Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

EINAR

H arper darted looks at the notebook, her hands curled into fists at her sides. For a second, I thought she might actually take a swing at me.

"Give me the notebook," she said finally.

"Answer my question, and I'll consider it. Where the hell were you?"

The dusting of freckles on her nose was more prominent than usual against her flushed skin. "Fine. I was exploring the house."

I let her words roll over me. Scenting lies was rarely straightforward. Most people didn't speak in absolutes. Speech was the byproduct of thought, and thoughts were messy. But people also got nervous when they lied. Their heart rates picked up. They began to sweat.

I waited for Harper's perspiration to drift to me. Instead, vanilla and honeysuckle curled into my lungs. Like a switch being flicked on, arousal pumped straight to my dick.

The sudden rush of need had me speaking through clenched teeth. "So you were snooping."

Harper gave a furious-sounding gasp. "Like you have any room to talk!" Anger snapped in her eyes. "You can't expect me to stay in my room all the time. I'm a grown woman."

She certainly was, even though she was damn young. But she'd lived on her own for a long time. Arlo's report had been thorough, covering how Orson checked out when Harper's mother fell ill, leaving Harper to fend for herself. She'd navigated college alone, financing her studies with a small trust Margaret left behind. Which made me wonder if Harper's mother had known Orson couldn't handle money.

"Besides," Harper said now, "you never told me I couldn't leave my room."

"An oversight. I'm telling you now."

She clenched her jaw. Her hair was down, the strawberry blond strands streaming over her shoulders. She looked like an avenging angel who wanted to spill my guts onto the area rug. Which shouldn't have been hot but damn if it wasn't confusing the hell out of my dick.

With an angry sound, she grabbed for the notebook.

I jerked from her reach, then held the notebook aloft. Ignoring her frustrated growl, I scanned the page, where my name appeared over and over. What else had she written about me?

"That's private," Harper said.

"Chris Hemsworth?" I looked at her, interest tugging at me. "You think I look like him?"

"Absolutely not. That's why I crossed it out."

I thumped my knuckle against the page. "It says it right here, along with broad shoulders . Your descriptions are rather colorful. Are you writing a romance novel?"

"No." A look of disgust crossed her features. "I'm a journalist. I have no interest in writing romance."

I let a slow smile curve my lips. "Is that so? Sounds awfully elitist, don't you think?"

Her nostrils flared as she clearly recognized I'd flung her earlier words back at her.

"Well, either way," I said, "I'm flattered you used me for inspiration."

She held out her hand. "Give me the notebook, Your Royal Highness." She said the honorific the way someone might say dickface .

Deliberately, I flipped pages, skipping to the front of the book. But the handwriting changed. Now, recipes lined the pages. Here and there, notes explained an ingredient or clarified the directions.

Harper made a pained noise. When I looked at her, she'd gone pale.

"These are recipes," I said. "Whose handwriting is this?"

She swallowed hard. "My mother's. That was the last notebook she used for work before she died."

Silence fell. My chest tightened, and a powerful emotion swept me. It took me a minute to recognize it for what it was.

Shame.

I cleared my throat. "Arlo told me she was a well-known food critic."

"Yes," Harper said. She paused, as if debating whether to say more. "We used to cook together when I was young. Then she got sick…" Harper glanced at the notebook. "I planned to make all the recipes she left behind, but I got busy with school."

The shame intensified. I closed the notebook and held it out. Harper snatched it from my hand and held it against her chest like a shield.

"And my prescription?" she asked. "Am I allowed to have that too?"

I looked down at the bottle I'd forgotten I held. "I smelled chemicals," I said, handing it over.

She grabbed it and stuffed it in her jeans pocket, the round bottle snug against her hip. Something vulnerable huddled in her eyes, which were more violet than blue in the bedroom's soft light.

"Arlo has the night off," I said. "I realized you didn't get any dinner, so I came to ask what you wanted to eat. I knocked."

Harper stayed silent, her expression stony even as hurt swam in her eyes.

"You didn't answer the door. I wanted to make sure you were all right, so I came inside. When I didn't find you in the sitting room, I checked the bathroom." I nodded toward the white bottle cap poking from her pocket. "Like I told you, my sense of smell is much better than a human's. I scented chemicals. I wanted to make sure you're not hurting yourself."

