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‘Yes.’
‘I can imagine it easily escaped the notice of one of my brother’s minions—’
‘Minion,’the man repeated as if it were some great insult.
‘But this is the twenty-first century and—’
Her words were cut short the moment he swept into the room, stalking towards her in such a way that had her stepping back again, or at least trying to. Her heel tangled in the hundredth layer of tulle and, swaying dangerously on the other, she was about to go down when the man appeared before her, bent down and, to Princess Marit of Svardia’s utter shock, hoisted her over his shoulder.
‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’ she cried as her hands scrabbled down his back, desperate for something to hold onto as he bent again to pick up her bag and hook it over his other shoulder. She lifted her head, shaking strands of hair from her vision, trying to ignore the itch across her cheeks from the rush of blood to her head, and cried out for André. As they entered the corridor his door swung open and her fiancé rushed out to a stop.
‘André! Please—’ Her words were cut off by a wave of nausea as the man carrying her swung around, presumably to face her fiancé. Holding her breath, Marit strained her ears for the words André would surely say in order to rescue her from her captor.
One second, two.
Nothing.
Her heart sank as the man swung back to continue towards the staircase. Blinking back the moisture in her eyes, she glared at André, who refused to meet her gaze, a miserably mouthed apology on his lips. She clenched her jaw and tried not to think unkindly of the friend who had at least in some way tried to help her. It wasn’t André’s fault. It was her brother’s. And the man carrying her over his shoulder like a...like a...
She growled. Actually growled. Anger caused her to lash out and pummel his back with her fists. Without even a pause in his stride, he flexed his back one way then the other, throwing her a little closer into the crook of his neck, the muscles across his shoulders and back rippling through the tulle and cotton of their clothes, whispering of a power that did shocking things to her core.
‘Thank you,glykiá mou, I’ve been meaning to get a massage for some time now.’
Growling again, she tried to lever herself upright to respond when she felt his palm come down firmly against her backside, holding her in place.
‘Stop it, Princess, or you’ll fall off. And you’re not a package that has insurance if it breaks.’
His words should have made her blush with anger. But that wasn’t what had brought heat to Marit’s cheeks or an ache between her legs. Embarrassed at the things she was feeling just from the hand holding her in place, Marit barely saw the bellboy who had brought the wedding dress to her suite only an hour ago.
‘Your Highness?’ He stared at her, shock clear on his face. ‘Wait!’
Marit was surprised when the man beneath her stopped and turned.
‘Who are you and what are you doing with Princess Marit?’ the young bellboy asked, his voice trembling but determined. He couldn’t be more than nineteen at the most, only a few years younger than her, but certainly many more years younger than the man carrying her over his shoulder.
She felt the subtle lean in the man’s head, as if he were assessing the bellboy, and he grunted as if respecting the teenager for challenging him.
‘Lykos Livas. Call this number,’ he said, passing the bellboy a card from his pocket. ‘If you are not satisfied, call the police.’
Lykos. A strange name, Marit thought. Greek, perhaps?Wolf.She thought of silver eyes and the power that arced through his torso as he moved, the lithe, easy grace of him. Yes. It was a name that suited him well.
‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ she heard the bellboy ask, unable to see their interaction. But she most definitely felt the smirk of arrogance shiver through Lykos seconds before his answer.
‘Google.’
Lykos turned on his heel and stalked from the building—the bellboy’s interruption restoring his faith in humanity just a little. What kind of world was it that allowed a woman to be taken from her hotel room without her permission by a complete stranger, without a single person stopping them?
That he was the man doing the taking was neither here nor there. It was an outrage.
He adjusted his hold on the Princess over his shoulder, pulling the car keys from his pocket with his free hand, and clicked the button that released the locks. He went round to the passenger side, ignoring the wide-eyed looks from Parisian pedestrians, opened the door, threw the tote bag in first and then poured the Princess into the seat.
As he went to close the door he heard an angry voice demand that he ‘watch the dress’ from somewhere in the middle of all the...froth. Rolling his eyes, he swept up as many of the layers as he could, pressed them awkwardly into what little space remained and carefully closed the door. He returned to the driver’s side and just as he reached for the handle a delicate wrist flicked out from amongst the masses of tulle filling the car and pressed down the lock.
‘Really?’ he demanded, flicking the lock on the keys.
And just as quickly she pressed the lock down again.
‘Seriously?’ he said, patience wearing thin.
