I’m going to do whatever I can to make you proud of me.”

I lifted my head and looked at him. “I?—”

A boom cut the air. The ground shuddered, and the fluorescent lights overhead flickered. Men’s shouts rang out, followed by pounding footsteps.

Dad and I struggled to our feet. A second later, the door flew open, and a frazzled-looking Hector filled the doorway. Snarling, he lunged forward and seized my wrist.

“Hey!” my father yelled. “What’s going on?”

Hector backhanded him, sending my father flying.

“Dad!” I reached for my father, but Hector gripped my arm and dragged me from the cell.

I stumbled along with him, lightheadedness swarming me. Another boom shook the building, making the lights flicker again. We entered the main part of the warehouse, where chaos reigned.

Men shouted as they ran down the aisles. A werewolf on four legs streaked past us, its fangs bared and its fur coated with dust. More dust clouded the air. As soon as Hector dragged me around a corner, I knew why. Dozens of statues lay shattered on the ground.

Armand’s shouts echoed from somewhere. “They’re hitting the doors! Everybody to the front!”

Booted footsteps rang out. Through the gaps in the shelving, I saw men sprinting to carry out his orders. My heart soared. Einar had come. He was here, and it sounded like he had serious backup.

BOOM. Another impact shook the warehouse. More statues crashed to the ground.

As Hector dragged me past the debris, Armand appeared from around the end of the aisle. His eyes glittered bright gold. The pistol in his hand sent a chill down my spine.

“Where’s the demon?” he shouted at Hector.

Hector gripped my arm more tightly. “You told me to get the woman.”

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