Claimed by the Bastard Prince

by Sue Lyndon

  Like capturing and interrogating criminals who sought to harm the crown. He did all the dirty work no one else wanted to do. He’d fallen into helping the Royal Guard in his teens, not long after coming to live in the palace while still reeling from the untimely death of his mother. For a reason he’d never fully understood, this line of work came naturally to him.

  He hoped Cora confessed to her crimes immediately. The thought of hurting her turned his stomach. He’d never been faced with a female criminal before, and while he could allow the Royal Guard to question her, the prospect of another man harming her during an interrogation made him rage inside.

  Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it have been another American who’d conspired against his father?

  But the evidence was there. Cora’s ex-boyfriend, Greg Keller, had multiple contacts with Akeen’s exiled uncle and with a criminal faction known as CKP (Citizens for King Partha) that operated underground in nearby Ermastistan, a small country on the southern border of Ismallia. Greg Keller had died last night in New York. Poison was suspected, but before he died, he had given a rambling confession to an assassination plot, claiming his ex-girlfriend was the mastermind behind it all. He said she’d left him after he’d expressed doubts about killing King Brenul.

  Akeen gripped Cora’s arm and led her to the private security elevator that would take them to the dungeon. Though they lived in modern times, the lowest level of the palace hadn’t been renovated as much as the rest of this grand structure. It was damp and dark, and the ancient instruments of torture remained, though to be honest, they were there mostly for a show of intimidation. If criminals thought Akeen was about to put them on a medieval stretching contraption, they usually spilled all their secrets at his feet and begged for mercy.

  He eyed Cora, deciding he would interrogate her in private. The Royal Guard didn’t need to watch. He prayed the intel was incorrect. Hundreds of royal investigators were currently working to verify the information from the Americans. Until he received that verification, he wouldn’t harm a hair on Cora’s pretty head. But he would do his duty and try to get her to confess in other ways—like scaring her and threatening her.

  Fucking hell, he hated this, but he didn’t have a choice.

  “Where are we going?” she whispered, shaking in his hold as the elevator descended to the dark depths of the palace. Only five officers accompanied them in the elevator as it was small, and she huddled against him in the tiny space.

  He turned her and placed his finger beneath her chin, forcing her to stare up at him. “The dungeon, Cora. I’m taking you to the dungeon, where you’ll be thoroughly questioned for your involvement in the plot against King Brenul.”

  Fear flashed in her blue eyes, and he steeled himself to ignore her increased trembling. If she was guilty, getting her to confess quickly was important—the information she revealed could save lives.

  “Please, Akeen, you have to believe me. I didn’t do anything, and I wasn’t planning to do anything. I’m completely innocent. This is a terrible mistake. Why-why do you think I’m a threat?”

  The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors hissed open.

  “Your government told us you were a threat, so don’t bother asking for help from the American Embassy again. If you want to help yourself,” he said, guiding her out of the elevator, “then I suggest you cooperate and tell me everything you know. If you are uncooperative, things will soon get very unpleasant for you, I can assure you of that.”

  At that moment, they moved past the entryway of the dungeon, where stone-faced officers holding machine guns stood guard. A few steps further, and they crossed through the area that contained most of the ancient torture devices. Water occasionally trickled on them from overhead. The dungeon was darker and damper than Akeen remembered. He hadn’t been down here to interrogate an enemy of the crown in several months.

  He motioned for the officers who’d accompanied them in the elevator to return to the entryway. The men nodded, understanding that he sought privacy with his little captive.

  When Akeen had been thinking of ways to get Cora to remain in Ismallia longer, this hadn’t been one of them. She continued trembling and whimpering as they moved through the narrow walkways between the cells. Electric torches lit the dungeon, and the lights were not only dim, but also placed far apart, leaving many corners completely darkened.

