Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

HARPER

I stood in the center of my new prison with my arms wrapped around my midsection.

Admittedly, the room didn't look much like a prison. For one thing, it was actually two rooms: a bedroom and an attached sitting room.

"I hope you'll be comfortable," Arlo had said moments ago when he placed my suitcase on a low bench at the foot of the bed. He didn't mention the fire in the study—or Einar's strange, sudden rigidity behind the desk.

The bedroom was as beautiful as the rest of the house, with a huge four-poster bed, an upholstered chair with a matching ottoman, and a big, glossy chest of drawers with a large mirror on top. A fireplace opposite the foot of the bed was cold, its grate littered with dead leaves. As visions of the raging fire downstairs filled my mind, I turned my attention to the rest of the room.

The bed was crafted from dark wood, with an intricately carved headboard and plush-looking bedding. The oversized chair and ottoman were a soft cream with gold stitching. Side tables flanked the bed. The grand mirror above the chest of drawers boasted a gilded frame. If I had to guess, the gold leaf was the real deal.

The sitting room was just as luxurious, with an inviting-looking sofa, another big chair, and more Victorian furniture. I was by no means an expert, but my mother had loved the period, and I had an eye for distinguishing replicas from true antiques. Einar's house was like a well-kept time capsule.

Or the home of someone born a hundred and fifty years ago.

I shoved that thought aside as pressure in my bladder had me scanning for a bathroom. My gaze snagged on a slightly open door, and I crossed the room and then exhaled in relief as I stepped into a spacious en suite with a claw foot shower-tub combo and modern plumbing. I relieved myself, then washed my hands with lavender-scented soap and tried to ignore how the basic, everyday task amplified the extreme oddness of my predicament.

After I dried my hands, I examined my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My eyes were red-rimmed, my face pale. It had to be close to midnight. I was late taking my medication. I fetched my backpack from the bedroom, returned to the bathroom, and dug the orange prescription bottle from the bottom of my bag. Shaking a pill into my hand, I downed it with handfuls of water from the sink. Then I splashed more water on my face and blotted it dry. As I finished, a knock sounded from the bedroom. Arlo's muffled voice drifted after it.

"Miss Ward? I brought you something to eat."

A hunger strike probably wouldn't get me anywhere. Besides, I hadn't locked the door. And, anyway, something told me Arlo had the key for every door in the house. Suppressing a sigh, I went to the door and opened it.

Arlo stood on the threshold, a polite smile on his boyish face and a large tray of covered dishes in his hands. "May I?" he asked, hefting the tray a little.

I stepped back. He breezed past me, then placed the tray on a table next to the chair.

"I hope you like roasted chicken," he said, straightening.

"As long as it's not poisoned." The minute the words left my mouth, I wanted to claw them back. Arlo seemed nice enough, but he worked for Einar. Anyone who went along with threats and kidnappings was dangerous by association.

He regarded me now, his expression as unflappable as ever. "If Prince Einar wanted you dead, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."

I swallowed. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"His Highness can be surly on occasion, but he's always fair. He's also a man of his word. Ah, that reminds me." Arlo reached behind him. A second later, he extended a sheaf of papers.

The contract from my father's office.

Except I'd just seen Arlo bend to set down the dinner tray—and the papers hadn't been in his pocket.

"It's a copy of the contract," he said. "Prince Einar wanted you to have it for your records."

My heart thumped hard against my ribs as I took the papers. "Thanks."

"Of course. Now, unless you need anything else, I'll leave you to your dinner before it gets cold. Don't worry about the tray when you're finished. I'll collect it in the morning." Arlo went to the door. Just before he opened it, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "I strongly advise against leaving your room tonight. And it would be imprudent to venture outdoors. We're isolated here in the mountains. You don't want to run across any of the wildlife that roams the countryside." He smiled. "Fortunately, you have everything you need right here in your suite."

"Right," I said, my voice hoarse in the quiet room. I clutched the contract in tight fingers. Nerves tingled down my spine, memories of Einar's claw and the out-of-control fire parading through my head.

