The Prince Harming (Heirs of Sin #1)

Chapter 1

Aurora

I wonder what nickname the papers will give me when they find my body.

I bet on “The Princess in the Tower.” Or no, maybe “The Princess of the Forest Shack.”

Beyond the high basement window, the trees rustle endlessly—a monotonous, maddening whisper—and nothing else stirs. Not a single sound. Though, I suppose, it depends on where he decides to dump me. If it’s the woods or the water, I could be named “The Princess of Lake Erie.”

“Princess” is right on the mark. I’m wearing a corset and a voluminous white dress that feels like a mockery of me.

Apparently, my kidnapper has a thing for canonical fairy-tale princesses with blonde ringlets.

My naturally golden hair—which used to simply cascade over my shoulders like a waterfall—is now meticulously styled and twisted into tight, doll-like curls.

It’s surreal to smell hairspray in this damp basement where the air reeks of mildew and my own fear.

Strangely enough, I’m grateful for this dress: the corset rigidly supports my lower back, so it aches less, and it hides the bruises.

My entire lower back and the top of my buttocks were recently one solid purple bruise crusted with needle marks.

Now it’s all healed. I’m unsure how long I’ve been sitting here, as time has turned into something thick and syrupy.

I yank at the chain running from my collar to the tall bedpost bolted to the floor, and a dull metallic clatter rings out. My radius of freedom is three steps.

I was going to spend Easter with my family, but I never made it home from college.

It all ended in a department store parking lot.

I was buying gifts for my family …. Those fancy boxes are still in the car.

Then I was simply switched off—the rough fabric of a rag against my face hit me with a strong chemical smell, and I woke in the sticky darkness of a van.

Dad gives me satin hair ribbons and velvet neckbands, as if I’m still his little princess, even though we’ve barely seen each other lately. Now, something heavier than velvet adorns my neck—the cold steel of a collar.

I wonder if the gifts are in evidence storage? Or have they already been given to my family? By now, my face is probably being printed on milk cartons, and one is lazily studying it over breakfast, never once thinking that “Princess Rory” is still alive.

The worst part isn’t the humiliation of using the bucket.

It’s not the sight of the syringe that the man in the mask and black gloves periodically jabs into my neck.

It’s not even the endless tedium of the days, with nothing to mark their passing but the dim patch of sunlight in the narrow vintage window near the ceiling.

The worst part is the rare sound of footsteps outside the door.

Every time, I have to wonder what he will do this time?

Bring food? Empty the bucket? Or knock me out again so he can perform his gruesome rituals on my body?

My old bruises have healed, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine.

What if he wants something different now?

Will he go further, from beatings to rape and murder?

If I could strangle myself with the chain, I probably would. But I’m a coward. A pathetic, trembling coward, whom inside, that damned stubborn hope of rescue still flickers—the very thing keeping me from dying.

Muffled footsteps sound from behind the steel door.

My heart stutters—I can’t get used to this noise.

It almost always means pain. I swallow hard against the lump of fear rising in my throat.

I’m hungry, exhausted, my thoughts tangled: has he come to feed me, or is it time for another injection that will plunge me into that sticky oblivion?

The steel door swings open, slamming against the wall. I hold my breath, my gaze frantically fixing on the hands of the man who enters. Black clothes, black gloves. His hands are empty. No tray of food. No syringe of sedative.

The bastard pauses in the doorway, savoring my fear, then slowly advances on me, each step lingering, as though he’s drawing out the moment. The black balaclava and mirrored Oakley sunglasses strip him of anything human.

I’ve never heard his real voice. And that paranoid, almost manic obsession with secrecy is my only lifeline, my one faint hope.

The logic of despair is simple: if he’s so careful to hide his face and eyes, he must entertain the possibility that one day I’ll escape and identify him.

Why bother hiding from a corpse? The dead can’t testify.

He’s coming at me with bare hands, like a beast deciding to end the game. His fingers reach for my throat.

“No!” I scream, choking. “Stop!”

I lurch back onto the bed, twisting my whole body, and slam my heel into his stomach with everything I have. The blow lands right in his solar plexus.