  There was a sharp chill in the air, too, and Akeen felt a stab of guilt, knowing Cora was probably shivering from the cold as well, in addition to her visible fear. She also wasn’t wearing shoes, and the stone floors were undoubtedly icy. If she was indeed guilty, hopefully she would confess straight away. If she told the truth, he could justify making her more comfortable. But until she confessed to her crimes, or until the Royal Guard’s investigation exonerated her, he would have no choice but to be a complete bastard toward her.

  At the end of the corridor, he pushed open the door of a cell and brought her inside, making a show of closing and locking the door. He always kept a key to the dungeon cells in his pocket. He tucked the key away and pushed Cora onto a wooden chair that rested in the center of the cell.

  She sat awkwardly shifted forward on the chair, with her hands still cuffed behind her back, and her gaze down. A lone tear had trickled down her cheek, and his fingers burned with the urge to wipe it away.

  Damn and blast, but he couldn’t.

  He couldn’t fucking comfort her. She was the enemy. Or at least, intel said she was. Until an investigation proved otherwise, palace protocol dictated she be treated as a criminal. He glanced around at the cells beyond this one. How many times had he beat men to a pulp while trying to get them to confess? In the years since he’d started working for the crown, at least a hundred.

  Akeen always got a confession.

  Always.

  He was brutal in his methods of persuasion too. But he couldn’t imagine inflicting the same tortures he normally used against a traitorous scum on Cora.

  Fuck. The taste of her pussy still lingered on his tongue. Not even an hour had passed since he’d been ready to impale her and make her his. He turned fully around, staring down the narrow walkway from which they’d just come, to gather his thoughts. If he was going to do a sufficient job interrogating her, he had to put himself in the mindset that she wasn’t an innocent.

  Finally, he spun around and glared down at Cora.

  To get himself in the proper frame of mind, he told himself she was a criminal, a would-be murderer of the king, his own father, and, no matter what, he must extract the truth from her.

  Even if he must make her scream the confession.

  He also told himself she wasn’t the same woman he’d been a second away from bedding. That woman didn’t exist. That woman was a fake, and her interest in him had probably been nothing more than an act. His approaching her might have been chance, but she had probably viewed him as an opportunity to get closer to the king once she realized his identity. Assassins were good, as well as difficult to track and defeat. Cora had probably known his true identity the moment he’d passed her the champagne, but had faked innocence for as long as it pleased her. She had probably memorized the faces of each member, legitimate and illegitimate, of the royal family.

  He pushed down the sudden hurt that surged in his chest. He hated the feeling of betrayal that swarmed him in this moment.

  Be firm. Acquire her secrets. Get her confession. Then wash your hands of her and allow the legal system to handle her.

  Lifetime in prison.

  That was the typical sentence for plotting against the king.

  At least she hadn’t actually made an attempt on his father’s life, as the sentence for such a crime was death.

  “You will not leave this cell until you tell me every detail of your plot against the king. I don’t want to hurt you, Cora, but if you prove uncooperative, then I will not hesitate to use more unpleasant methods of interrogation.”

  Chapter 5

  “
My name is Cora Meyers. I’m twenty-seven years old. I was born and raised in Lexington, Kentucky. I went to college in New York and made Manhattan my home after graduation. I work for the public relations firm The Harold-Finks Company. I usually work sixty hours a week. Outside of work, I have a few friends I’ll have drinks with now and then, colleagues from work or friends from college. None of my friends have a criminal record that I know of. I have no connections to anyone who might want to harm King Brenul, let alone any other world leaders. Does that answer all your questions so far?”

  Cora had stopped shaking, but she still appeared fearful. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and Akeen hoped she didn’t start crying. He hated his job in this moment, but he wouldn’t shirk his duties to the crown. Assassins and spies were typically good actors. Capable of telling lies as if they spoke the truth, and capable of blending in as real tourists or Ismallian citizens.

  He couldn’t go soft on her. What if there was a continued threat to this father or other members of the royal family? What if she had an accomplice, even one from another country, waiting nearby?

