Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

HARPER

I bolted upright in bed, a loud noise ringing in my ears. For a second, I swam in my muddled thoughts as I stared at a strange fireplace. Sunlight filled an unfamiliar room full of dark wood and elegant furniture.

All at once, recognition slammed into me. This was Einar's home. And I was his prisoner.

A high-pitched shriek sounded from the direction of the window, the sharp sound lifting the hair on my nape.

I tossed the blankets back and scrambled out of bed. Another scream split the air as I rushed to the window and yanked the curtains wide. On the grass below, a woman in a tattered white dress swayed on her feet at the entrance of the hedge maze.

The morning sunlight painted her in stark colors, emphasizing her pale skin and long black hair. Her dress clung to a painfully thin body, holes in the fabric showing her skin underneath. She paced, her bare feet sinking into the grass, which was covered with a layer of frost that sparkled like diamonds in the sun.

It was too cold for her to be barefoot, let alone wearing a dress that looked ready to fall apart.

She flung her head back and gave another broken cry. Even from a distance, I could see tears running down her cheeks and the tendons of her neck stretching taut.

Had Einar locked her up, too? Whoever she was, she clearly needed help. I reached for my phone, but of course I didn't have it.

The woman continued wailing, her mouth stretched wide and her hair falling around her shoulders in a wild tangle.

I whirled from the window and flew to the door. Fumbling with the lock, I yanked the door open and fled down the hallway, my bare feet pounding against the soft carpet runner. The hallway looked different in the light of day, but I managed to retrace my steps from the night before, and I raced down the grand staircase as quickly as I dared. When I reached the foyer, I hesitated, my ears pricked for the woman's cries. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows and cast colorful patterns on the hardwood floors.

A mournful cry drifted from behind me. I spun and then followed it, rushing down a short hallway lined with closed doors. A second later, I burst into a spacious, modern kitchen. I got an impression of stainless steel appliances and gleaming marble countertops before another shriek sounded from outside. A pair of wide French doors opened onto an expansive patio. The hedge maze lay behind it.

And the woman stood at the maze's entrance, her back to me as she screamed into the sky.

I hurried to the doors, wrenched them open, and rushed down a set of concrete steps. Chilly morning air sliced through my T-shirt as I crossed the patio, ran down another set of steps, and onto the grass. The frost stung my bare feet. Dew soaked the bottoms of my pajama pants, but I barely registered the discomfort as I jogged toward the woman. Up close, her dress was even more tattered than I'd thought. The hem was ragged, its edges stained brown as if the dress had once been long enough to drag on the ground.

"Are you okay?" I called.

The woman stiffened. I stumbled to a halt as she faced me.

Her tears were gone, her eyes clear. With no more than twenty feet between us, it was easy to see she was stunningly beautiful, with deep blue eyes and pouty red lips.

And her dress was intact, the white fabric pristine and perfectly tailored. The hedges rose behind her, the bright green a lush backdrop to her dazzling beauty.

Even as I grappled with the sudden change in her appearance, an image flickered over her like an old-fashioned film strip skipping. One second, she was normal. The next, she held her severed head in one hand and a shallow silver bowl in the other. The eyes in her severed head blinked slowly. Her hair trailed to the frozen ground.

I staggered backward, my heart in my throat and a gasp on my lips.

The woman tipped the bowl. Blood spilled over the edge and splashed onto the grass.

I cried out, terror gripping me.

The woman jumped as if I'd startled her, and the horrible vision vanished. Now, she appeared as she had from the beginning, her head firmly on her shoulders and her gown in ruins. Tears ran down her face. Terror filled her eyes. She drew a deep breath and gave an ear-splitting shriek.

I clapped my hands over my ears, cringing as pressure built against my eardrums.

The woman snapped her mouth shut. Between one breath and the next, she transformed into a crow and soared over the hedge maze.

"No!" a man's voice shouted. I spun as Einar thundered down the patio steps, his arms pumping. "Myrna, no!"

The crow flapped its wings hard, climbing into the air and streaking over the maze. It swooped once before flying out of sight.

I stood with my arms limp at my sides, my mind reeling from the spectacle I just witnessed.

