Page 22 of A Princess, Stolen
“Your father is a piece of shit and that’s putting it mildly.” Troy no longer sounded so friendly.
I swallowed. “Because he has money and eats beluga?”Or slaps it on his bread like butter?In truth, my father only ate the much more luxurious Almas caviar; it was ivory-colored and cost thirty thousand dollars a kilo, but I wasn’t going to rub Troy’s nose in it.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Troy said cryptically.
“My dad uses his private military units to ensure peace in the Middle East. He builds children’s homes in Canada and supports several local hospices. He organizes charities and donates to so many charitable causes that it would bore me to list them all,” I stated using the leader’s words about my dad’s luxury cars. No idea why.
“Oh, well, then everything’s cool if your dad does that.” Judging by his voice, Troy was still in the same spot. “But if I were you…”
“Hey—damn it!” The sharp call rang out from further up and it came from the man who had torn my dress earlier. His angry, dark voice had etched itself into my nerves. I would probably have recognized it even blind in the Arctic. “Are you down there, Troy?”
“Yes.”
Something rumbled, perhaps he was coming down the stairs they had manhandled me down earlier. “With her?”
Could two words sound more stunned? It sounded as if he was choking on them.
Something moved nearby and then Troy whispered, “I told you not to provoke him. Anger is his middle name.”
“So, what’s his first?” I hadn’t wanted to ask, but it would definitely be an advantage to be able to assess each individual here.
“Not peacefulness, ha-ha. Just think of the ha-ha as a grin.” Troy clicked his tongue briefly. “Yeah, I’m coming!” he called to the other.
The footsteps hadn’t come any closer, so his boss was obviously further away, but he spat out words that flew in my direction. “She’s a hostage and she’ll be treated like it, got it? We agreed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I heard Troy respond, sounding as casual as the typicalyes, yes, which could also meanfuck off! Not that I’d ever used such words. The etiquette lessons that Dad gave me personally forbade me from doing so. Swear words were more Penelope’s thing.
“Tucekilemeur,” Troy mumbled.
“Excuse me?” I whispered.
“His first name.”
I didn’t quite catch it, but his footfalls receded and others drew closer. If they communicated, it didn’t require words.
A moment later, a key turned in the lock, and there was a sound like chalk screeching across a blackboard.
“It’s been a while since it was greased, hasn’t it?” I heard Troy say, but the guy who was now with me didn’t answer.
I sat there tense, my bound hands clenched into fists.
“Want something to drink?” It was the man who had ripped my dress, the leader. His voice seemed an octave lower than Troy’s and it was heavy as if it contained his own dark fate.
Or even mine.
And even though my throat was as scratchy as sandpaper, I turned my face away.
“Don’t play games with me, princess.” Footsteps approached. “I’m only asking once, even if you don’t deserve anything.”
Now I looked in the direction his voice was coming from. “So, what do I deserve?” I asked hoarsely. “To be treated like a hostage? Locked up in a cold hole with no blanket?”
He remained silent but held something that felt like a straw to my lips, and my thirst burned so strongly that I drank. It was water, perhaps even full of poison. In that second, I didn’t care. I sucked on the straw like a dying person.
“To be honest…I personally didn’t think I’d see you here today,” he said, sounding contemptuous, like I was dirt under his nails. “I would have sworn that you would let your father down.”
Despite his ostentatious contempt, he radiated something else. Anger at the respect he gave me for it, whether he wanted to or not. I released the straw from my lips. “I love my dad,” I said, barely audibly since I didn’t want to provoke him.
“Aha!”
