Chapter Three
Belle
T he door to the entryway slams open. All the guards, who were tittering among themselves up until right now, all stop at the same time as a hush falls over the room .
I force myself not to look .
I’m not going to give these power-mad assholes the satisfaction. I’m more than aware already that I’m going to pay dearly for this little bout of civil disobedience, so why help them out any more than I have to ?
Footsteps come toward me. I can just barely feel their vibration through the cold marble floor, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to speak or even look at whoever’s coming .
The footsteps walk, slowly. Deliberately. Like whoever’s walking has all the time in the world, like I guess he does since they’ve cut off the cellular signal .
They stop a few feet away, just out of my range of vision. I refuse to move my head to look and keep staring ahead, stone- faced .
You could hear a pin drop in here, it’s so quiet. No one moves. I don’t think anyone breathes , and I start to get nervous .
Whoever it is clearly has a hold over everyone else , I think. Must be the commander of the guard, or their captain, or …
I hold my breath as a thought occurs to me .
It’s not him. He wouldn’t come down for this .
Would he ?
The footsteps move again, my heart locked in an iron vise. I wonder if I could still get up and run out the doors of the castle, make it into the cold night before they caught me .
But I can’t leave my father here. I can’t .
Suddenly, there’s a man in my field of vision. He’s standing to one side, peering down at me .
Out of sheer stubbornness, I keep looking at the ceiling. I didn’t look at him before, why start now ?
“Get up,” he growls, his voice deep, rough, and a little scratchy. It’s the voice of a man used to being obeyed .
It can’t be …
“Release my father,” I say, willing my voice not to shake .
“Your father’s a fool and a traitor,” the man says. “Get up before I decide you are as well .”
“My father’s an old man who needs proper medical care,” I fight back .
He can also be a fool sometimes , I think .
Silence. More silence .
And I give in .
I finally dart my eyes to the side, look at the man who’s still towering over me, so close he could step on me, and the sight sends a shockwave through my body .
It’s him .
The prince .
I’ve never seen a picture, of course, at least not one taken since he was a teenager. No one has, the royal family has made sure of that .
But I’ve heard the rumors, read the stories about him, and there’s zero doubt in my mind that the hulking, brooding, scarred man looking down at me is Julian of Griskold .
It’s a bad angle, his face in shadow, his hair falling down around his jaw, but I’m positive I’m right. I can just barely make out the long white scar running from his forehead, to his chin, and over his neck .
It’s ugly. It looks like it hurt, and my toes clench involuntarily in my shoes as I grit my teeth together even harder, determined not to react .
Even from here, lying on the floor looking up at him, I can tell he’s powerfully built: broad-shouldered even in his official jacket, the blue cloth hugging his biceps, his powerful chest .
There’s even a bulge in his trousers, and it must a trick of the light and the angle I’m at, but it’s absolutely —
“Get her off the floor,” he says, and turns on his heel before I can finish my thought .
Instantly, I’m surrounded by guards again, and they grab me roughly by the arms, nearly jerking them from my shoulder sockets. My phone clatters to the floor, and someone scoops it up instantly, tucks it in his pocket .
“I expect that back,” I spit, but the guards pull my hands behind my back, shoving me so hard I can barely stay on my own two feet .
Ahead, Prince Julian is disappearing through a door in the wall, shoving it open and striding through. The door swings shut behind him, and then I’m whirled around .
“What, you thought you were going with him? Think again,” a man says. “We’ve got a different place for traitors .”
“I want to see my father,” I say, teeth still clenched .
I’m bracing for something — for being smacked around or tossed to the floor again — but besides the rough grips on my arms, they aren’t actually hurting me .
“We all want something we can’t have,” the man says, and then turns his head, talking to someone else. “Put her in room three .”