Flicka had been six years old. Her mother had died from cancer the very day before, and her father had packed Flicka off toboarding school on schedule. She’d known no one at the school except that her much older brother Wulfie was somewhere there, too, and the world had been so frightening without her mother in it.
Farther away, Dieter’s voice was low in his throat and husky with anger. “I know you didn’t like Pierre for her, but maybe she learned it was acceptable for a man to be heartless, distant, and toxic fromyou. She certainly didn’t see that in Wulfram. You should think about that.”
Footsteps walked back.
Elegant German profanity echoed through the hallway.
Dieter shot back, “I’m no one’sservant,old man. I work for a living. I’ve built a multimillion dollar company from nothing. I’m not living off stolen gold from my grandfather.”
Flicka smiled.Neither was she, anymore.
The heavy footstepsstopped beside her. “Come,Durchlauchtig.I’ll take care of you.”
He swept her up in his strong arms and carried her, cradled against his broad chest, through the castle to the room they’d slept in last night.
