Pati... Pati... Open your eyes.
The voice was desperate, a jagged edge of panic cutting through the fog of my mind. I didn't recognize who it was, but the sound haunted me as I clawed my way back to consciousness.
When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself in a room draped in crimson and gold. Sharp lines, crossed swords on the walls, and the heavy scent of sandalwood—I knew exactly where I was. The Prince's private chambers.
I tried to sit up, but a bolt of lightning-sharp pain shot through my ribs. I looked down at my arms; they were expertly wrapped in clean bandages. But it was the nightgown that truly caught my attention. It was made of silk so soft it felt like a second skin, tailored perfectly to my measurements.
Had the Prince planned this? Had he kept a tailor on standby just for me? I shook the thought away. I needed to get out of this den before the walls closed in.
I slid out of bed, my legs trembling. Just as I reached for the door, it swung open with a force that sent me stumbling backward. Before I could hit the floor, a pair of powerful arms locked around me, hauling me against a solid chest.
I looked up. Of course. Richt. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if a stray dog showed up to "save" me next.
"Let go of me," I snapped, already calculating exactly where to punch him.
He didn't listen. Instead, he grabbed my wrists and forced my arms around his neck. Before I could protest, he leaned down, hooked his arms under my thighs, and hoisted me up. I was forced to wrap my legs around his waist to keep from falling. My nightgown rode up to my knees, leaving me exposed and humiliated.
"Not a word," he growled.
He sounded furious. I wondered what could possibly make a monster like him feel such rage.
He sat on the edge of the bed, keeping me pinned to his lap. One hand pressed into my lower back while the other gripped the back of my head, forcing my neck exposed. He buried his face in the crook of my shoulder. His skin was ice-cold, sending shivers down my spine.
"Speak," Richt commanded.
I thought he was talking to me until a familiar, deep voice answered from the shadows of the doorway.
"We have investigated the site," Dion Agriche said. "The men in the basement have confessed. They didn't revealed who ordered the kidnapping."
Richt's grip on me tightened until it was almost painful.
I looked over Richt's shoulder at Dion. The Commander was standing perfectly still, his eyes cast downward, but his jaw was clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. His fists were white-knuckled, the skin of his palms straining.
Such a strong reaction, I thought. Does he blame me for this? Suddenly, Richt's hand slid down, his fingers digging into my thigh to pull me even closer against him. It was a possessive, grounding touch—different from the sickening crawl of Derrick's hand. Richt wasn't just touching me; he was marking his territory in front of his Commander.
"Did they say anything else?" Richt asked, his breath hot against my collarbone.
"Yes," Dion replied, his voice strained. "They were told to keep Lady Ellington there until a 'buyer' came to take her away. Someone was coming to claim her."
It couldn't be Derrick—he was too busy murdering the kidnappers to be the one who hired them. And it wasn't the Prince, as I was already his intended.
A memory flickered in my mind. A voice from the hallway while I was escaping... a voice I knew from royal galas and hushed palace whispers.
"I heard... a familiar voice there," I whispered. I hadn't meant to say it out loud, but the words slipped past my guard.
Richt lifted his head, his blood-red eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity.
"What did you say?"
I stared at him, my heart hammering. Should I tell him? Would he believe me if I told him that the voice in that basement belonged to his own brother—the Crown Prince?