Chapter 2: Do you need my help?

Mayrose Thorne. That was the name on the ID card. The picture was definitely the girl in his living room, even though younger.

So, the feeling he had when looking her in the eye was correct: she was indeed related to the Prime Minister. More precisely, she was his granddaughter. If Chris remembered correctly, she was the eldest granddaughter and daughter of the deceased son of the Prime Minister. He had heard something about her family, her mother and brother, but he couldn't remember clearly what was the matter. However, he knew very little about Mayrose.

He could recall a few details, mostly scandals, regarding the younger granddaughter. But he was interested in the one in front of him.

He moved his eyes from the document to her. She did look younger than what was stated in the ID. She was twenty-two, officially.

Part of him, to his surprise, was relieved to find out she was just seven years younger than him. What did it even mean?

He passed a hand on his face, trying to collect his thoughts. The girl stood there, eyeing the remote and then moving her eyes away as if she didn't want to get caught. She was doing her best to hide it, but he could read everything on her face: she was planning to escape.

There was no need for such plans because keeping a girl in his house against her will was no option for him, even without all the political and reputational aspects.

"Do you want some help to remove that thing?" he asked, pointing at his own throat. Just like before, he received no answer.

He noticed only then the scratches on the ID. He had turned to see the other side, just to keep his fingers busy, and her profession had been deleted and covered by ink. On top of it, there was a single word: Insurgent.

He could see the word student behind the hand-written scribble.

Raimund had done it, for sure. He loved being theatrical, leaving clues here and there. That must be one of his games. But it sure had a meaning.

He didn't hear any answer to his casual question, so he put the ID on the table and examined the remote instead. Maybe there was a button to unlock it there? He saw Mayrose wince, but what could he do to reassure her more than saying he could help?

Unfortunately, there was no button on the control. Just an off switch which seemed helpful. He moved it, hoping it was about the collar and not the control. At least, she wouldn't get hurt while trying to snatch the remote controller and run away.

However, her silence was bothersome. She could at least curse at him, or ask for help. Doing nothing scared him a little, as if he was witnessing a predator waiting to jump on its prey. Which was laughable, given that he was in front of a skinny young girl.

"Are you with the Insurgents?" he asked.

She didn't move any muscle on her face, giving away nothing. He had heard the first granddaughter was cold. That was pretty much what he knew about her.

He analysed her standing and only at that moment caught the trembling of her fingers. Maybe she wasn't doing nothing because she didn't want to... Maybe it was because she couldn't. His first thought was fear, but it sounded off. It was not simply fear making her fingers tremble... It was something worse, wasn't it?

He wished to dispel that thought, but he had to check with her first.

"How do you feel?" he tried, then. "Are you afraid of me? Or did you get tortured by Raimund with this device?"

He got up, taking a few steps between them in a single moment. She moved back by reflex, almost tripping. She didn't fall because Chris reached out to her arm and kept her. She winced even worse, making him consider she hated being touched at all. Which could be true, but that reaction...

He raised the sleeve of her arm and found a bruise on it as if she had been tugged. He widened his eyes, asking with his gaze an explanation that didn't come.

Mayrose looked back at him, silent. He could catch some embarrassment, maybe even shame. But she didn't hide nor invent a story about it.

"Are you with the Insurgents?" he asked. "Is that why Raimund kept you as a prisoner? And why in the world he thought to bring you here of all places?"

She had no answer, and he still had to hear her voice. Was she silent even in her private life as she was in public events?

"What does a princess search you look for in a rebel movement, ah?" he continued. "You risk getting hurt, even more than you already are."

The trembling of her fingers might have been a sign of fear, but he had to remember she was wearing a shock collar.

"Did Raimund use this?" he asked, tapping on the collar. He was as close as to feel how cold her skin was. Yet, she still hadn't said a word.

It was almost annoying. Was he a monster with three heads for her to be so wary? And he hadn't asked to be put in such a situation. Likely, Raimund just assumed he was funding the Insurgents or something like that.

She stared at him with wide eyes, as if she had never been in such a situation before. As if he was behaving irrationally. But being bothered by a girl getting hurt was more than normal, in his perspective. Was she so surprised by his worry? Why? Because their families were opponents?

"Call a doctor," he ordered the butler, pulling the girl to the sofa. He made her sit, and her knees lost strength as she fell on the sofa.

She looked up at him, her big eyes wide open. Now, she didn't look like a predator at all. She was more like a rabbit, almost asking for mercy. He even felt guilty for dragging her like that.

"Do you need my help to take off the collar?" he said, calming his tone as much as possible and sitting next to her.

Not too close, since she didn't seem to like contact.

Her trembling fingers failed at unlocking the collar, so he waited for her nod before reaching out and doing it for her. He moved her hair away from the mechanism, feeling how silky it was. Her natural scent, modified by no perfume, tickled his nose.

She was pretty, with a heart-shaped face, tiny and cute lips, and a small nose. The most prominent features were her eyes, so similar yet so different from those of her grandfather. He would have never imagined that shade of grey could look so beautiful, instead of gelid.

Which reminded him: he also had to call Leonard Thorne.