Page 72 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

And now the gods had caught up to me. They’d given me the perfect woman and then forced me to watch her die.

“Fuck off!” I snarled. Someone in the crowd gasped. They probably thought I was losing my mind for good. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

“Sir.”

I turned my head. Arlo knelt beside me, his human form bruised and slightly gaunt. That he bore any physical injuries at all meant Armand had hurt him badly. My fault. This was all my fault.

“I think I know a way to save her,” Arlo said.

It took a second for his words to sink in. When they did, I latched onto them like a drowning man glimpsing the edge of the shore. “Tell me.”

“The book.”

My heart skipped a beat. He meant the Book of Crubeus. It would show me whatever knowledge my heart most desired.

Arlo nodded, clearly seeing the understanding in my eyes. “If you want this badly enough—if it’s possible to bring her back—the book should show you a way.”

My heart pumped faster. “Get it for me. Please.” Of anyone alive, he was the most qualified to fetch it.

Arlo reached into the air and grasped the book. Murmurs ran through the crowd, everyone likely seeing the book in a way that most appealed to them.

“You’ve never looked for this knowledge before,” Arlo said, placing the book on the dusty concrete. “You should prepare for a battle.”

I settled Harper gently on the ground, my heart catching at the sight of her grayish skin and torn neck. But she was still beautiful. Her strawberry blond hair spread around her, and her thick lashes lay like fans on her cheeks.

Whispers lifted from the book. Around me, the crowd moved forward, drawn to it.

“Stand back,” Arlo said, his features sharpening. “This book is a predator, and you’re all prey. It takes a great deal of training to resist its power.”

A few people grumbled, but the crowd eased back.

I knelt and opened the book. Immediately, light blasted my vision, and words blazed on the page. Spells and incantations. Potions and curses. The lines shifted and rewrote themselves, offering knowledge. But it wasn’t the kind I sought.

Harper. I want to save Harper.

The pages flipped, buffeted by an invisible wind. The warehouse fell away. The writing on the page gleamed more brightly. And then images replaced the words. I braced to see Harper.

Instead, I saw myself. Memories flickered before my eyes—each one showing me at various points in my life. Regrets and mistakes filled my vision.

Me as a child, glaring from the sidelines as my father taught Cyrus to hunt.

Me as a teenager, berating a weeping servant because she put too much starch in my shirts.

Me courting a lycan nobleman’s daughter, only to break things off when I grew bored. The images flashed more quickly, the woman replaced with another. And another.

The vision changed, and I stood before Cyrus, anger boiling inside me. “Yes, my lord,” I said, sweeping a mocking bow before slamming from his office. After I left, my brother stared at the door, sorrow in his eyes. He sat back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. A rough sob leaked around his palm, and his shoulders slumped. The crown weighed on him. I’d never known. I hadn’t been there to help him bear the burden. I’d been too consumed with myself—too prideful and arrogant to accept the love he offered.

“Focus,” Arlo said from somewhere. “You need to focus on Harper.”

The pages flipped, and Harper’s life appeared. Her smile flashed as she tore through a newsroom, running past cubicles to reach her father’s office. Her girlish pigtails bounced. Reporters leaned in their chairs, fond expressions on their faces as she passed.

The vision changed, and she smiled as she watched her mother interview a chef. Her mother caught Harper’s eye and winked.

Another change, and now Harper bent over a spiral notebook, her tongue between her teeth as she scribbled down a story. The clock on the wall behind her showed the time as ten minutes past midnight.

The vision changed again. Harper sat hollow-eyed at her mother’s bedside while a nurse moved around the room. Margaret stared straight at Harper and murmured, “Who are you?”

Who are you? The question rippled around me, the words growing louder. Lines of text bled down the book’s pages, obscuring the vision of Harper and her mother.

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