Page 125 of The Night Prince

Alexander’s eyes shift. “If she moves against me again, deal with her.”

Philip’s jaw clenches. A vein throbs in his neck. I sense the wolf beneath his skin, as if it’s fighting Alexander’s command. If I’m going to do something, it needs to be now. I grab the letter opener Callum gave me from my pocket and hurl myself at Alexander. Philip’s anguished roar fills the carriage as he grabs me by the middle and slams my head into the door.

Pain bursts into my skull.

Philip’s eyes swim with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

The last thing I see is Alexander’s wide grin.

Black.

***

I groan. The scent of seaweed and sweat permeates the cool air. I peel open my eyelids and push myself onto my forearms. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. I’m in a cage. No. A cell. One of the walls is curved and barred. I touch my head—my hair is wet and sticky. Blood.

Panic tightens in my chest. Philip is not here. I’m alone. I’m going to die.

Someone is mumbling not far away.

“Stop your whining.” The voice is rough and familiar, thick with the Northlands accent. My heart jumps. I turn toward the next cell. The wolf inside grins. “Hello, Princess.”

He has the same powerful shoulders and almond-shaped eyes as Callum. For a moment, I let my heart tell me it’s Callum who sits against the damp wall, that this man’s kilt is the Highfell tartan, not the pattern that combines all the clans. Until I’m forced to confront the tangled brown hair that brushes his shoulders and the ink that covers his arms.

“James?”

“Shouldn’t you be up there with that southern bastard?” He gestures with his chin at the ceiling.

“Where is my brother?”

“Your brother?”

“Alexander took him, too.”

James tips back his head and a low, gravelly laugh fills the cell block. “They said Alexander was a mad dog, but he’s kidnapped both of the heirs to the Southlands throne? Fuck me. We really are in trouble.”

A low moan comes from the cell next to James’s. “I should never have come here. I should never have fucking come here.”

“Be quiet, lad,” says James.

I straighten. “Ryan? Is that you?”

My eyes adjust. Beyond James’s great bulk, Ryan sits with his back to the wall and his hands in his coppery hair. He looks up. “Hello, Princess.” He tips his sharp chin toward James. “I found him.”

“That you did, lad,” says James. “And if we ever get out of here—which seems fairly unlikely given the circumstances—perhaps the next time my wee traitor of a brother sends you on a mad quest, you’ll remember what happens when you follow his orders instead of mine.”

I push down my rising anger at his insult to Callum. A growl, female and irritated, echoes off the damp walls before I can respond.

“Can everyone shut the fuck up for five fucking minutes?”

“Ah, allow me to introduce you to my delightful mate, Claire.” James nods at the cell beside mine.

The woman who snarls at James through the bars on my other side is far from the pristine, well-put-together alpha I met at Lowfell. Her dark hair is wild and tangled around her face, her shirt is torn and baggy, and there is dirt on her cheeks.

She bares her teeth. “Call me that again and I’ll rip your balls off and feed them to you.”

“Don’t mind her,” says James. “She gets irritable when she hasn’t eaten and starts acting like a—”

“Call me a bitch, I fucking dare you.” Claire’s eye flash in the darkness. James grins, and raises his big hands in faux surrender. Claire slumps against the wall. “That’s what I thought. Arsehole.”

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