Arlo nodded. "Good night, Miss Ward." He left, closing the door gently behind him.

For a moment, I just stared. Then I rushed to the door, locked it, and stumbled back. Oh, Dad, what have you gotten me into?

Fresh anger kindled in my chest as I looked down at the contract. With a muttered curse, I went to the chair and flung the papers next to the tray of food. The copy of the contract was useless to me. As Einar had helpfully pointed out, I wasn't a party to it. Never mind that it was beyond ridiculous for him to act like putting a kidnapping and blackmail scheme in writing somehow made it legal.

But as bad as Einar was, my father was worse. He'd put me in danger to supposedly salvage a ruined career. Most people went through life never knowing what it would take for a loved one to sell them out. Now I knew exactly what my father thought of me. I was worth a couple of Pulitzers and a crumbling house.

Tears burned my throat. At the same moment, my stomach let out an angry growl. I wiped at my eyes, my gaze going to the tray. My airport bagel was a distant memory. Plus, I wasn't supposed to take my medication on an empty stomach. And Arlo had a point. If Einar wanted me dead, he could have accomplished it a dozen different ways between Seattle and Draithmere. Why go to all the trouble of hauling me to his house just to poison me?

I went to the table and lifted the largest cover. Golden-brown chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and plump rolls glazed with butter were arranged around a plate. Growing up, my mother's job had given me access to all sorts of professional kitchens, and I knew quality food when I saw it. Heavenly scents wafted from the plate, and my stomach released another insistent growl.

Before I could lose my nerve, I sat and began to eat. As Einar promised, Arlo was an excellent cook. The chicken was flavorful and well-seasoned. The rolls melted in my mouth. Arlo had included two beverage options: water and a glass of light brown liquid that turned out to be iced tea.

As I ate, my gaze returned again and again to the fireplace. The flames downstairs had roared like they were ready to break free of the hearth and engulf the whole room. Except something held them in check. Something…or someone.

No. That was too damn outrageous to believe.

In journalism school, I'd been taught to pursue the truth. To follow the facts wherever they led. If I let fear rule me, I risked missing something important. And I had to stay rational. What was more likely, Einar controlling fire with his mind, or Einar being some kind of wealthy weirdo who enjoyed scaring the shit out of people? Maybe he styled himself as a Bruce Wayne/Batman type with Arlo as his Alfred.

Except Arlo hadn't seemed like a butler when he rushed to Einar's side downstairs. He'd squeezed Einar's shoulder, and for a few tense moments, it had appeared as if the men's roles reversed, with Arlo in charge and Einar obeying commands. Einar had gone from ordering me to my room to staring me down like he wanted to jump the desk and rip my throat out. Firelight had flickered in his eyes, sheening the silver with a layer of gold.

Like the video.

Suddenly, the food I'd eaten settled like a rock in my stomach. I stood and went to one of the big windows in the sitting room. No bars covered the glass. I tested the latch, and the window opened like normal, allowing chilly night air to sweep into the room. A rustling, scratching sound at my back made me whip around, my heart pumping faster.

The dead leaves in the fireplace stirred, scraping the stone. Relief swept me, and I released a shaky breath as I faced the window once more. Outside, an elaborate hedge maze sprawled over grass splashed by moonlight. My breath puffed in white clouds as I braced my hands on the sill and leaned over it, trying to gauge the distance to the ground.

My heart sank. The bedroom had to be at least three stories up. There were no balconies. Not even a vine clinging to the brick. Unless I got brave—or desperate—and knotted bedsheets together, escaping through the window was out of the question.

Another gust of icy wind tugged at my hair as I looked over the maze. The hedges were taller than my head, and they seemed to extend forever. Far enough to get lost in.

A shiver raced down my spine.

I pulled my head back inside and shut the window. Fatigue tugged at me, and I let my shoulders slump as I faced the bedroom. What a fucking day. The hours of airport travel, the meeting with my father, and the long road trip with Einar pressed down on me like a weight.

