Page 5 of Stolen Princess

Wow. I realize I’ve never seen a man in the flesh before, but I have on TV when Mother forces me to watch all the horrors and misery of the world on it, and the men I see don’t look anything like this guy. He’s… well, he’s beautiful. Can men be beautiful? In my books, they often call them sexy or gorgeous, and he’s that too, but he’s most definitely beautiful.

I pat him down, checking him for weapons as they do in my crime novels. He’s in a dirty, slightly damp white T-shirt and khaki shorts, but he also has a knapsack with him, wedged under his body. His pockets are empty, and I dip lower so I can tug the strap of the knapsack, but I can’t manage to pull it out from beneath him. I grab his shoulder and roll him to his side. He’s heavy as hell, all dead weight. I grunt, pressing my knees into the ground for leverage, and finally manage to yank it free. The momentum knocks me back, and I fall onto my ass, and the knapsack smacks me in the face.

He moves a little, his body stirring. Shit. What do I do with him? At least he doesn’t have anything on him he could use to hurt me. Other than his muscles. I snort a small laugh and slap a hand over my mouth. I need to get him inside. I put his knapsack on my back, grab both of his hands, and use all my might to drag him inside. The top of his head bumps on the step, making him groan.

Oops.

I pull harder and get him inside the kitchen.

“Damn, you’re heavy,” I whine, sliding him along the terracotta tile floor until I reach the table. It’s heavy, constructed of solid wood, and it’ll have to do. I bring his arms behind his back and loop them around one of the legs before I tie him up with rope.

Still unconscious, his head lolls over his chest, and his legs splay in front of him. Once I’m positive he’s secure, I move to the other side of the kitchen and sit on a stool so I can drop the backpack on my lap.

It’s got a decent weight to it for something not that big. I unzip the smaller front pocket first and find a gun and a switchblade. My jaw unhinges, and I quickly zip the pocket back up, too afraid to even touch them. I eye the man, a scowl twisting my lips.

“So you did come to hurt me? And here I was holding out hope that my mother was wrong about everything.” I have the urge to kick him but suppress it for the moment as I continue my search. The large pocket has a gray jumpsuit of sorts with an ID badge that says “Marco Torino” and claims he works as a janitor for La Via Bella Studios and Gallery. I dig beyond that and find another set of clothes, a wallet, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and— “Ow.”

Something snags my finger from his jumpsuit, and I pull my hand out, noting a trickle of blood on the tip. I pop it in my mouth and suck, using my other hand to locate what pricked me. It’s probably another knife or something, only it’s not. It’s a necklace with a giant green stone, a large pearl, and several diamonds that tier up like branches to the facet.

It’s stunning. Did he steal it? I can’t imagine a janitor—if he even is one—walks around with a gun and a necklace of this sort.

A pained groan stirs me from my thoughts, and I shove the necklace in my pocket, except it’s bulky and he’ll spot it the moment he opens his eyes. Without thinking, I shoot upstairs to my tower and hide it in the box I keep under the floorboard. The one with a sketch of my memory from the festival and the lantern ceremony and the silver locket that the woman who stole me when I was little put around my neck that I removed before my mother rescued me. Inside is a picture of a man, whom I always liked to pretend was my father, even if there’s no way he is.

I leave his knapsack on my bed, unsure what to do with that.

Then I race back downstairs and instantly lock on a pair of pale green eyes. I gulp and step into the kitchen, keeping my spine straight and my expression fierce even as my insides are shaking like a leaf and blood is pounding so loudly through my veins I hear it in my ears.

His head tilts, and he does a long, curious sweep of my body down to my bare feet and back up to my face. My cheeks heat, and the need to look away or shift is compelling.

“Well, this is certainly unexpected,” he says in English. His accent is… I actually don’t know what it is other than different. It’s unfortunately sexy. Like the rest of him. I cough out a wry laugh. Not that I have experience—or even a ton of knowledge beyond the basics—with sex or even being sexy. The first time I got my period, I thought I was dying. My mother gave me a book instead of talking to me about it, and after that, all I get are books instead of discussions. I digress.

He gives me a funny look. Probably because I’m smiling and laughing for no reason.

Not that it matters. If Mother finds him, she’ll kill him. It’s likely what I should do. Isn’t that what she always taught me? That the world is a dangerous place, filled with thieves and criminals and men out to harm me? That if someone ever manages to breach our home, I should kill them immediately to save myself?

“Who are you?” I ask also in English, and it seems to surprise him that I’m so fluent. But seriously, what else do I have to do with my time other than read and learn other languages? I’m fluent in Italian, French, English, Spanish, and German, and am working on Russian. Books and paints are the one luxury I get that I actually want. Most everything else my mother tries to get me to do to improve myself, I want no part of.

A devilish smirk curls up the corner of his lips. “Who am I? Darlin’, who are you, and how on earth did you get the best of me?”

I squint at him. “It wasn’t exactly difficult, and my name isn’t darlin’.”

That smirk falls into a frown. “Then what is your name?”

“What’s yours?” I parry, taking the stool once more, crossing my legs and folding my arms as if I’m bored and not silently scared to death of the man tied to my kitchen table. I could kill him. I mean, I have knives and things, but I’ve never killed anything more than an animal before, and even that made me ill for weeks after.

“Rhys Stephan.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t lie.”

He snickers. “Rhys Stephan.”

I pan a vague hand at him. “Okay. Fine. Your name is Rhys Stephan, though I think the exaggerated a is a bit much. How did you find me?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a basic question.”

He scoots back and straightens his spine against the leg of the table.