Page 7 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

“Quotes no one ever actually spoke,” Einar said. “Apparently, inventing sources is frowned upon in journalism.” He smiled. “I’ve learned quite a bit about journalistic malpractice over the past few days. It’s been very eye-opening.”

Anger warred with disappointment in my gut. My whole life, I’d looked up to my father as someone who held the powerful accountable. His misdeeds had cost our family its legacy. The name Ward had meant something once. Now it was a cautionary tale. An embarrassing footnote.

Dad met Einar’s gaze. “I’ll give you all the files. I swear it. There’s no need to involve Harper in this.”

Einar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That would be acceptable if I could take you at your word. But we both know that’s not the case.” He stood, looming over the desk. “So your daughter will be coming with me.”

“No,” I said, my heart in my throat. “Dad, this is crazy. You can’t hand me over to a stranger like a piece of furniture!”

His expression was stark. Suddenly, he seemed diminished, his body too frail for his fifty-four years. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!”

“But the Hartling story?—”

“Who cares? Things can’t get any worse!”

My father hesitated.

“Should we discuss the other stories?” Einar asked.

“Others?” I demanded, my voice approaching a screech.

Einar folded his arms. “Pages fourteen through twenty-seven.” When I glared at him, he gave me a mild look. “You’ll find I’m very thorough.”

My father picked up the pen.

“Dad!” My heart tried to pound from my chest. “He could abuse me. Assault me. Hurt me in ways a man hurts a woman.”

“Absolutely not,” Einar snapped, his voice like a whip. “I don’t touch unwilling females.”

I channeled all the hate I could muster into my stare. “I assure you, I am very unwilling. In all ways.”

He shrugged.

“I’m sorry, Harper,” my father whispered.

Disorientation swept me. This wasn’t happening. I swung toward the door. Arlo stood in my path, his dark eyes steady.

My father flipped to the last page.

“Dad,” I rasped, cold creeping through my veins.

With a shaking hand, he signed his name.

Einar stepped forward, pulled the contract toward him, and flipped it around. He leaned over the desk and gave my father a pointed look. “Pen.”

“Oh,” my father said, startling. He extended the pen. “Sorry.”

The sense of surreality increased. Numbness spread through me as I watched Einar scrawl his name on the line next to my father’s signature.

Einar Rothkilde.

My new owner. Nausea twisted my gut.

Einar looked at me. “In a house like this, I assume your bedroom is upstairs. Arlo will accompany you to gather your things.”

I drew myself up. “I?—”

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