The one who spoke is different. Not just in how he holds the knife, but in how he breathes. Measured. Controlled. No erratic hunger, no sweat-slick grip. His black hair is cropped close, like he has no time for anything as trivial as vanity.
Double shit.
To my left, a warhorse of a man scans the courtyard, his grip firm around the hilt of his blade. Another stands near the altar, his hand brushing the stone in thought. Calculating. His presence unnerves me more than the blade at my throat. The last of them moves the least, standing at the edge of the group like a shadow. His fingers drum once against his leather-clad thigh. He’s impatient, like a wolf waiting for his alpha’s command to attack.
My eyes narrow as I look between them. “You can’t honestly think you’ll all be king, right?”
The calculating one’s eyes dip to my golden rosebud, but the others don’t take the bait. The leader—I’m guessing he’s the leader—sheathes his blade and says, “You’re not for us.”
Panic flutters in my chest. I mentally weigh my chances of slipping past them and making a run for it. But the instant I lift my head, I’m pushed back down.
“Lucky for you,” the calculating one murmurs. “The Baron doesn’t want you bruised. Much.”
Cold, grimy dread fills me.
The hand on my chest grows heavier as its owner leans down to inspect me. “He said you’d be special. Can’t say I see it. Maybe I’ll take a taste first, see what the fuss is about.”
“Varek,” the leader snaps. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“Gideon’s right,” the quiet one mutters. “Sooner we get this done. Sooner we get paid.”
Varek visibly bristles at being denied. His palm lingers on my chest, pushing harder to crush my air flow. I stare him in the eyes. My response excites him, but after another stern rebuke from the leader, he eases off.
“How much is the Baron paying you?” I ask, my voice low.
A flicker of hesitation. A quick glance between them.
I smile. “Not enough, I’m guessing.”
One of them shifts—the quiet wolf—and I hear the grumble beneath his breath. The warhorse rolls his shoulders, uneasy. This group might hunt well enough together, but they’re not loyal to each other. That’s the opening I need.
“Why not one of you claim me now?” I press, voice honeyed, deliberate. “Then you’ll be king. You’ll be the Baron’s superior.”
And when you get close, I’ll stab you.
A dangerous kind of silence hits. The kind that means they’re thinking about it.
“You know,” I muse, studying them all in turn. “There’s a reason the Baron wants me so badly.”
“Because you’re a Vesper whore,” Gideon sneers. “Obviously.”
My lashes lower. “One who’s mastered all ninety-nine of the feminine mysteries. Aren’t you curious about why that makes me the perfect queen for any king? Why he waited ten whole years for the chance to claim me?”
Doubt. Suspicion. Narrowed gazes flick between them.
“If you’re smart,” I continue, “you’ll choose before the Baron tosses you aside like yesterday’s hunt. You know how men like him work—when he has what he wants, he doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the leader growls, but his hand tightens on his sword’s hilt. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by his men. They all do the same, eyes wary of each other.
I’m careful of the words I choose, knowing Kasaros punishes those who lie within his game.
“A queen rewards her most loyal subjects,” I continue. “A fancy lord like the Baron? He forgets his men the moment they’re inconvenient.” No one is telling me to shut up now. They’re too busy watching each other. So I make the final push. “The right man at my side won’t just be a king. I’ll make him aGod.” I pause. “But which of you may be strong enough to claim me?”
The first strike happens fast. A blade sinks into flesh, and a gurgled breath follows. Then the violence spirals, quick, brutal, inevitable.
I watch, breathless, as they turn on each other, cutting, slashing, dying. Until only one remains. The cruel one.
What did they call him? Oh, yes.
