Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

HARPER

F or the second time in under an hour, I sat in the back of a car while rain streaked the window. This time, however, I wasn't alone.

Einar sat across from me in a full manspread, his big, obnoxious body taking up the entire bench seat. Just my luck, the seat faced mine, and a thick pane of privacy glass sealed us in the cabin.

He didn't appear the least bit concerned as he stretched an arm along the back of his seat, making his button-down mold to his thick chest. He seemed even bigger in the car. At five-seven, I was taller than average for a woman. But he had at least eight inches on me. Maybe more. Unlike Arlo, who'd slid into the driver's seat the second we stepped outside, Einar filled out every single one of those inches with solid muscle.

Fortunately, there was enough distance between us to ensure his knees didn't brush mine. I'd been poor for a while, but I grew up with money, and I knew the Mercedes-Maybach didn't come cheap. A man with a personal assistant, a half-million-dollar car, and the nerve to kidnap women by way of contract probably didn't get told "no" very often. But if I was going to survive this, I needed to set some ground rules. Like now.

"You can't keep me prisoner," I said.

One dirty blond eyebrow went up. Einar removed his arm from the back of the seat. I tensed, but he merely reached into his front pocket, withdrew a metal flask, and unscrewed it. Outside, the scenery whipped by more quickly as we merged onto the highway. Einar tipped the flask back, his golden throat working as he took a generous pull. He lowered it with a breathy, irritating "ahh" before spinning the cap back on and tucking the flask in his pocket. When he finished, he slung his arm along the seat again and looked out the window.

Great. I'd been kidnapped by an asshole billionaire who was also a drunk. And…huge.

I gnawed at my bottom lip. He'd said he wouldn't hurt me. In fact, he'd sounded offended at the mere suggestion. So that meant he had no intention of me sharing his bed. Right?

Nerves prickled down my spine. My backpack rested at my feet. Moving it wouldn't help anything. But what if I didn't move it? My heart rate picked up.

On the other hand, moving it wouldn't hurt anything.

Glancing down, I used my foot to nudge the logo facing outward. Einar still gazed out the window. "Did you hear what I said?" I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes the same color as the rain-drenched sky outside. "Remind me."

I clenched my fists in my lap. "I said you can't keep me prisoner."

"It appears I'm doing just that." He nodded toward the door. "Unless you think you can survive a tumble from a car going seventy miles per hour. Besides, I have a signed contract."

"Illegal clauses in contracts are unenforceable."

He lifted his hand from the back of the seat. "The clause isn't illegal in my world, Miss Ward."

My stomach did a weird flip. Something about the way he said my name made me want to squirm in my seat. Which was almost as ridiculous as him thinking a signed contract gave him the right to abduct me. Against my will, I focused on his hand—the hand that had looked like a very convincing animal paw. But that was impossible. I drew a deep breath. This guy was obviously a jerk. But he had to possess at least a modicum of humanity, didn't he? Few people were completely unredeemable.

"My father has done some terrible things," I said. "He lied about people for his own gain. I make no excuses for him. But he took my mother's death hard. I don't want to speculate about his mental state, but he's obviously experiencing some kind of mental break. Whatever he did to you, it's not right for you to play into this idea that he captured you transforming into a werewolf."

"I didn't transform into a werewolf."

Thank god. If Einar was going to be rational, we could?—

"I transformed into a lycan. The differences between werewolves and lycans couldn't be more glaring, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't slander me that way again."

Frustration rose. How long was he going to keep this up? Maybe he was one of those bored rich men who played elaborate role-playing games.

If so, maybe there was a story there. Who better to cover it than a reporter embedded, albeit reluctantly, in his life? If I could get him talking, maybe I could forge a connection with him. Make him see me as a person instead of a bargaining chip. Someone he could commiserate with. Like Clarice in Silence of the Lambs.

Okay, maybe that was a bad example.

I forced my shoulders to relax. "What are the differences?"

Einar studied me, intelligence burning in his eyes. Whatever else he was, he wasn't stupid. He'd also clearly done his homework on my father, which meant he'd almost certainly dug into my background, too. He had to know I was months away from a journalism degree.

Damn. This wasn't going to work. And now I'd just reminded him I was Orson Ward's daughter.

"Lycans are born," he said. "Werewolves are made."

My heart leapt, and curiosity sparked despite my shitty circumstances. "So, lycans make werewolves?"

"No. Werewolves make werewolves. Their origins are murky, but our lore says that an ancient human king once ruled a vast and prosperous kingdom. He had everything. Castles, gold, and a beautiful queen. His army was full of noble knights. The king was unaware that one of these knights happened to be a lycan."

Outside, the sky had darkened. Rain lashed the windows. I leaned forward. "This knight could transform into a wolf?"

"A lycan ," Einar said with another lift of his brow. "We're bigger and faster than werewolves. We also live longer."