Anger sparked in her eyes. "I'm not hurting myself. I'm helping myself. There's no shame in taking medication."

"That's not what I meant. Man-made medicines smell different than remedies that come from the earth." I hesitated, something cautioning me against calling the chemicals "unnatural." I gestured to the bottle again. "Do you need more of it? Are you sick?" Dammit, Arlo should have known if she had some kind of medical condition. I would have never brought her to Draithmere. I would have found another way to deal with Orson.

"I'm not sick," she said. She rubbed her lips together, clearly trying to decide whether to elaborate. Finally, she sighed. "I have an anxiety disorder. Medication keeps it from taking over my life."

I'd heard of such things. Worries that grew out of control. Goodness knew she had reasons enough to worry.

And I'd given her more.

But I'd also read that conditions like hers didn't necessarily require a reason. In some people, worries manifested for seemingly no reason at all. The anxiety could become constant and debilitating. It pitted the sufferer against a monster they couldn't see.

I met her gaze. "You're right. There's no shame in taking medicine. An ailment in the mind is the same as an ailment in the body. Treating anxiety is no different than setting a broken bone. You'll receive no judgment from me."

Her shoulders relaxed. "Thanks," she said softly.

I gestured to the pills. "This medication… It helps you?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "And talking to a therapist. But some behaviors still break through." She gnawed at her bottom lip, her teeth white and even—and fucking alluring as they pressed into the plump pink skin. "I line things up. Toiletries, bottles in the fridge, boxes in the pantry. I don't know why. Things just have to be in line. And I like it when the labels face outward. I hate that I do it, but I worry something bad will happen if I don't."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." She shook her head, her cheeks touched with pink. "I mean, logically, I know that straightening my shampoo bottle isn't going to change my life." She shrugged. "I guess if something had to be wrong with me, I'm lucky it's this. Other people have it a lot worse."

"There's nothing wrong with you." How could she think that? She was beautiful and smart. "Arlo says you're top of your class at Northwestern."

She huffed. "I was, past tense. Now that you've pulled me out of my classes, who knows what will happen to my GPA."

"You can finish your studies when my business with your father is finished."

"Right. I forgot about your ingenious and totally fair plan to ruin my life because you think my father is hoarding video footage."

Ah, there was the Harper I was used to. The one who challenged me, with her stubborn chin and sharp words. Their reemergence shouldn't have made anticipation unfurl in my chest, something within me spoiling for another round of sparring. They shouldn't have made desire flare hot under my skin. I had no business feeling either of those things. Not with her. Not with anyone.

"What do you want for dinner?" I asked, hearing the gruffness in my voice.

She stiffened at the change in subject. And she flipped just as quickly as I had, any trace of softness fleeing from her voice. "I'm not hungry."

For a moment, I allowed myself to feel regret. I'd ruined our conversation—and the possibility of a more amicable relationship. But it was for the best. Harper Ward and I could never be friends. Or anything else.

"Don't be stubborn," I said. "You have to eat something."

She frowned. "I said I'm not hungry."

My temper rose. "So you'll punish me by starving yourself?"

Her lips parted on a gasp. "I know you're a prince, but did it ever occur to you that not everything is about you?"

I clenched my jaw. She might deny it, but she was being stubborn, and she was trying to punish me. For all I knew, her medication required her to eat.

"You're being foolish," I said.

She stepped toward me, her eyes shooting sparks. "First, I'm stubborn. Now, I'm stupid. Do you have any other insults to lob at me?"

"I said foolish."

"It's the same thing."

"Not really," I said. "Aren't you supposed to be a journalist?" I looked toward the sitting room. "I'll have Arlo bring you a thesaurus."

She pointed at the door. "Get out."

A growl rose in my throat. "No one orders me around in my own house."

A humorless smile touched her blue eyes, and her tone went saccharine. "New experiences can be hard, especially for someone your age."

My fingers itched to put her over my knee and swat some respect into her far-too-tempting backside. I bit the thought back before I could voice it and make everything worse. "You might not want food now, but what if you get hungry in the night?"

"Under normal, non-kidnapping circumstances, I'd go to the kitchen and get a snack. But you've made it clear that's not an option. So I guess I'll have to survive until the morning, Prince Einar. But don't worry. You don't need to concern yourself."