But my stomach was full, and I was unharmed. The bedroom was nicer than any hotel I'd ever stayed in. And Einar was a mystery to unravel. If I had any hope of escaping Draithmere, I had to figure out its master. What motivated him? What were his weaknesses? If I followed the facts, I'd find the truth eventually.

But first, I needed sleep.

I went to my suitcase and pulled out pajama pants and a T-shirt. In the bathroom, I arranged my toiletries along the back of the sink, lining them up until they were even, the labels facing outward.

Except one bottle touched the one next to it.

I nudged the first bottle aside a little.

Then a little more.

There. Now they were even.

Tendrils of panic crept through me. Wait, were they really even? I crouched, eyeing the travel-size bottles of shampoo and face wash. After a moment of examination—and a few more nudges—the panic receded. Still crouching, I rested my forehead against the sink's cool porcelain. When the last of the anxiety faded, I stood, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face, then piled my hair in a messy bun and slathered night cream on my skin. Maybe I was a captive but, dammit, I was going to be a well-moisturized one.

Returning to the bedroom, I grabbed my notebook from the bottom of my suitcase. My heart squeezed as I flipped through the notebook's first few pages, where my mother's neat, careful handwriting marched down the lines. I knew every word by heart, which wasn't difficult since the handwriting only spanned a handful of pages. She'd recorded notes and recipes from her final interview. Here and there, the sentences trailed off. Even then, she'd struggled to remember things.

But she passed on her love of old-fashioned pen and paper to me. She always hated using a laptop on the job. "It puts a barrier between you and the person you're interviewing. Writing by hand is so much more personal. It takes more effort, and it shows the person you're speaking with that they're worth your time."

If only I'd had more time with her. But I had pieces of her life. I carried the notebook to bed and climbed in, sitting cross-legged against the pillows. Pen in hand, I flipped to a blank page in the back. When she died, I never intended to write in her notebook. How could I desecrate it that way? Then I imagined my mother laughing at me, her blue eyes crinkled in the corners.

Desecrate, Harper? Really?

Mom never took herself too seriously, even though she had every right to. I couldn't talk to her anymore. But I could reach her in other ways. I'd inherited her love of cooking—of tinkering in the kitchen and trying new things. I could make the recipes she'd collected over the years. And I could put my words in her notebook, carrying on the career she'd loved so much. All voices died eventually. But words were permanent. If you wrote something powerful enough, it could outlast you.

I balanced the notebook on my knee and began to write, describing my long day of travel. My anger and frustration at being forced to put my semester on hold. The bitterness of arguing with my father. My shock at seeing the photos and videos. When I got to Einar, I paused, visions of him pinning my father to the bookcase popping into my head. After a second, I started writing again.

He's tall. When I squint, he could almost be Chris Hemsworth.

Immediately, a different memory flooded my mind. I stood at my father's desk in the newspaper office, a school essay I'd written in my hand. My father took it, plucked a red pen from the holder on his desk, and marked up my paper while I tried not to fidget. A second later, he handed the essay back.

"You described your main character as Tom Holland. It's lazy writing to use a known person as a reference. Do the hard work and tell the reader what your character looks like."

Biting my lip, I crossed out "Chris Hemsworth" and substituted "dark blond hair" and "silver eyes." I filled in more detail, describing Einar's build and demeanor. His clothing and obvious wealth. The arrogance that set my teeth on edge. I stopped again. Then I drew a deep breath.

He claims he's a lycan prince.

I stared at the words. Outside, the wind picked up. A moment later, it howled down the fireplace and into the bedroom, sending a gust of cold air over the bed.

What if Einar wasn't just an eccentric rich guy with odd habits? What if he was exactly what he claimed to be? And if he was, where did that leave me?

I set the notebook aside, scrambled under the sheets, and yanked the comforter to my chin. A lamp on the bedside table filled the bedroom with a soft glow. Exhaustion swept me, and my eyelids grew heavy. Einar couldn't keep me shut in the bedroom forever. Problems always looked better in the morning.

I'd figure out my next steps then.