  “So far,” he finally said. “Now let’s get to the point.”

  Her eyes widened and she bit her bottom lip. She blinked rapidly then in an effort to keep her tears from falling. Fuck. One of them rolled down her cheek, on the opposite side as the first tear, and it left Akeen gutted. His arms ached to wrap around her. He longed to comfort her, tell her everything would be okay, and that he believed in her innocence.

  But he couldn’t do any of that. He needed the truth, no matter how dark.

  “Tell me about your reason for breaking up with Greg.”

  Confusion danced across her face and she straightened. “I caught him cheating on me. I was out of town and came back early, showed up at his apartment with his favorite Chinese takeout to surprise him and found him in bed with another woman. So, I broke up with him. Why are you asking me about this?”

  “Cora, Cora, Cora,” he said, shaking his head. He suddenly moved fast in front of her and grasped her hair behind her head, giving it a yank, though not any harder than he would yank a lover’s hair in bed. Not any harder than he’d yanked hers earlier. Still, it scared her. Her lips quivered and another tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought you were going to be a good girl and tell me the truth.”

  “Please. I did tell you the truth. Greg cheated on me, so I broke up with him. It was very unexpected. He’d recently asked me to move in with him, and I was thinking about it but hadn’t given him an answer yet. I thought he was The One, but I didn’t want to ruin things by allowing our relationship to progress so quickly, even though that sounds kind of stupid in retrospect seeing as how we dated for two years. But I was still hesitant and—”

  “Do you know who poisoned Greg?” he asked, cutting her off.

  “What? I don’t know anything about that. When was he poisoned? Is he okay?”

  Akeen released her hair and towered over her with his arms crossed, giving her the most intimidating glare he could muster. Seasoned criminals usually cowered at this look, but Cora lifted her chin in challenge and gave a frustrated sigh.

  “This is ridiculous. I demand to speak with someone else. How can I answer your questions when I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about?” She struggled against the handcuffs. “At least take these off. You outweigh me by at least a hundred pounds. Surely, you’re not afraid of little ol’ me?”

  “The cuffs stay on until you answer one more of my questions properly. Tell me who poisoned Greg, or why you conspired to assassinate the leader of Ismallia. Or tell me about the first person you met who introduced you to the CKP, or tell me about your connections to anyone in Ermastistan.”

  “Every fucking question you’ve asked me sounds crazy. Can I talk to Malia? She will tell you what kind of person I am and that I would never try to kill anyone. What the fuck reason would I have to kill King Brenul, anyway?”

  Fury was starting to replace her fear, and Akeen had to put a stop to it. The more frightened she was, the more likely she was to confess all her secrets about the CKP and the plot against the king. He unlocked the cell and stepped into the hallway, then locked it again.

  When a prisoner got angry, it was time for a change of pace. Time to introduce a new threat in hopes of obtaining a confession.

  “You should have answered my questions, Cora. You aren’t going to like what I return with. Not one bit.”

  He strode away from her cell to the front area where the implements of torture were stored. He found a small worn leather riding crop and held it up for inspection. One of the commanding officers approached him.

  “Any news?” Akeen asked.

  “Your father is safe and the palace has been secured, sir, but there is no news yet. The investigators are still working to verify the Americans’ intel about Cora.” Commander Wornik eyed the riding crop. “I take it the prisoner isn’t being cooperative?”

  “You could say that. She’s claiming complete innocence.”

  “What if she is innocent, sir?” The officer looked uncomfortable as he once more glanced at the riding crop. “She is the first female I can recall being brought to the dungeon in these times. I understand you are following protocol by interrogating her until the investigation is complete; however, the Royal Guard and the king himself would likely understand if you wished to halt questioning until the investigation is finished.”

  Akeen gripped the crop tighter and glared his displeasure at the man for daring to suggest they break from the conventional code of behavior. Both of them had sworn to uphold protocol and the king’s law.

