Page 9 of Stolen Princess

I hiss out a curse, already more than losing my patience with this game. “Go to the internet app at the bottom. It has the up-angled arrow. Click on that and type in Carona crime rates into the search engine.”

It takes her an interminable minute or five to get there, but then she’s quietly scrolling and reading. That takes another fucking five minutes.

“Believe me now?”

She sets my phone down on the table I’m tied to, points the remote at the TV, and shuts it off before she chucks it against the wall. The thing hits the stone and explodes into a million pieces, but it’s got nothing on the shrill cry she releases. I have no idea what’s happening here, but it’s making my stomach churn with unease. Has she been kept here by the lies of her mother? Is it by her choice or is she a prisoner?

“How long have you been here?” I find myself asking, but that was the wrong thing to question because, in a flash, she straddles my thighs and grabs me by my shirt, yanking me in toward her until the rope tugs and burns at my wrists. My stupid cock reacts, which makes zero fucking sense since this woman is clearly unstable, and nothing about this situation is in my favor or even remotely sexy other than her.

Her silver-gray eyes pierce mine. “Sixteen years, eleven months, and twenty-five days.”

I blink, the hairs at the back of my neck prickling. My heart hasn’t so much as been stirred or shifted since I was a boy. It became as black as my soul, and I welcomed that. Reveled in it. After all, I worked hard for that level of cold indifference. But the one thing that’s always managed to pick at the necrotic tissue is abused women or children.

I fucking hate that weakness in me.

“Are you serious?”

“I was brought here on my sixth birthday.”

I swallow thickly. Jesus fuck. “Have you never left?”

She shakes her head. “You’re the first person I’ve seen other than my mother and the ones on television since that night.”

“Genevieve,” I try, though her name is a tongue twister. “Why don’t you go? Just walk right out of here.”

A tear tracks down her face. “I already told you why. It’s not safe for me.”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why you?”

“There are people out there who want to get me. Who have in the past before my mother saved me.”

I lick my chapped lips, my tongue like sandpaper. I need to get out of here. Right fucking now. “I’m not one of those people.”

Her face is inches from mine, and I can feel the heat of her body, smell her sweet fragrance, and see every fleck of silver in her lost eyes. “I believe you.”

“Then you need to let me go.”

Before she can answer, a loud chime sounds throughout the house.

Her eyes round, and a ripple of fear parts her lips and colors her cheeks. “My mother is here.”

Fuck. I struggle against the rope, trying to twist my wrists free. “Let me go.”

She shakes her head but reaches around to untie me. Her chest is practically touching mine, and her forehead is beside my mouth. “If you try to run or make yourself known in any way, you’ll die. I’m not exaggerating.”

“Just let me go!”

“It’s too late for that,” she cries urgently. “Do what I say or she’ll kill you. Or make me do it.”

This is some horror-film-caliber shit. Who are these people?

The knot slips from my wrist, and a rush of blood shoots up my arms and prickles my fingertips. I swing my arm around, ready to push myself to my feet and make a run for it. I could take her mother. How difficult could that be? Genevieve climbs off me, grabs my wrist, and helps me up.

She tugs me sharply toward the back of the cottage to a winding staircase that leads up to her tower.

“Gen, darlin’—” I start to pull away, but she grabs the back of my hair and holds on tight, giving it a small rip that compels me into motion.

“Move! Please, move!” She’s more than a little panicked. Her hands are trembling, and her voice is wobbling. We race up the stairs, going up and up in a spiral. “You said you needed a place to hide out. Consider this hiding out. I’ll be back in a bit with food for you.”