It wasn’t surface level, it was deeper.
It took an hour for her sobs to taper off into quieted sniffles. Her eyes were red and swollen with tears as she donned her nightgown and her silk robe. The silk tingled against the place on her arms that were raw with her discomfort and she sighed as she turned and headed out of the washroom and back into her bedroom.The sun had not set yet, but the orange hue that tinted the stained glass on her windows signified that darkness was close. On any other day, she would be on the first floor enjoying drinks and parlor games with the other courtesans, but the thought of sitting with them and pretending that everything was fine did not fancy her at that moment.
She wanted silence and peace. And though the king had supplied her with countless novels and reading materials over the last ten years, she preferred something darker—something morerealthan all of those frivolous love stories and acts of heroism. Still sodden with anger, Nymiria left her room and headed towards one of the smaller libraries in the palace. It was one that people did not frequent, the tomes and novels blanketed with a thick layer of dust. She would be alone, certainly, and surrounded with the dusty accounts of the slaughtering and enslavement of her people to help her bask in her emotions.
It was a form of self-harm, one could say. To torture yourself with your shortcomings. But why would she want to feelhappyright now? It would only be more of a disservice to those she left behind if she tried to distract herself from what she’d done. The traitorous acts she committed.
Nymiria shook her head in frustration, grumbling hateful words to herself as she turned down the short corridor that led to the library.
A dark, brooding figure stopped her in her tracks. She prepared to turn around and head back to her room, but the figure turned to her, revealing its identity. And while she hated the Yaarboroughs and everything they stood for today, she could not bring herself to feel any sort of malice towards the man that’d vouched for the death of Hunting Day and who’d foolishly defended her honor.
“Courtesans aren’t supposed to be on this wing.” His voice was low, straining against the smoke that spilled from his lips and out of the open window at his side. He flicked his rolled tobacco out into the dusk, the embers splintering and scattering in the warm breeze.
She smirked. “King Dorid does not allow smoking inside of the castle, either. But here we are.”
Oran raised a thick brow, his eyes twinkling with humor that did not reach the rest of his face. “Yes. Here we are.” He folded thick arms across his chest, dark eyes raking over her form as he leaned against the window frame. “Still doesn’t answer my question as to why you are here and not in the west wing with your kind.”
“You didn’t ask me anything, you simply said courtesans aren’t allowed on this wing.”
“Well, I am asking younow.” He retorted, taking a single step closer to her. “Why are youhere, Mystic?”
Again, with that name. Nymiria closed her eyes, turning her head to the side as she let out a small noise of discomfort. “I live on this wing. As I’m sure you’re aware, I am not like the other courtesans here.”
“And how is that?” Oran laughed, eyes dropping to the moonflower branding her chest. Out of instinct and fear, she tugged at her robe to cover the mark. “How are you not like the others?”
Nymiria considered herself to be too outspoken sometimes—a certified chatterbox and oftentimes quite the know-it-all. But now, as Oran Yaarborough moved so close to her that his chest bumped against her shoulder, she found herself struggling for the right thing to say. “Perhaps he simply… thinks highly of me. To be honest, I’m not quite sure why he put me here.” Her tongue felt heavy. Thick and dry, like she hadn’t drank water in days.
She’d been too distracted by that dark look in his eyes to realize he was closing in on her. Not until her head softly collided with the wall behind her—his body an imposing figure that could have swallowed her whole. He was large. He was breathing heavily, his breath thick with the smell of alcohol.
Her heart pounded, her body going rigid as his hand came up to her chest. “He thinks highly of you?” The prince hummed, as if her words were a joke.