  “I don’t ever want to hear you speaking of leniency again, Commander Wornik, when it comes to a threat against the crown or the state. Is that understood?”

  The officer paled. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

  “Good. Now, if there is any news about the investigation, you will come inform me. Immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Riding crop in hand, Akeen turned and strode back to Cora’s cell.

  A whip. Akeen was holding a whip.

  She stared at the horrid looking implement. It wasn’t large, and she thought perhaps it was a riding crop. Would he really use it on her?

  Fear clutched her heart and her mouth went dry. Her stomach twisted, and she started struggling in the handcuffs, whimpering and shaking her head as he approached.

  This wasn’t how her trip to Ismallia was supposed to go. She was supposed to attend the fairytale wedding, see all the sights in this beautiful country, and then return home safe and sound. How the hell had this happened? Why did he think Greg had been poisoned, and why did he think she had conspired to kill the king?

  None of this made sense, and not being able to answer any of his questions to his liking, Cora felt an utter sense of hopelessness spreading through her chest.

  For a second, she considered lying and answering his questions the way he expected—admitting to having a part in a plot against the king, if only to prevent him from hurting her.

  The steel in his dark eyes frightened her. How many people had he brought to this dungeon before? What would happen if she never gave him the confession he wanted? Cora had never been in trouble with the law, nor had she ever been held against her will. Feelings of fear, frustration, and anger churned in her gut.

  She glanced down, unable to hold his gaze for a second longer, and gasped at the sight of her exposed breasts. The front of the robe had come undone during her struggles, and she hadn’t noticed until now. Her face heated and she hated the pervasive sense of helplessness she felt in this moment. She was completely at Akeen’s mercy.

  He walked closer, and she flinched when he reached for her.

  “Please don’t,” she said, fearing he would strike her with the crop.

  But he didn’t hit her. When she met his stare, she noted a flash of compassion softening his eyes for an instant. He surprised her by closing her robe with gentle movements and the
n stepping back, the crop still in his hand. Relief filled her that he wouldn’t allow her to remain exposed. She hoped that meant he wouldn’t strip the borrowed robe off at any point during this interrogation.

  Swallowing hard, she met his eyes and decided to try reasoning with him again.

  “Search my room and you’ll find no weapons. How-how do you think I was supposed to kill the king if I’m unarmed?”

  “Your room has already been searched, Cora. Your other suitcase that got lost en route to Ismallia is on the way here, where the Royal Guard will give it a thorough search. I don’t know how you planned to kill King Brenul, but I suspect you planned to wait until your arrival in Ismallia before acquiring your weapon of choice, whatever that weapon may be. Poison, perhaps? That’s how Greg was finished, after all.”

  She felt sick. “Fi-finished? Greg is dead?” Her mind spun as she tried to organize her thoughts and figure out this frighteningly strange puzzle of events.

  An exacerbated sigh escaped Akeen. “Of course he’s dead. Don’t act so surprised. Surely, your contacts at the CKP informed you of his demise. How do you maintain contact with them, Cora?” He stepped forward and placed the crop beneath her chin.

  She shuddered and held her breath. She couldn’t decide whether to keep speaking the truth and maintain her innocence, or to start making up stories he might actually believe and hope that she eventually got ahold of someone in the American Embassy.

  The prospective lies tasted bitter on her tongue.

  No. She couldn’t confess to a crime she hadn’t actually committed.

  Trembling, she closed her eyes and envisioned a protective shield around her, keeping her safe because she had truth on her side. Whatever was going on didn’t involve her, but somehow she’d been implicated. But the truth would eventually prevail. It had to.

  She thought about Greg. What the hell could Mr. Cheaterpants have to do with a plot against the Ismallian king? She’d been with him for two fucking years. Think think think. There had to be something. A clue that he’d had dealings with the CKP or another group of criminals.