He hisses but doesn’t let me go, and his fingers dig into my throat, cutting off my oxygen. With a sharp yank, he hurls me to the floor like a rag doll. The chain clinks, pulling taut and biting into my skin.

He reaches for his belt buckle. I try to tell him I’ll bite his fucking dick off if he dares …, but all that escapes my crushed throat is a pathetic, gurgling wheeze.

Then—a single sharp knock comes from the hallway.

The maniac halts his assault and turns, his gaze locking onto the open doorway. After a moment’s pause, he draws a knife from behind his back. Cold steel glints in the dim light as he takes the first cautious step toward the shadows of the hallway.

My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it’ll crack my ribs. What is that? Help? Or just the old house settling with its usual creaks and groans?

The darkness in the doorway stirs, gaining density and form. A figure rises in the threshold—tall, motionless, as though carved from stone. In the dead silence of the room, I can only make out one thing: the matte-black barrel of a pistol aimed squarely at my tormentor’s face.

Could this finally be the end? Hot tears blur my vision, smearing the shapes.

But through them, I can see the sheer difference.

The newcomer is taller and more powerful than the hunched maniac.

Even a simple black turtleneck and trousers can’t hide his intimidating, almost unsettling masculinity.

His face is concealed behind a white mask crisscrossed with a pattern of three golden scratches.

They run from his temple down to his cheekbone, as though some beast had tried to claw it off, leaving behind only these scars—glimpses of a golden core beneath.

He holds the weapon with such confidence, such casual ease, that it steals my breath. Another predator has entered the room. Another monster. Perhaps far more dangerous than my captor. This monster, though, could end my nightmare with a single squeeze of his finger.

And I pray that he does.

“Please … I’m rich. My money is yours …,” the maniac whimpers, letting me hear his voice for the first time … and the last.

A quiet pop sounds from the suppressor, and his body crumples to the floor.

My unexpected savior steps over him without a second glance.

His powerful figure looms over me, eclipsing the world.

I stare up at him, eyes wide, half paralyzed.

The white-and-gold mask is now the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He tilts his head, looking down at me, with a terrifying ease in every movement.

“Why are you on the floor?” His voice is filtered through a modulator. It sounds like digital interference—mechanical, alien, chilling me to the bone. There’s a cold curiosity in it.

Only now do I realize I’m still curled up on the dirty concrete like a cornered animal.

I struggle to my feet, using the bed for support, the heavy fabric of the white dress dragging me down.

He watches every movement I make, accompanied by the clinking of the chain, and his gaze practically burns my skin.

“He must have the keys …. You could …” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I force my chin up with the last of my strength.

I’m a Vance. I was raised to hold my composure in front of anyone—after all, my family runs an empire that employs hundreds of thousands.

Yet, not flinching before this man is nearly impossible.

He’s too massive, too overwhelming. Too dark.

“Answer my question.” A commanding, grating order. He’s ignored my plea like the buzzing of a fly.

“He was going to rape me! Isn’t it obvious?” I snarl, my voice breaking into a rasp. What is wrong with him? He’s supposed to help me!

“And you would have let the bastard?” Slowly, he raises his hand, the gun’s barrel now aimed at my eyes. “Would you have given up?”

A freezing drop of sweat crawls down my spine between my shoulder blades. Is he really going to shoot me just because he thinks I’m weak? Unworthy of survival? As if we’re animals in the wild, where it’s common to finish off the wounded and the weak so they don’t drag the pack down?

The hairs on my body stand on end. It’s not a knight or handsome prince who’s saved me—it’s a merciless monster. I want to hide my face, but if he sees my hands shaking, he’ll pull the trigger.

“I didn’t give up!” I shout, staring straight down the barrel.

He doesn’t move. The silence rings in my ears, and an icy claw of fear grips my heart. He doesn’t believe me.

“Check him!” I scream, nodding toward the body. “Look at his stomach! There has to be a mark. I fought back. I kicked him as hard as I could!”

The man tilts his head slightly and slowly lowers the pistol, running the gloved hand along the barrel.

He caresses the cold metal with the same sensuality a man touches a desired woman.

The sight stirs something strange and inappropriate in me—a flush of heat.

He acts like a man who does this often. Kills. Dominates.