Page 65 of The Prince of Power

My stomach does a little flip. His tone is so…warm. Tender.

I hate that I never know when he’s sincere and when he’s manipulating me.

“Instead,” he continues, “I’ll tell you that I think your answer is anti-intellectual. We can’t ignore our biological reality because it leads to inconvenient conclusions.”

“No,” I say firmly. “I’m not saying we ignore it, but it shouldn’t have any bearing on our moral judgments. People use evolutionary psychology to justify all kinds of terrible things. Like you saying it’s okay for men to rule the world. That ignores the fact that we always have a choice.”

His attention is rapt. “How much choice do we really have? We don’t choose to be born, or to create the white and gray matter that forms our thoughts.”

I shake my head. “I can’t get into an argument about free will. It makes my brain hurt.”

He grins. “I wish you would. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun debating anyone.”

My chest aches. Neither have I. Damian gives me the kind of intellectual stimulation I’ve always craved. And it’s because his beliefs are so different from mine that I like it so much.

And what does it say about me? I can care for a monster as long as he entertains me?

I force a smile. “You just like the sound of your own voice.”

“So do you, little doll.”

Oh, so we’re back to “little doll” now. I roll my eyes, scoop up a handful of water, and splash it directly in his face.

Damian freezes, blinking through the droplets clinging to his thick, dark lashes. Then, slowly, he wipes a hand down his face, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

A thrill sparks in my chest, and I take that as my cue to swim—fast.

Or, at least, as fast as I can.

Damian’s laughter follows me. “What the hell is that? That’s not swimming.”

“Shut up!” I gasp.

“You look like a cat that fell in the pool.”

I push forward, determined to escape him, but I make the mistake of glancing back over my shoulder.

My stomach flips. He’s coming after me, cutting through the water with effortless grace, like a shark.

I squeal and kick harder, but I don’t stand a chance. Within seconds, his hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me back against his chest.

“No!” I shriek, twisting away.

“Hmm.” His free hand presses against my ribs. “Where are you ticklish?”

My entire body locks up. “Don’t.”

He presses another spot—just beneath my arm.

I shriek, my body jerking instinctively.

“Oh, that’s interesting.” His grip tightens as he tests another spot, his fingers skimming the curve of my waist.

I yelp, kicking at the water, but it’s no use. He has me caged, laughing softly as he torments me. He presses another spot—right at the curve of my hip—and I let out a helpless laugh, thrashing in his hold.

And then his fingers stop.

I barely have time to catch my breath before his mouth is against my cheek.

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