Einar sprinted across the grass and staggered to a stop, his chest heaving. His face was stricken as he stared at the spot where the crow had disappeared. He wore nothing but a pair of black sweatpants slung low on his hips. A mat of dark blond hair covered his chest before narrowing to a thin trail that ran down rippling abs before disappearing into his waistband.

I jerked my gaze from his hips just as he rounded on me with a furious expression.

"Are you pleased with yourself?" he demanded.

I jolted. Why did he seem angry with me ? But he wasn't surprised—which meant this wasn't the first time the woman had done this. And it wasn't a video I could dismiss. She'd changed right in front of me.

"She transformed into a bird," I said, still trying to wrap my mind around it.

Einar scowled. "Because you frightened her!"

Was he serious? Outrage made me take a step toward him. "You're blaming this on me? Her head came off! She screamed like she was dying."

"No shit. She's a banshee." He looked toward the sky, and he spoke under his breath as if he talked to himself more than me. "Now, she'll take forever to coax back to the house, assuming I can find her."

"Banshee," I repeated, my nerves still jangling. "Like the Irish spirits who scream when someone is about to die?"

Einar looked at me, irritation in his gaze. "Not spirits. Humans always get it wrong when it comes to supernaturals." He stalked to me, grabbed my elbow, and hustled me toward the house. "Come on. You have no business being out here."

"Hey!" I dug in my heels, but it was useless. He was simply too strong, and I was forced to stumble along even as I tried to twist from his grip. "What do you mean, you have to coax her back to the estate?"

He ignored my attempts to break free, and he kept his gaze straight ahead as we neared the patio steps. "I don't have time for a reporter's questions."

"Then you shouldn't have imprisoned one in your house!" His strides were so much longer than mine, I had to practically run to keep up with him. As we started up the steps, I stumbled, banging my big toe against the concrete. "Ow! Motherfucker!"

Einar stopped, and he relaxed his grip on my elbow as I bent and clutched at my foot. Pain shot up my injured toe, and I hissed in a breath.

"Shit!"

"You have quite the potty mouth, Miss Ward," Einar said.

I glared up at him. "If you don't like it, let me go, and you'll never have to hear it again."

He gave me a mild look. "What makes you think I don't like it?" Without warning, he bent and swept me into his arms. I gasped in surprise, clutching at his broad shoulders to steady myself. His bare chest brushed my arm where my T-shirt sleeve had ridden up.

"What are you doing?" I asked, trying to sound more indignant than flustered.

"You're hurt," he said as he carried me up the rest of the stairs and into the house. "I don't have time for injured reporters, either."

Now, my indignation threatened to choke me. "I wouldn't have gotten hurt if you hadn't dragged me across your backyard!"

He grunted as he strode down the hallway, carrying me like I weighed nothing. "Stay inside like you're supposed to, and things like this won't happen."

Oh, he was an asshole. I clamped my mouth shut, holding my body rigid in his arms. His chest was warm against my shoulder.

No. He was hot , almost as if he ran a fever. But he didn't look sick.

Because he's not human. The thought landed like an arrow thunking into my brain.

Everything Einar had told me was true. Having just witnessed a woman transforming into a bird and flying away, I couldn't deny reality anymore. Einar was everything I'd seen in the video in my father's office.

A lycan.

A prince.

Over a century and a half old.

I swallowed the whimper that tried to rise in my throat. My father's actions were even worse than I'd thought. He'd known exactly what Einar was, and he'd signed me over to him anyway.

Einar didn't even break a sweat as he ascended the stairs and carried me down the hall. He shouldered into my bedroom and deposited me on the rumpled bed.

"Stay there and don't move," he said, stepping back. Before I could protest, he left the room.

I stared after him for a second, indecision warring within me. Did I get up and make a run for it? But where would I go? It wasn't like I could sneak downstairs and steal a car.

At least not just yet. Not in broad daylight, with Einar and probably Arlo ready to catch me.

Filing that plan away for later, I leaned forward and examined my toe. The skin was bloodied, but the injury was little more than a scratch. The pain had dwindled to a dull ache.

Einar returned with a white metal box in his hands. Immediately, the room felt smaller.

