Page 45 of Stolen Princess

That includes me.

I run my hand through my hair, working out the excess rainwater, and glance out the window. Sure enough, there are two police cars with lights flashing parked down the block. He could describe me to the police, though I doubt he saw much of me before I hit him. The owner of the inn could easily see the cops and put two and two together. Not to mention, my hand is busted up pretty good, and then there’s Genevieve’s face.

We need to get out of here.

That pulls me up short. We? I glance at the closed bathroom door, and a sinking sensation fills my gut. I should bring her home and leave all of this behind. It’s been one thing after another with her, and the more time I spend with her, the more I’m risking. But the thought of doing that, of walking away from her after what she just went through, after what I know is happening with her mother…

I push that away for now. I have to do what’s best for me. Always and with no exception. That’s been my mantra since I was seven.

I check a few things on my phone and realize that when she borrowed it, she was searching for the curse of Messalina. The curse on the royal family. The stolen princess. I stare at the picture of the little girl that she had up on my screen. It’s a photograph of the royal family but… I glance at the door, my heart starting to hammer.

Does she think she’s the stolen princess? Worse yet, is it possible she is?

Didn’t Genevieve say she had been kidnapped and that her mother found her at the princess’s festival? That it’s her birthday night? Why would her mother not only know about but also go to great lengths to steal the tiara—Princess Desta’s tiara—if Genevieve isn’t her? Why hide Genevieve the way she has, never allowing her to leave, if she isn’t?

The water is still running, and I knock lightly. “You okay in there?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she calls back, and I return to my phone. I grip the back of my neck, but I can’t stop staring at the little girl. At the blonde-haired and gray-eyed little girl.

Before I continue my thread of thought, the water shuts off, and I hear her moving around inside the bathroom. The toilet flushes, the tap turns on, and a few minutes later, the door finally opens, and there she is. Her hair is brushed, and her clothes are clean and dry, but I hardly register that.

The cut on her right temple is still dribbling blood, and her cheek is swollen and bruised. Fury strikes a fresh path through me, and the urge to kill that man hits me anew. Instead I release a tense breath and take her hand to bring her to the bed.

She has the same curious look she gave me before the shower that I continue to ignore. “Lie down,” I instruct, and to my amazement, she does.

I grab the first aid kit and a clean hand towel and join her on the bed, sitting beside her as I lay everything in the kit out. She likely needs stitches, but that’s not happening. Thankfully there are some Steri-Strips in here that’ll have to do.

“This may burn,” I warn as I open the antiseptic wipe and clean up her cut. She hisses in a breath, her eyes pinching closed, but I don’t stop until it’s as good as it’s going to get.

“Your hand is cut up.”

I glance down at it, and yeah, it is. Not the first time, and I don’t think I broke anything. Honestly, with all the adrenaline, I hardly registered it. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as I apply the strips, making sure the wound is approximated and closed beneath them.

“Don’t be sorry. That wasn’t your fault. It was mine, and it was his.”

Her gray eyes blink open. “How was it your fault?”

“I let you leave. I heard the door close behind you. I should have gone with you. There was no excuse for that, so I’m sorry.”

I get a sly smirk. “Don’t start being nice to me.”

I chuckle. “Never.” I sober, touching her cheek and measuring her response as I apply light pressure to make sure she doesn’t have a fracture. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got struck in the face by a gun.”

“Smile for me.”

“Why?”

I roll my eyes. “To check your muscles and bones.”

She smiles, and I continue to press around.

“Any headaches, nausea, or dizziness?”

“Are you a doctor now?”