Page 73 of Fallen Princess: Shadow Stalker

“They had to, or the platform bots would have removed it,” Haze is the expert in these things. “Whoever uploaded it was targeting Eden, reminding her of her past.”

“It’s nothing she should be ashamed of. Not when we stand by her.”

“This time. But it’s meant to stir up old, hurtful feelings. Everyone knows Eden’s career was over, as was our relationship the moment it went viral, and we weren’t around to support her.”

“We can’t hide this from Eden,” I state, knowing about the stalker Jagger and Haze chased off the property not too long ago.

“You’re right,” Haze looks thoughtful as he rubs his hand over the light stubble on his chin. “I could speak to my techie who handles my online business. They might have a suggestion on how to trace the original person who posted this.”

He hesitates and looks at the food tray, not sure which to follow up with first.

“Go and sort out the online stuff,” I suggest. “Ash and I can take this to Eden.”

I hate that Haze looks at Asher for reassurance as if he’s confident I’m going to fuck up this simple task.

Realizing this, Asher doesn’t respond to Haze’s desperate stupidity and looks back at his phone, ignoring my brother altogether.

“Fine,” Haze mutters and turns to leave, and I hear him mumble something incomprehensible under his breath as he departs.

I grab hold of either end of the tray.

“You coming?”

“Nope,” he replies, not looking up from his phone. “You suggested it, but I don’t need to make amends with Eden. You three were the nasty arseholes to her.”

“Wanker.” I mutter, leaving the kitchen, half happy I get Eden on her own and the other half unsure how she’ll treat me. I’m not as articulate with words as Haze is. He has a natural knack as a smooth talker.

On the other hand, I inherited all the good-looking genes but not the common sense ones.

I knock on the bedroom door, balancing the tray on one arm. There’s a reason why I’m a musician. I play bass, have decent vocals, and am classically trained in piano, but serving and waiting on people isn’t my talent. I don’t have patience for people or have any kind of gift for balancing shit on arms like waiters do with plates and trays.

In case people haven’t yet realized, I generally don’t like humans. So, unlike my self-promoting sibling, I could care less about having a people-pleasing character.

Take me as I am, with a low tolerance level to human stupidity.

Asher is similar-natured to me but much more at peace within himself. He is known among those close to him for his preference for the company of animals over humans. On the other hand, I possess a brow that bears the marks of constant furrowing at idiots. The world is fucking full of tossers.

But the little lady behind this door is the only being on this planet who can naturally calm my volatile nature.

“I’m still here,” playfully quips the feminine voice behind the door, accompanied by a gentle, amused giggle.

Holding the tray with both hands, I use my elbow to push down on the handle and nudge the door open with my hip.

As I step inside, my eyes are captivated by the sight of the beauty, looking every bit the desert siren she is. Her sun-kissed skin and midnight black hair flowing down her shoulders contrast against the backdrop of pristine white bedsheets, making her presence even more pronounced.

Sensing I’m not my brother, and perhaps my hesitation sparks her awareness, she lifts her gaze away from her journal, quickly pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” she apologizes, and I want to toss this tray aside and ravish her lips with my mouth.

“This is your bedroom, siren. You don’t need to apologize,” I say, kicking the door shut and realizing this room reeks of sex. “Plus, I like your tits. No need to hide them on my account.”

Is it wrong that it’s actually the first thing I noticed?

Not that they were out there on display. More like casually there, part of the scene, and her hair covered her rosy round nipples anyway.

A playful smirk graces her lips, but she withholds her usual witty retorts.

I set the tray at the edge of the bed. “Is that a lyrics journal?”

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