Page 4 of The Prince of Broken Crowns

He’s tall, but I am, too, so that’s saying a lot. If I had to guess, I’d assume he was almost six inches taller than me, putting him at around six-foot-four.

“You know, I think that might be the first time anyone has returned my charming smile with a dirty look,” Blondie says, appearing more pleased by this than he should.

“Well, since you’re so clueless about the look, I’ll let you in on the interpretation. It wasn’t an open invitation for you to talk to me,” I reply, propping my boot up against the wall. “It was the opposite.”

He drags his teeth along his bottom lip. “I’m betting that mouth of yours got you in here.”

“Better my mouth than what’s between my legs,” I say sweetly, recalling how River said something about them being in here because Blondie couldn’t keep it in his pants.

His brows rise toward his hairline, his lips parting in shock. Then he hastily composes himself and opens his mouth to say who the hell knows what—I never find out because River speaks first.

“Finn, sit your ass back down,” he demands from the bench as he slants back and stares up at the ceiling. He isn’t even looking in our direction, but irritation is flowing off of him. “Before you end up getting us into more trouble.”

Finn arches a brow at me, that haughty grin still present. “I think that’s my brother’s way of saying you look like trouble.”

“Your brother’s smart,” I inform him. “Because I am a huge pain in the ass and a load of trouble.”

He eyes me over, and the smirk broadens. “Maybe, but you look like the fun kind of trouble.”

“I’m not,” I assure him. I’m also well aware that this guy is flirting with me. I’ve been hit on more than my fair share of times, but having a royal flirt with me is definitely new. “I’m the more boring kind of trouble.” I trace my finger across my chest in an X pattern. “Cross my heart.”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling around the corners.

I internally sigh. I’m trying to get him to be annoyed with me, yet I’m somehow doing the exact opposite.

“Why did you get put in here, for reals?” he wonders, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“For castrating a royal.” I smirk when he visibly winces.

“I think you’re lying.”

“Then why did you wince?”

“Because you said the word castration,” he replies in all seriousness. “All guys have a physical reaction to that word. Even castrated ones.”

I almost laugh and, holy shit, I don’t like that at all. I do not need to be laughing at some rich guy, even if he’s funny, and gorgeous, and charming. But that’s the thing. The charm is fake. I’ve heard stories about royal men slipping into the shadows of the northside and wining and dining women from there, only to ditch them once they’ve used them up. I’ve even heard stories about them knocking women up then disowning the baby. My aunt Ellie told me that happened to her friend and said it destroyed her. She had to give the baby up for adoption and everything because she couldn’t afford to take care of her and had no support system.

I try to come up with some snotty response that hopefully gets him to leave me alone, but come up empty.

Fortunately, the middle-aged man hangs up the phone. He faces me with tears streaming down his face and snot running out of his nose. “I think my marriage is over.”

“It’s a good thing you’ll have your Mommy Bear.” I push away from the wall.

I don’t feel bad for being rude. My dad has cheated on my mom more times than I can count, and it’s turned her into a shell of a human being. I used to wish she’d leave him—and I still do—but I’m trying to disconnect with the situation because I’ve spent way too many years and energy trying to convince her to, and it’s gotten me nowhere.

Tears bubble in his eyes that are bloodshot and shadowed, and he reeks of booze and smoke. Everything about him screams strung out, and I hate the familiarity of his presence.

“You’re a bitch. You know that?” he spits, stepping toward me.

I keep my feet planted on the floor. “So I’ve been told.”

He balls his hands into fists—to hit me, perhaps—but I never get to find out since Officer James returns.

“Gary,” he says to the middle-aged man, “your time’s up. Let’s get you put back in the cell.”

“But I don’t wanna go in there,” he whines while tugging at the bottom of his shirt, like a toddler about to have a tantrum. “It smells bad.”

“You smell just like it,” Officer James assures him, causing me to snort a laugh.

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