It was a clear dismissal. She'd called me prince , but she carried herself like a queen. She held my stare, defiance in every line of her body.

An exquisite body. She was irresistible in dark jeans and another tight sweater. How many of the damn things had she brought with her? They were a menace. The heat in my veins sizzled into something else. Something so very, very dangerous.

"Fine," I bit out, striding to the door before the fire could get too hot. "I won't burden you with my concern." I left, shutting the door behind me. And I shoved Harper from my thoughts as I stalked to my study with fire snaking through my limbs like lava.

Arlo had left an almost comical number of flasks in my desk drawers. I sat and uncorked one, draining it in three gulps. As the witch's brew chased the fire, I bent my head and held back a scream.

Pain. It was forever useful as a distraction. It was also a faithful reminder of the consequences of letting myself think life could ever be different. Just one path lay open to me. I'd tread it for nearly a century. Straying from it was unthinkable. Too much depended on me staying the course.

Slowly, the burn faded. When I could lift my head without agony, I straightened. Whispers drifted from one of my bottom desk drawers. In the corner of my eye, the drawer emitted a faint glow. Ignoring it, I pulled a stack of papers toward me.

True to his word, Arlo had kept an eye on the Puget Sound Pack, and he'd left his findings for me to review. The news wasn't good. As I read, my mood went from bad to worse. The Puget Sound wolves had chosen one of Rex Addington's lieutenants as their replacement alpha—and the new boss was the same as the old boss.

In other words, a monumental asshole. But he was also a serious threat. I scanned Arlo's intel even though I was familiar with the new alpha and his background. Armand Reverdin had been kicked out of his pack in France for savaging a human in a public park. Werewolves were almost universally violent, but they avoided drawing the attention of the human authorities. Most alphas understood that secrecy was the best-case scenario for supernaturals. Humanity had a long and bloody history of targeting and killing anyone deemed "other."

I sat back in my chair, my gaze on the report. Reverdin was a conundrum. By all accounts, he was dangerous and volatile. Yet he'd served under Rex for close to ten years without attempting to challenge him. Now, the Frenchman had ascended to power.

The question was, what did he intend to do with it? I had to find out. I needed to know what made Armand Reverdin tick. What his secrets were, and how far he'd go to keep them.

I turned my gaze to the window, where the maze gleamed in the moonlight. My own secrets drifted in the air like ghosts. I already knew how far I'd go to protect the people who depended on me. Their identities had to stay hidden. For many, discretion was a matter of life and death.

But the problem was even bigger than that. If the humans found out what I was, it was only a matter of time before they discovered the rest of the supernatural world. The result would be apocalyptic. Maybe literally.

Those were the stakes. Orson Ward had no idea what kind of chaos and danger he threatened to unleash.

It would be easier to kill him.

The thought had drifted through my head plenty of times. It was what my brother would have done. Cyrus acted swiftly and mercilessly when it came to protecting our race.

I knew that better than anyone.

But I couldn't kill Orson. Not now. Not after seeing Harper with that notebook. I wouldn't take another parent away from her.

Deep in my chest, the fire reignited. As I opened my bottom drawer to withdraw a second flask, the Book of Crubeus glowed like a beacon. Its cover was a lighter red this time. At the edge of my vision, flowering vines spread down the leather.

Honeysuckle.

I grimaced as I reached into the drawer, bypassing the book and grabbing the flask. "Not very subtle, are you?" I murmured, avoiding looking at the book directly.

Whispers floated from the pages, the words just a touch too quiet to make out. For a moment, curiosity tugged hard. Maybe tonight would be the night all my reading paid off…

No . The fire burned too hot for reading.

I slammed the drawer shut. The moment the book was out of sight, the whispers fell silent. As I uncorked the flask and drank, Arlo's voice rose in my memory.

"It's been a while since you needed this many doses in such rapid succession."

I tipped the flask back, letting the brew sear my throat. Arlo was wrong. The batches were weak, that was all. I'd have to speak to Adina.

But it could wait until tomorrow. Once Arlo returned, he could deal with Harper. He could deliver her meals and collect her laundry. He could find her new books to read. He could order her medication if she needed a refill. He could see to her needs. Someone had to.

It just couldn't be me.