Do other stuff?For fuck’s sake. Did I really just say that? I doubt this magic silver thread can turn that into a coherent, eloquent phrase.
He raises one eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.
“Yes, you will be warming my bed.”
I swallow. My skin prickles. My face feels all hot. Great, I’m pretty sure I resemble a tomato right now.
Something flashes in his unusual eyes. Something that looks like smug delight. The bastard is enjoying my intense reaction.
“It is good that you desire me,” he says.
I squirm and drop my gaze to stare at my bare feet. Okay, he is hot. I can’t deny it. There are a thousand different reasons why I should not fancy him, but my body is not listening to a single one of them.
“Why me?” I squeak in a feeble attempt to divert the conversation to safer ground.
“You are the firstborn son of Graham Grantham.”
I blink. What? Tentative hope starts to flicker. “The media mogul? I’m not. I’m afraid you have the wrong person.” Could everything really be resolved as easily as this? I might be home in time for dinner.
The prince’s nose wrinkles. “Do not lie. I can smell your blood.”
I stare at him. He stares back. I’m not lying. Rich, powerful and infamous Graham Grantham is not my father. I don’t know who my father is. ‘Ships that passed in the night’ is all my mother has ever said.
Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. Puzzle pieces are falling into place. My mother is lovely and eccentric. Still stunning, and clearly was extremely beautiful in her day. She is absorbed in her art. Art that while gorgeous, cannot fetch a high enough price to pay for our nice house in an expensive part of London or the good schools that I went to.
I always suspectedsomeone.But as in some faceless wealthy businessman. Not flipping Graham Grantham.TheGraham Grantham.
“Oh,” I say softly.
The prince seems to read my inner turmoil, and he nods. Almost kindly.
“But I’ve never met him. He won’t care,” I try.
“Blood is blood. You are the firstborn son of the most powerful man in this country. Keeping you as my pet is potent.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times. Most powerful man in the country? Surely that is the prime minister, or the king? Not the man who owns all the newspapers and television channels.
The prince’s expression softens. As if he is amused by watching my brain cogs slowly turn.
Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the man who controls the press is the most powerful. Perhaps it is only the fey who see it that way. In the end, it doesn’t matter. I’m here, and I’m screwed.
“Enough talking. Time for your first public appearance,” says the prince.
He pulls something out of his robes. It’s a black leather collar attached to a leash made of fine silver chain.
Oh. My. God.
Just when I thought this day could not get any worse.
Chapter three
What even is happening? This can’t be real. It has to be some sort of fever dream. I cannot really be walking barefoot through Buckingham Palace on a leash held by a fey prince. It is too surreal. It feels as if my mind is falling apart.
It’s all too much. I’ve been abducted. Physically mutilated. And told who my father is.
Oh god. Have work told my mother what has happened to me? She’ll be frantic. I doubt anyone is going to let me make a phone call. I might never get to speak to her ever again.
A strange noise pours out of me. It sounds like a strangled sob mixed with a hiccup. The prince stops walking and I manage not to walk into him. His back is stiff and unyielding.
