Mitchell POV
"Get your hands off her before I snap your wrist in half," I say, my voice dropping to a harsh, lethal register as I step into the kitchen.
The guard jerks back, his fingers ripping away from Nina's forearm so fast his boots skid on the linoleum. Nina lets out a ragged whimpering sound, stumbling toward me as she clutches her bruised skin.
"Prince Mitchell," the guard stammers, his spine locking straight as he forces a clumsy, trembling bow. "I was only asking her a question, sire."
"Get behind me," I tell Nina, never taking my eyes off the man.
She does not hesitate, her small frame darting past my shoulder to find shelter in the shadow of my back. I step deeper into the room, the heavy thud of my boots echoing against the stainless steel prep tables. The scent of burnt
