The Wrong Prince by C. K. Brooke Page A

spear.” He smirked. “Or so, rumor has it.”
    “Poor Dmitri Straussen.” The first shook his head with amusement. “So spineless, I’ll bet he didn’t last more’n a few days up there.”
    “Perhaps someone ought to go up and check on him?” suggested another.
    “Tuh,” huffed the second. “I ain’t climbing all them dratted steps again for that lousy murderer. I don’t care if he is the Crown Prince of Tybiria.”
    Pavi stifled her gasp as they stalked away, boots plodding over the stone floor. Her pulse raced so quickly, she thought she might faint. But had she heard the soldiers’ conversation correctly? Was Mit really—?
    She bumped her head against the underside of the stairwell. Wincing, she crouched and reemerged into the now empty hall. Without a second thought, she resumed the corridor to the tower stairs and commenced her ascent. Into each step, she channeled her shock and betrayal. How could she not have known?
    Her breath was expelled by the time she reached the keep. Panting, she thrust open the door and wasted no time in slamming it behind her.
    The prisoner, who sat in his cell writing, glanced up. “Pavi,” he greeted her pleasantly.
    She bounded up to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her hands shook, and she balled them into fists at her sides. “Why did you mislead me?”
    He slowly stood to his feet. “What do you speak of?”
    “You know of what I speak.” Her eyes bored into his. “You are Dmitri Straussen, Crown Prince of Tybiria. Do you deny it?”
    His silence communicated plainly. At his nonverbal confession, a new wave of shock overtook her. “Why did you never tell me you were a prince?” she demanded.
    He blinked several times. “I…didn’t think it mattered.”
    “You told me you were a novelist!”
    “Well, can’t I be both?”
    The question was both so naïve and evasive, Pavi tossed up her arms. “Don’t be obtuse! You lied! You led me to believe you were merely an artist, suffering the wrongful admonition of my king. I’ve been feeding and prolonging you, an enemy prince who slew my cousin! Know you not, the boy was all my uncle had left of his late wife?”
    “Pavola, no,” the man interjected seriously, removing his lenses. “It was not like that.”
    She fell silent at the sight of him. She’d never seen him wear such a stern expression; not to mention, he looked quite different without his spectacles. She’d been coming to think he was rather handsome with them, but found him just as much so without. Their absence accentuated his blue eyes, the slope of his nose, the strong-set jaw she’d not truly appreciated before.
    “I am the Prince of Tybiria,” he admitted, and Pavi had never felt more intimidated by him. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. But it wasn’t to feign innocence, or to lead you on. I never expected you to—to care for me, as you’ve done.” He massaged his forehead. “I’ve enjoyed your company…and friendship…so immensely, I didn’t want to scare you away.”
    Her chin tightened.
    “Please, forgive me.” His voice was barely audible. “I didn’t mean to withhold anything from you. I only wanted to see you. Even if you stopped bringing me food and water, I’m sure I could survive solely off of the sight of your face, the sound of your voice.”
    His words were too much. Pavi turned away to conceal the flood of heat that rushed to her cheeks, overwhelmed by conflicting feelings. Distraught, she shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, heading for the door, when a cylinder of parchment rolled beneath her fingers. But of course—the scroll. She’d meant to tell him the news it contained. Yet, a sinking feeling overtook her.
    She went back to his cell. “Your Highness.” Her throat constricted.
    “Never call me that.” His searing eyes fastened upon her. “You shall address me by no title, for we are equals. In fact, you are far smarter than I.”
    She swallowed, unsure how to respond to this,