"How—?"

"Five hundred years, give or take. The maximum werewolf lifespan is three hundred years, but most wolves die in petty dominance contests before they get that far."

Oh, he was really laying it on thick. Fine, I could play along. "How old are you?"

"One hundred and fifty-two. Lycans age slowly."

Right. I let my gaze wander over his unlined face and the thick hair pushed back from a smooth forehead. His claw stunt in my father's office was obviously a trick. A man who owned a Maybach could afford Hollywood-level prosthetics. He'd conned my father, and now he was carrying out some sort of revenge plot. Nevertheless, the hair on my nape lifted as I cleared my throat.

"Okay. So, what happened with the knight?"

Einar's gaze was steady, as if he didn't care whether I believed him. "Tale as old as time. He fell in love with the queen. They carried on for decades, conducting an affair in secret. But she got old, as humans do. The knight turned out to be a bit of a fool, and he bit her, breaking one of our most sacred laws on the nonexistent chance she would rise again as a lycan. He waited for her to die."

"But she didn't," I guessed.

"Nope. She turned, becoming the first werewolf. The knight created an abomination, mixing lycan blood with human."

Something within me bristled. "That's…elitist."

"Spoken like someone who's never faced off with a werewolf. The world is full of monsters, Miss Ward, including those that should have never been made. I believe Mary Shelley wrote about it. Or do they not teach Frankenstein at Northwestern?" The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps it's too elitist for the curriculum."

I couldn't keep the edge of anger from my voice. "The monster in that story spent his life trying to help and befriend humans who always turned against him."

"He also killed several of them. I promise you, no werewolf you encountered would seek to help or befriend you."

"So far, werewolves sound exactly like lycans."

Waning sunlight made his eyes appear brighter. "I'm relieved to know you're familiar with the story. The state of higher education these days makes me worry for the future."

It was an effort not to grind my molars together. "Did the knight and the queen live happily ever after?"

"Not in the slightest. The shift restored the queen to her former youth and beauty. The king, who was ill and dying, demanded to know how she'd managed it. As his suspicions grew, he noticed the knight never appeared to age, either. It didn't take much for the king to put two and two together. When the queen denied an affair, the king tortured a confession from her. Once the king learned the truth, he forced the queen to bite him. Men are far more likely to survive a werewolf's bite, although the virus tends to favor the assholes of the world. The king was, as you've probably surmised, an accomplished asshole, and he turned, becoming the second werewolf to ever live. Then he killed his wife for cuckolding him."

My breath hitched. Cuckolding was an unusual word. An old word. Something someone born in the 1800s might say. I shoved that thought away before it could take root.

"What happened to the knight?" I asked.

"No one knows. The story says he disappeared."

"And the king?"

"He swore a blood oath to seek revenge for the shame his queen brought upon the kingdom. According to the lore, he bit the rest of his knights, turning them one by one to create an entire army of werewolves. They spread throughout the kingdom and beyond, making others just like them. And they inherited the king's rage and thirst for vengeance. Lycans and werewolves have been at war ever since."

Outside, the sun slipped below the horizon, surrendering to the October gloom. The rain continued, leaving phantom trails on the windows. Einar pulled out his flask and took another healthy swig.

I bit the inside of my cheek, wavering between keeping my mouth shut and asking the obvious question. Oh, to hell with it.

"Do you always drink alcohol during the day?"

He tucked the flask into his pocket and gave me a level look. "No."

End of discussion. I'd conducted enough interviews to know when a subject didn't want to elaborate. Okay, so perhaps a different angle.

"Your servant called you a prince."

"Arlo is my steward, not my servant. And, yes, he uses my title."

The car, the contract, the hyper-realistic claw hand. Einar's accent was American, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Plenty of European countries had princes running around the globe.

"If you're a prince," I said, "that implies you're the son of a king."

His chest lifted as he stretched his other arm along the seat. He was tall enough for the position to be comfortable instead of awkward. He exhaled on a sigh. "That's usually how these things work, yes."

"So your father is the king?"

"No."

Now, I did take a second to clench my jaw. "Your uncle?"

"My brother is king of all lycans. And that's enough questions for now, Miss Ward."

Instant tension arced between us. The car's engine purred as we continued to race toward some unknown destination. The sun was long gone, but Einar's eyes still shone so brightly they didn't seem real. Or human , a little voice whispered in my mind.

I squeezed my hands together in my lap. "Where are you taking me?"

"That's another question." He withdrew his flask and drank again. A bead of clear liquid clung to his bottom lip. He rubbed it away with his thumb.

I looked down at my hands, where I'd dug my nails into my palm, leaving little half-moons in my skin.

"Draithmere," Einar said, bringing my head back up. As I realized he'd answered my question, he pocketed the flask and turned his gaze to the darkness beyond the window. "It's the name of my home—and yours for the foreseeable future."