His Princess (A Royal Romance)(14)

“Oh God, please don’t…”

“You plea to God for help now that you reap what you have sown, American?”

Brad just stares at him.

“God will tire of your pleas by the time I am done with you. I, Prince Kristoff of the House Kosztyla, Crown prince, sentence you to death by torment. Take him to the castle.”

Brad is silent for a moment, puffing as the prince takes his sword and sheathes it. Then he screams, his pleas turning into wails and sobs as they pick him up, bind his hands and feet, and carry him out.

“Hang the rest,” the prince says, as casually as he might tell his men to throw out a bag of garbage. “Leave them for the crows.”

Then he turns to me.

“You,” then to Melissa, “and you. Come.”

Melissa stands up, shaking like a leaf.

Surrounded by his men, we walk. He keeps pace with us, moving with ponderous, careful slowness, as if the armor suddenly weighs him down.

He looks at Melissa.

“You will be taken to a hospital. There you will be examined and treated for any injuries.”

Melissa starts to cry.

He looks at me.

“You’re scaring her. Take off your helmet.”

Those black eye slits study me hard, and then he gives the slightest of nods, a movement so tiny I wouldn’t have noticed it if I didn’t hear the tiny whirr his suit makes when it moves. He reaches up and sinks his clawed fingertips into notches at the base of the helmet, and it pops open with a soft hiss.

He lifts it off and hands it to one of his guards, who struggles to bear the weight. I hardly notice. I’m too busy staring at him.

He’s gorgeous. He has a long and severe face with dark-blue eyes that study me hungrily, like they’re going to swallow me up. His dark, straight hair is pulled back and bound into a knot behind his head. His jaw looks carved from stone, and his high, angular cheekbones give him an austere, lean look.

“You said your name is Penny.”

I swallow hard and try not to let my voice crack. “Yes, that’s right.”

“A penny is a coin.”

“Yes.”

“The coin of lowest value.”

I blink. “Yes, but—”

“I don’t like this name, Penny. This is a diminutive, yes? A…” he searches for the word, “nickname.”

“Yes. My real name is Persephone.”

He’s quiet for a moment that stretches until I swallow, hard.

“It would be.”

He turns and speaks to his men. His command is given slowly, clearly, so that I can understand it.

“Take this one directly to the castle. See that she has a change of clothes and a chance to bathe. She will dine with me.”

“You can’t keep us here. We’re American citizens.”

He turns back to look at me again.

“I am the crown prince. I do as I like.”





3





I’m not sure if I was expecting him to literally pick me up and carry me off, but he doesn’t. He strides past me, big metal boots thudding on the ground as he walks, and sharply throws the tent flaps open as he passes. I feel a hand on my arm and blink.

Taller than I am by a foot, heavier, and blonder, the woman who just took my arm is dressed the same as the men and fits in perfectly with them from the neck down. From the neck up, she could have a modeling career. Her short military bob actually looks good on her.

“The prince orders that you be taken to the castle. This way.”

It’s not an invitation. He ordered it, so I’m going. In spite of myself, I lean on her. Melissa grabs my hand and I give her a tight squeeze before they pull us apart and lead her out. I swallow hard and hope we haven’t just fallen out of the frying pan and into the fire.

A big, wide-bellied helicopter with two rotors sits outside. I hobble on my bad leg to the big open door, where two of the prince’s men (I can’t bring myself to call them Phoenix Guard) lift me inside by the arms, drop me into a seat, and clip a harness over my chest.

The rotors spin up, and I grab a set of earmuffs from a hook above my shoulder and slip them on to soften the thumping roar. The chopper shifts from side to side and turns a little as the wind catches it, and I grip the edges of the seat with white knuckles. The only time I’ve ever flown was on my two flights out of the States to Madrid and then out here, and never by helicopter. It feels rickety and unstable as it lifts up, the ground sinking away below. The door is still open and the only thing holding me down is the safety harness on the seat.

I feel like I’m falling off the world. As it lifts up I look around at the grim-faced, soldierly men and women surrounding me, and avert my eyes when our gazes meet. I sink into the seat and try to shrink up into a tiny little ball and disappear, but no matter how hard I suck up into myself, I’m still here.

Once in the air, the difference between Solkovia and Kosztyla is night and day. At the door itself a member of the Guard sits at a complicated-looking machine gun with a bunch of barrels, sweeping it back and forth as if he expects an attack at any moment.

I can mark out the border easily. The mountains are all dark, of course, but on the western side, in Kosztyla, the world is alive with light—lights in buildings, street lamps, cars flowing in orderly procession down the roads. The Solkovian side of the mountain range is dark, except for a few points of light in the distance, in the capital.