She narrowed her eyes, trying her best to suppress her flinch when the pads of his thumb moved over the curved tip of the flower above her cleavage. “He hasn’t shown any sexual desire towards me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He paused, quickly tucking his hand behind his back. “I wasn’t.” His eyes bore into her own—intense. Everything about him exuded this overwhelming intensity that she could not shake. As if sensing her discomfort and the erratic beating of her heart, he grinned. “Although, that is rather surprising considering how much he spoke of you in his letters. He would recount his days for me as if they were the diary entries of a young pubescent girl describing a schoolyard crush. Now that I see you in all of yourglowingglory, I think I might understand—you’ve ensnared him. Haven’t you?” He leaned closer to her, his lips mere centimeters from the sharpened tip of her ear. She was so shocked, so stunned that she hadn’t realized she’d let her glamour fall, her Mystic form revealed to him in full. Nymiria moved to better cover herself with her robe, but Oran gripped her wrists and pried them away from the fabric.
“Do you know why my father sent me away, Nymiria? It certainly was not to see the bright and beautiful wonders of the world or to see art or learn to write those sonnets and poems he has recited to you.” The tone his voice took was one that could chill to the bone. Nymiria tried to pull away from him, a sudden surge of fear claiming her limbs and inspiring her to run away as fast as she could. Oran placed a single, gentle hand upon her shoulder to hold her in place before returning the appendage to his back. “My father sent me to fight his war, little Mystic. He sent me into the Beyond to exterminate creatures of your blood. Creatures like you who he thinks sohighlyof.”
It wasn’t a lie. She knew that Dorid Yaarborough had been killing Mystics for as long as he’d sat on the throne. His father before him did the very same. This was not news to her or anyone else, for that matter. But listening to those words still felt like rubbing salt in a wound. “And?” She hissed. “What does that have to do with me?”
"Stay away from us." At his words, Nymiria jerked her hands free from his grasp. “Sleeping with the enemy will only get you killed, little Mystic."
"What are you talking about?"
Oran took a small step back. "Beware of the branch with twisted roots, Nymiria. Darkness lurks amongst us and it will come for you—devour you." He shook his head, running his fingers along his jaw as he looked her over once again. "You're going to die here."
She clamped her jaw together, hoping that it would prevent her from spewing the harmful, foreign words that were like a knot in her chest. With her hands curled into trembling, tight fists Nymiria watched as Oran backed away from her and disappeared into the darkness beyond the corridor. Trying to steady her breathing, she waited until she could no longer hear the falling of his footsteps before she hurried back to her rooms. Her desire to bury herself in books was long forgotten and replaced with another ragged, hateful sob filled with rage and…hurt. Eyes clouded with tears, she turned down the hall that led to her door. She opened it slowly, clutching at her chest as she lifted her eyes.
But what she saw was not the familiar rooms she found solace in. No, gods above, she had surely made a fool of herself for athirdtime today. Instead of her large four poster bed decorated in fine purple silks and an embroidered duvet, she was now staring at the game room. And there, right behind the billiards table, was a man with short hair just as white as her own with his pants tugged down to his thighs.
His beauty was otherworldly, his eyes and skin glowing as his gaze moved from the woman splayed out in front of him to…her. Plump lips parted, his brow drawing to the center, creating a strong crease between them. The black jewel dangling from his ear shimmered, his jaw quivering as his teeth clamped together.
She should have looked away. She should have been repulsed, but her morbid curiosity had claimed her at last. So she watched.
The man was buried between the thighs of this woman, her cries of pleasure reverberating off the vaulted walls of the room. And when she reached for the man that was still looking at Nymiria with such sinful eyes, the man pushed her back onto the billiards table and slapped her hands away from his chest. His thrustsbecame more powerful, his lips curving into a devious smile. Still, he did not look away from her.
Heat coiled low in Nymiria’s body, her cheeks flushing with that same sinful heat. But it was the brand on her chest that made her gasp—the soft tingling sensation that flared through the brand like a surge of lightning—that finally pulled her from her stupor. She jolted, lips parting as she fought the urge to rub her thighs together to alleviate the throbbing that plagued her most intimate area.
His eyes.Somewhere, somehow, she'd seen them before.
