Page 8 of Brutal Prince

My back hits the cobbles beneath me, and for a moment, both my hands are free.

The silhouette above me cocks his head, and bends close as he settles over my hips.

“You’re a girl,” he states in a flat voice.

* * *

Briar

Jesus— how could I ever have thought she was a guy? I can blame the dark, I guess. Or I could blame myself for not giving a fuck either way. She’s trespassing. I don’t give a fuck that she’s a girl.

Even if she’s a pretty little thing. Big, green eyes peer out at me from a delicate oval face. The plump mouth beneath her snub nose trembles. Now that she’s between my thighs, I can truly appreciate how dainty she is.

I should have been paying attention to the rest of her.

When I make to grab the front of her hoody to haul her to her feet, the girl’s fist comes out of nowhere. But instead of the punch I was expecting, a knife slices over my face.

I knock it out of her hand a second later, but I’m so shocked that I let her wriggle out from under me. She staggers and rushes to her feet. Then she glares at me for a second, as if weighing up her chances of recovering her knife before I can get up.

I guess she doesn’t like her chances; a moment later, she’s gone.

I stand, wincing as I touch the oozing cut on my cheek. It isn’t a deep cut — thank fuck — but I think she knew it would be enough to distract me. I glance around until I see her weapon, and pick it up. I bounce it on my palm as my lips quirk into a smile. A compact switchblade.

“You’re just making this worse for yourself,” I holler after her.

She yells back “Fuck you!”

I let out a bemused huff, shaking my head. Got a bit of an attitude problem, my little stray. I’ll have to teach her some manners.

A growl catches in my throat as I sprint after her.

* * *

Indi

I’m in the lead.I’m even sixty-percent sure I’m headed the right way. I can’t hear the guy’s footsteps anymore — just my own ragged breath. I discover a faint path and immediately follow it. A few minutes later, a definite track appears through the foliage.

My fear subsides; I’m headed toward civilization and away from that guy’s massive hands and shadowy face.

I pause, glancing this way and that to make sure I’m well and truly alone.

Holy crap, that was a close call.

I run my hands through my hair and then drag my fingers down my face.

I guess it’s time I started listening to people, right? I mean, yeah, my life sucks right now, but I just got a wakeup call like no other. Because anything — even wonderful Granny Marigold — is better than being gutted in an abandoned church in the middle of—

Hands grab me, jerk me off my feet.

I scream. Fingers cover my mouth, cutting off the sound.

He drags me backward before I can recover my balance. A gust of wind drives against him, bringing me his smell as he drags me off the path.

Crisp aftershave. Sweat. The mintiness of fresh mouthwash.

What the fuck? Killers aren’t supposed to smell good!

I struggle, land an elbow in his washboard stomach, and completely fail to break free.

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