The king projects a sense of power and dominance. His deep blue eyes are exactly the color of his rich velvet coat and—funny coincidence—the uniforms of his guard. A king with ego issues, apparently.
Shocking.
The guards around me all bow deeply to the king. I drop into acurtsy, made awkward by Flack reaching over to yank viciously at my braid and knock me off balance.
The king finally turns to Over-Lieutenant Rackness. “Are you sure this is the one?”
“She certainly looks like a nobody,” a silken voice drawls. From behind the throng loosely gathered in front of the throne steps the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Despite the crowd, an open space surrounds him. Courtiers seem to flinch away, as if they’re afraid of him.
Or afraid to be seen near him. I’ve never much understood court politics. But all this flits through my mind in the space of a heartbeat, because this man is so magnificent that I almost forget my terror and the king and my possible impending execution.
He’s … perfect.
Perfect even beyond the perfection of the male courtesans in my mother’s Guild. If the goddess Artemisen herself designed a man, he would certainly look like this.
He’s tall enough to tower over the surrounding courtiers, making me wonder why I didn’t see him the moment I walked through the doors. Even in his loose-fitting scarlet jacket, I can tell he has broad shoulders. But it’s his face that startles me out of focus on my imminent death. Framed by waves of black hair that shine like silk, his face is a portrait of golden-brown beauty.
But it’s the dangerous beauty I associate with the pirate who pursues Captain Wavedancer around the world.
The villain.
He has a strong, straight nose and high cheekbones. The way his black pants fit his muscular thighs must give a lot of people around here some very sleepless nights.
When I dare to meet his gaze, I’m startled to see that his eyes are the unusual dark purple of the finest Valourian wines—if wine were made of solid ice.
I’ve never seen eyes so incredibly cold in my entire life. When I flinch and drop my gaze to the twist of his sensual lips, I realize he’s scowling.
At me.
When he takes a step toward me, taking in my ragged, filthy dress before looking back to my face, something I can’t decipher crosses behind his eyes. Then his expression hardens, and he glances over at the king.
“Is this really the best we can do? Yet another refugee from the pig barns? How can someone this weak possibly be the one?”
Humiliation and rage rush through me in a torrent of heat. My skin burns from the top of my head to my chest. For the first time since this nightmare began, I’m grateful for the grime that covers me. At least this arrogant prince won’t be able to see my shame paint itself in vivid colors on the sun-starved, sallow canvas of my skin.
I stare at the ground, clenching my hands into fists in the folds of my skirt, and try to put my mortification into perspective. I’ve been mocked, belittled, and shamed by connoisseurs of the art of condescension. In comparison, this man all but saying I smell like a pig barn is nothing.
Of course, I’ve never been shamed by a man who looks like a god … in a room filled with courtiers … in front of the king of Pyrrh, who may or may not want tokill me.
Perspective is overrated.
I take a deep breath, trying to find calm, and that’s when his final words finally penetrate my shame. Theone? The one …what?
He steps closer, but I’m no longer overwhelmed by his presence. I learned from Aislinn Carrolynne’sFlora and Fauna of the Desert Regionthat the deadliest asps in Altarra, native to the Desert of Sharnon, use their beauty to hypnotize their prey into submission.
But guess what, pretty boy?
I’m. Not. Prey.
Flack’s hand shoots out, and his bony fingers dig into my arm so deeply I know I’ll be bruised. “Bow to the prince, fool,” he hisses, yanking me down so my knees smash into the marble floor. I bite my lip but can’t suppress the slight sound of pain that escapes.
The prince, who must be Prince Kaelen, formerly of Valourian—evenI’veheard of him—takes one long stride toward me. His fist moves so fast I barely see it. The next instant, Flack flies backwardand crashes into the nearest candelabra. The hateful guard flails his arms but can’t catch his balance, and he goes down in a sprawl of arms, legs, and burning candle wax, shrieking when the wax splatters his face. Thethunkof his head hitting the floor reminds me of a cleaver striking an overripe melon, and I can’t help but wince in misplaced sympathy.
When I look up at the prince in shock, the ice in his gaze is gone, replaced with purple fire. He bows mockingly and holds out a hand, but I flinch away. I’ve endured enough pain to know I can survive being hit, but this man knocked Flack across the room with a single blow. The same force would splinter me like kindling.
Huddled on the floor, I stare at his boots and wait almost numbly for what will happen next.
Storms pass. They pass, and this one will, too, I try to convince myself.
