Page 9 of His Prince

I need to know what’s going on.

I need to know if I’ve truly made a huge mistake.

I continue walking, my shoes scuffing across the dirt floor, my hands starting to shake as I continue deeper and deeper below.

Where the fuck am I going?

Just as I think that, the tunnel ends and I see stairs to the right and another set to the left. Fuck, which one do I pick first? Because let’s be honest. I’m going to find out where both lead.

I move to my right, traversing the wet and muddy stairs to a metal door. There is no lock or keypad, so I just push it open, blinking furiously in the daylight streaming through the opening. And smoke. Lots and lots of cigarette smoke.

It’s silent except for the sound of breathing and the crunch of someone chewing food.

As my vision comes back, I see that I’ve just stepped foot into a domicile full of bodyguards.

So this is where they’re at.

“Oh. Hello,” I say, feeling my face flush, my hand moving up to swat the smoke that is looming around me. Is this where Casey is staying? Fuck, please don’t let Casey be here. I don’t want him to see me and wonder what I’m doing walking through underground tunnels in the middle of the day.

He’ll worry. That’s what he does. It’s always been like this between us.

“Sorry to intrude,” I say when silence continues to greet me, my eyes wandering around the space. I take in around ten buff men, each wearing gold chains around their necks. They’re all wearing tracksuits or athletic shorts with name-brand shirts stretched across their wide chests. A few are watching some sports game on a largeflatscreen television, and others are at a table, playing cards. One is even running on a treadmill…while smoking a cigarette.

My gaze turns to two men sitting on the closest couch, smoke billowing around them, glasses of clear liquid in crystal cups.

Is that vodka?

“I was just um, exploring.”

“Do we need to neutralize him?” the man on the treadmill asks with a Russian accent and another man just scoffs.

“Fuck no. Not unless you want to lose your head. This is Mikhail’s husband, you dumb shit,” another says.

The way he says that last word makes me flush. “Hi, yes, I am. And I’ll make sure you keep your heads. Um, it’s so nice to meet you.”

My gaze sweeps around the room. This space isn’t as cold and lifeless as the main house, but it still lacks color and warmth.

Poor Casey. I’ll have to ask how I can make his stay more comfortable.

His stay…as if we’re at a hotel.

Fuck, this is my damn life. Casey may be stuck here for as long as I am.

Maybe I’ll paint the damn walls, brighten this place up a bit.

No one responds, just continues staring at me.

“Anyway, what are the chances you’ll forget you saw me here?” I ask, and the one who declared I was Mikhail’s husband shrugs. “What’s in it for us?”

“Um, fresh baked cookies and fresh flowers?”

They stare at me in disbelief before one of them finally cracks.

“How about some Russian bread?” the man on the treadmill suggests.

“I don’t…I really don’t know if I have the stuff to make that. But I can try.”

“Or maybe syrniki,” another chimes in.

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