The journey back to the estate ended in a roar of splintering wood and shattering glass. The carriage lurched, tilting violently to the side as the world turned upside down. Shards of glass sliced into my skin, and before I could even gasp, the darkness claimed me.
When I finally opened my eyes, my head was thumping with a rhythmic, agonizing pulse. I could feel the sticky warmth of blood matting my hair and trickling down my face.
Two men sat across from me in the dim light. One looked at me with wide, fearful eyes, as if I were a monster that might devour him. The other was far more dangerous; he sat calmly, sharpening a jagged dagger. He was a man built of scars and malice, but I had lived with the Ellingtons—I had seen far worse.
"Who are you? Where am I?" My voice was steady, a sharp contrast to the throbbing in my skull.
The man with the dagger—the leader—looked at me with a smug, oily smile. "Who we are is none of your concern, little lady. What matters is that you are something no one is supposed to find."
I scanned the room. A basement. Damp, cold, and isolated. "How long have I been here?"
He smirked, leaning in until the cold steel of his dagger tilted my chin upward. "You've been out cold for four days. Your pretty little head was split wide open; we had to sew it up ourselves."
Four days. Derrick would be on a rampage. The thought of their fury almost made me pity these men. Almost.
I noticed my hands weren't tied. Idiot. Did he think that because I was a woman, I was helpless? I didn't give him a second to reconsider. I lashed out, kicking him squarely in the gut with every ounce of strength I had left.
As he doubled over, gasping for air, I hissed, "Your fault for being careless."
I bolted for the door. The second man tried to grab me, but the sheer coldness in my gaze made him hesitate for a heartbeat—long enough for me to slip past.
I burst into a hallway, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I could hear more men nearby, their voices echoing off the stone walls. I tried to move silently, but a wave of dizziness crashed over me. My legs buckled, and I stumbled.
The leader caught up, his face twisted in a mask of rage. He tackled me, pinning me to the floor. "You little brat," he growled, hovering over me. "I thought I'd break you slowly, but it seems you're eager to start now."
With a cruel flick of his dagger, he sliced through the upper part of my dress, the fabric falling away and leaving me exposed.
"Stop it!" I fought against him, but my strength was failing. His hand moved toward my skirt, and panic—cold and sharp—finally broke through my mask. My mind went blank, and before I could think, a single name escaped my lips in a desperate whisper.
"Richt..."
The weight on top of me vanished instantly. There was a sound of meat hitting stone and a scream that ended in a sickening crunch.
I opened my eyes to find a pair of blood-red eyes staring down at me.
I looked past him. The man who had been touching me was being systematically dismantled. It didn't look like a fight; it looked like a slaughter. Derrick was ripping him apart with his bare hands.
Richt Crisis. The Psycho Prince.
"Missing me, Princess?" he asked, his voice a dark, velvet purr.
Ugh. Why did I have to call for him? I should have called for a dog instead.
I tried to stand, but he didn't give me the chance. He scooped me up in his arms, pressing my body against his chest. He took off his bright red cloak—the heavy, gold-trimmed symbol of his royalty—and wrapped it around me, hiding my torn dress and bruised skin.
"You don't have to carry me..." I muttered, but my vision was already blurring into gray. The scent of sandalwood and blood filled my senses, and for the second time in four days, I let the darkness take me.