The people her mother abandoned were the same onessheabandoned. The only difference was that, without her, they were all captured and sent away from their vivacious little city in the Beyond—banished to various different camps that housed Mystics and other mythical creatures that did not adhere to the Yaarborough’s ideal way of living. She could have stayed with them, but she traded every last shred of dignity she had to be the prince’s pretty thing that he could touch and caress whenever he pleased.
Because she was fifteen and terrified.
Terrifying things seemed to happen to her quite often. So, she learned to handle things with what she deemed to be strategic calculation which meant either playing the perfect, pretty pet to the king… or run. It depended on which shoes she was wearing that day.
At this particular moment, Nymiria just so happened to be wearing boots.
As soon as she rounded the corner, there was a maid waiting for her just beyond the line of bushes that'd been groomed to look like bucking stallions, a red card held tightly in her trembling hands. Nymiria's stomach sank, her heart rate increasing as the maid handed the card to her and mouthed the word "run".
Nymiria didn't hesitate.
She lurched into a sprint almost instantly, already hearing laughter and cat-calls coming from the men that were approaching her from behind. The thick, humidair filtered into her lungs, gathered on her forehead as she pushed herself as fast as she could go.
It was Hunting Day in Yaar—a long, sought after tradition that usually ended in the Prey being captured and having to perform derogatory acts with their Hunter. All of the courtesans were demanded to participate if they were chosen, that hateful red card sealing their fate. For some, they saw it as a way to win the king's favor. They believed it showed their loyalty and made them that much more worthy to fill their king's bed. Nymiria hadn't filled Dorid's bed. The king, of course, loved to converse with her and school her on the history of his kingdom, but he refused to sleep with her.
And the prince… well, she supposed that he would actually have to beinthe kingdom to bed one of his many ladies. But he never was. Neither was his brother, the infamous bastard-prince who was said to be feared by most, and avoided by all. She'd heard things whispered at parties and dinner tables about the wrath of Aziel Haze. He was the king’s son from one of his mistresses and was given the title of King’s Assassin at the early age of fifteen. What he’d had to do to claim that title was not a mystery.
As the story went, the king threw his son into a pit filled with the most heinous and ferocious criminals and forced them all to fight to the death for the title. How Aziel, a young man of fifteen, had bested forty men was a mystery. But the next day, when the crowds gathered to see which man came out as victor, they were all surprised and horrified to find that every single man in the pit had perished. Save for Aziel. And there was not a single drop of blood on his body. There were no bodies left, either. It was as if they'd merely vanished into thin air or that the ground had opened up and swallowed them whole.
“Get the Mystic!” Nymiria knew they were talking about her the moment she heard the excited command. Her insides curdled almost instantly, a curse forming at her lips as she grimaced. It should have bothered her more that she was being hunted for sex, butMysticwas a name she believed she didn’t deserve. Not whenher powers had long-since vanished and the goddess she worshiped had turned a blind eye to her fate.
Physically, yes, she was a Mystic. But she believed there was nothing special about her aside from her peculiar features and the ability to shift those features if the time called for it. No… everything that made Nymiria special and unique to any regular Mystic had vanished the day she was thrown into an iron cage and transported to a place where she was conditioned to fuck for survival. Thankfully, she survived for ten years without being called upon. She supposed her whit and charm and her naturally curious personality had subsequently enabled her to win over the king.
She could hear the strong thumping of boots against fallen leaves and twigs drawing closer, getting louder as she turned and headed for the large pond just beyond the tree line. With a grunt, Nymiria turned and darted through a thicket of ferns, hurdling herself over a fallen tree and ran closer to the pond.
“Fuck, she’s fast.” One of the men gasped.
It was too soon for her to feel proud of herself. She still had about ten yards to go before reaching the pond and the clearing that led to it was sloped, which would certainly aid in their speed. Nymiria held her breath for a moment, closing her eyes and allowing herself to feel the frantic beating of her heart in hope that it would inspire her to go faster.
When her eyes opened again, her breath caught in her throat. It was too much of a shock for her to stop herself or turn the other direction so instead, she collided with the broad-chested man that had stepped in front of her. His arms locked around her waist and both of them grunted as they tumbled to the ground. The two of them rolled, limbs knocking together and tangling, until they landed in the gods-forsaken pond at the bottom of the hill.
The thick wetness surrounded her, muffling the noise of the world around her for just one moment before a strong hand wrapped around the top of her arm and yanked her back to the surface. That same hand—rough and calloused andlarge enough to cover her face—cupped Nymiria's cheeks and tilted her face up to meet his.
Paintings were less beautiful than the face that she saw in front of her.
Black curls clung to his forehead just above a set of thick brows that were drawn together in worry. His deep blue eyes were narrowed, roving over her. He released a sharp breath from between his plump lips, swearing under his breath as he tugged her back onto dry land. Nymiria was too distracted by the way his black clothing clung to his skin to realize that there was no one chasing her anymore. The clearing was silent.
“I wish they would stop this nonsense.” He grumbled. “Simply barbaric and entirely classless.” Finally, his stomping ceased and he turned to her again. “What is your name?”
It was more of a command than a question, but she still hesitated. She was sure that she looked like a fish plucked out of water—her mouth opening and closing as she tried to formulate words. “Nymiria. I am a courtesan to the royal family.”
One thick brow raised, an incredulous and breathy laugh sounding from the back of his throat as he thrust one large hand through his hair to brush it out of his face. “Is that so?” She was prepared to say something else, but the man was already tugging at her again, leading her in the direction of the palace grounds.
Fear lodged in her throat, the overwhelming desire to kick this man in the groin and take off in the opposite direction was stronger than ever. No matter how handsome he was, she did not want to fall victim to a man on Hunting Day.
Her eyes darted around in search of any familiar person, but the grounds were empty and silent, not a single soul near that could potentially help. Not that they would, anyway. Nymiria was not particularly favored by the servants or the other courtesans. They would much rather some strange man cart her off and defile her than for them to waste their precious breath on anything to do with her.
Nymiria's eyes burned with tears and even though it was not the smart thing for her to do, seeing as this man towered over her by more than a foot, she wrenchedher arm free from his grasp. Unfortunately, she'd tugged so hard that she ended up falling straight to the ground.
The man whirled around, his blue eyes searing into her own as he knelt in front of her. “What are you doing?” He asked.
“I don’t… I’ve never done this before. Please, if you have any sort of decency in you, don’t make me have sex with you.” She'd had sex before, but no one was supposed to know that. Playing the terrified virgin seemed to work in her favor before. Most of the hateful bastards took pity on her if she acted like she was scared out of her mind.
The man stared at her for a moment, blinking slowly before a smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You think that I participate in this bullshit?” He laughed. “Please—the last thing I need to do is chase down some poor, defenseless woman and force her to have sex with me. Do you think I have any problems finding a woman to fill my bed?” His hand curled around the upper part of her arm, hauling her to her feet with one graceful and gentle tug.
Nymiria's brows drew together as she observed him because… no, he certainly did not look the type. His devilish good looks were enough to have any woman falling at his feet. She shook her head. “I don’t know you.” She shrugged. “You could be a murderer.”
“Really.” He huffed, scrubbing a hand over the thick hair along his jaw. “Does the name Oran Yaarborough ring a bell?”
