Page 22 of His Prince

I swipe up on my screen and tap on my security app, pulling up video from the estate. Everything looks intact from the outside, but as soon as I pull up thevideo feed from the inside, I nearly choke on my tongue.

My lips part as I watch Angel serve up dinner for a slew of people—no, those are my men—in my kitchen. My fucking kitchen. My employees.

I zoom in and watch as Titus places an arm around Angel and presses a kiss to his hair.

My eye twitches, my fingers cramping as Angel smiles up at him and moves to grab something from the oven.

I see everyone eyeing him, like he’s some kind of mystical being, like they can’t believe their fucking luck.

I know the feeling. I fucking felt it too.

I put the phone right up to my face and my mouth drops open. Is that pirozhki?

My mouth waters, thinking back to my grandmother who usedto make it, before swallowing roughly and setting my phone down, breathing deeply from my nose.

Then I pick my phone back up and see him serving my men my top-shelf cognac, the bottles I had imported from France.

“That little menace,” I murmur as I pull up feed from other parts of the house, my blood pressure slowly rising.

Is that a fucking gold wall? In my office? It shimmers in the low light of the lamps and my jaw ticks.

Why the fuck is Gael standing with a paint roller in the hallway? Why the hell is that wall bright blue? Are thosefucking flowerson the table?

A growl escapes me, and Dima glances back at me in the rearview mirror.

“You okay, Boss?”

“No,” I reply, feeling my blood start to boil as I pull up footage from our bedroom and see that the walls are painted a light green, the heavy blackout curtains replaced by sheer fabric, and the rug that used to sit under my bed is now replaced with something colorful he surely bought at Target.

And don’t get me started on the decorative pillows now lining my bed.

Fucking hate those.

Waste of space.

I set my phone down, again breathing through my nose.

“You need me to call someone, make them disappear?” Dima asks, and I feel my eye twitch grow.

“I need to go home.”

“But you have another two days of meetings?—”

“I know,” I snap and then squeeze my thigh tightly, trying to rein in my temper.

I have work that needs to be done, shit that needs to be handled, and my little Angel is home, messing up my life.

If this were anyone else, I’d have Georgiy dispose of them.

But I can’t do that.

I signed a fucking contract.

Yes. A fucking contract. That’s why.

And he’s Angelo Costello.

I let out a long exhale, trying to center myself. When my rage has calmed slightly, I turn my phone off.

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