of the Marant clan, AKA Katarina Teresa Marant. Because a high-blood princess had slipped her leash and made herself a target for the Collectors, his cover and his operation were blown. No simple “chip & tip” would do for this Collector’s Item, damn it! Added to the inevitable hysterics and demands for protection, he’d be elbow deep in politics. God, he hated politics. Bowing and scraping while maneuvering to find the best location to stick in the knife. Not with this one, his jag, Max asserted. The princess stood behind the couch, hands on hips, a tiny crease between her eyebrows while she looked from Massey on the rug to him and back. No hysterics in sight, Peyton noted with relief. Points for restraint. Alpha, said Max. Princess, Peyton countered. Even they had their moments of intelligence, but he knew better than to expect more. In the half-light coming through the apartment windows, he could see the thin rim of white around the edges of her eyes. However, her breathing had calmed and her attitude leaned more toward pissed than frightened.