"Don't touch the wound," he said. "Your hands are dirty."

I bristled. "My hands are fine."

The bed dipped as he sat on the edge. He flipped the box open, revealing an impressive first aid kit.

"I don't need any of that," I said, drawing my knees to my chest. With mild horror, I realized my feet were dirty from running barefoot outside. But at least my toenails were painted. I couldn't afford professional pedicures anymore, but I did the best I could. Not that I cared what Einar thought.

He snagged my ankle and pulled my leg straight, and he huffed as he shoved the leg of my pajama pants to my knee. "Which is why you're bleeding on the sheets. Don't move, or I'll tie your ankle to the bedpost."

Heat rushed into my cheeks. "You can try."

He ignored me as he ripped open a small, square packet. The astringent scent of alcohol seared my nostrils. Einar held my foot steady and swiped the pad over my toe, cleaning the blood and dirt. For a second, everything was cold and wet. Then the scrape caught fire.

"That hurts!" I tried to pull my foot from his grip, but he latched onto my ankle again, his fingers so hot they were like a brand against my skin.

"It's better than an infection," he said, tossing the alcohol pad aside and grabbing a tube of ointment. I winced as he applied it to my wound. But after a second, the stinging faded, leaving only the faintest ache.

Einar blotted the injury with a pad of white gauze. When the wound stopped bleeding, he ripped open a long, stretchy kind of gauze, then pulled scissors from the kit and began trimming a bandage. He worked as if he treated injuries all the time, his movements quick and competent. After a minute, I forgot to fight as I watched him set the scissors aside and then wrap the gauze around my toe. He wound it around and around with the perfect amount of pressure—not too tight but not so loose that it risked falling off—before tying the ends and tucking them under one of the neat edges. Then he smoothed a hand up my calf as he lifted my foot and appeared to admire his work.

"It should heal in a day or two," he said. "You can get this wet, but no soaking in the tub. Just showers."

My throat went dry, and a strange heat spread through me as his fingers pressed into my muscle. My leg was bare from the knee down. And he was shirtless, his naked shoulders golden in the morning sunlight pouring through the windows. The beams turned his hair a lighter blond. More blond scruff covered his jaw. He braced a bare foot on the rug next to the bed. His other foot was tucked under him.

And his sweatpants had slipped lower when he carried me. They strained across his lap, where a bulge left no question that he was well-proportioned for a man his height.

The heat in my cheeks flared higher. "Thank you," I muttered, tugging my foot from his grip.

He let me go, and our gazes met…and held. His lashes were long for a man, the tips curling slightly upward. Like his hair, his silver eyes were lighter in the sun. He'd treated my injury. Yes, he caused it, but he made sure it was clean and properly tended.

The air shifted, a curious kind of tension filling the space between us. Einar's brows drew together. Then he blinked, and the spell was broken.

He stood, towering over me with suddenly angry eyes. "Now you know what I am. So you understand why it's dangerous to wander the grounds. You won't do it again."

Any pleasant feelings I might have felt toward him vanished. "I was trying to help that woman."

"Well, you didn't. And she doesn't need your help."

"Who is she? Your wife?"

His eyes widened slightly, obvious surprise in the silver depths. "Myrna? No. I don't have a wife."

What about a girlfriend? I squashed the thought before it could form on my lips. The last thing I needed was him thinking I was interested. However, his relationship status would definitely tell me more about him. At the very least, it would open up new lines of questioning. Was he single? Did he pine for a lost love? Maybe he carried a torch for a female lycan who rejected him in his youth.

Einar grabbed the first aid kit and tucked it under his arm. The giant box seemed tiny against his large form.

"Is Myrna a relative?" I asked.

He gave me a look that let me know he was onto me. "She's a guest, just like you. And just like you, she does what she's told. So stay in your room." He went to the door.

I clambered from the bed and stood with my fists clenched. "I can't just sit in this room all day. I'll go crazy."

He turned from the door. "I thought you were writing a story about me. Isn't that what all your questions are for? Uncovering my secrets?" His expression hardened. "Here's some advice, Miss Ward. Stop digging. Because the more you find, the more reason I'll have to keep you here indefinitely."

He left, slamming the door behind him.