2
A bucket full of icy water to the face and a spike of pain through the skull brought Valine to. She awoke spluttering, discovering herself strapped to a wooden chair with leather manacles. Blood caked the back of her head, matting the dark locks, and nausea accompanied her blurry vision. She was dripping wet, hair soaked to her scalp, and her flimsy dress was now near sheer.
“Motherfucker,” she hissed through the pain.
Valine tried wiggling around, but the restraints held fast. Not only were they tight, but they highlighted the fact that she’d been stripped bare of her weaponry. All ten of her blades, pistol, and bladed barrette. They’d even plucked her garrote rings from her fingers.
Bastards.
“Ahh, the little assassin awakens,” a melodic male voice chortled, and a thrill of familiarity stole through her.
Valine squinted past the pain and the hazy light filtering in through a basement window. There were bars on it, and a mix of streetlight and moonlight filtered in—good. It was still night. The walls were stone, as were the floors, and past the dim lighting, the only other structure she could make out was a set of stairs leading up to a wooden door. It was musty and smelled of it, dust coating the corners of the room. This was not a well-used place—not a good sign. There were three tall figures surrounding her, but they were shapeless forms.
The one who’d spoken stepped forward, close enough for her to define more features.
Before her stood a man with crossed arms, and she was taken aback at the astounding shade of magenta he wore. The cloak was clasped with a golden brooch, inset with a large topaz in the shape of a sun. Above, his hair was perfectly coiffed and a shocking shade of red—a deep auburn she could hardly recall seeing in her life.
At his feet sat a wet, wooden bucket.
“Sorry about that knock to the head, love,” he continued in the same accent as hers. The accent of a place she once called home. “But you’ve been a difficult one to get a hold of. Desperate times and all that mess.”
“You’re from Runell,” she deadpanned.
She could hear the evergreens and peach orchards in his voice. She could see the silver statues of Runellian saints and turquoise ocean on his face. She could smell the blackberry fields and humid sunshine on his clothes. He embodied the best memories of home. It was almost enough to convince her to forget the worst.
“As are you.”
Runell was at the south-western end of the continent. The mass of the country curved around a narrow bay framed by two crescent islands. Virtually every city, village, and town occupied coastline. It was jewel bright and cool, monsoons and lightning storms common, but it was also sprawling greens, lush forests, and orchards. Runell didn’t possess mountains or lakes, but it had one strong river at its border and ocean as far as the eye could see.
“What are you doing in Adraali? And who are you?”
He chuckled, and the sound was oddly comforting to her cold heart. “Alastair Whitechurch. And I could ask you the same thing, but to skip the games; I’m a dignitary, permanently stationed here. Personally, I think it was just that my parents desired my drinking and debauchery as far from their estate as possible.”
Valine remembered the Whitechurch family from long ago. They were one of the larger names, notable and rich, with a glorious penchant for luxury and a strict code of image. If Alastair was participating in entertainment of the boozy and licentious variety, then it was no surprise he was sent off.
Runell was strictest of all the kingdoms; customs unwaveringly enforced and rights stripped, with fair-skinned, older men holding all the power and decision-making abilities. Women were little more than brood mares and pretty baubles on arms, and access to many herbs and substances like contraceptives or recreational drugs—including alcohol, aside from sanctified wine—was forbidden under punishment of dismemberment or death. It was not a forgiving place, especially for someone like Valine.
As she blinked a bit more of her fogginess away, more of Alastair’s features came into focus. He looked somewhere in his twenties—still youthful, but the solid lines of his jaw indicated his maturity. His cheekbones were high and elegantly curved, and his eyes were like the summer skies of the Valassa Beach at midday—clear and endlessly blue. He was possibly one of the most handsome men she’d laid eyes on, with a long, straight nose, full lips, and a touch of highlighting cosmetics on his pale features,.
“What do you want from me? Money? Names? Secrets?” she demanded, searching the men in the barren room. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of diamonds.”
“Your services, actually, Valine.”
Valine whipped her gaze to the dark voice beyond the flamboyant man and zeroed in. Heat and panic flooded her face because she knew him.
He was the king.
Valine tilted her chin up, trying to regain some semblance of dignity and composure. Her lip curled in a sneer, and she knew the look on her face could only be described as haughty.
“King Malik Jirani Amir.”
King Malik had only recently obtained the crown and throne a mere five years ago. In that time, Adraali had become the wealthiest kingdom on the continent and the strongest in military. It was no surprise when the newest Amir developed a lust for greed and power, beginning the conquering of lands. Already, he had the entire east side of the continent—aside from Ixaitha—allied and in the palm of his hand. Yet, all he seemed to want was more and more. She had to give him credit however, he punished crimes like Captain Ishaq’s to the severest degree, and poverty in Astra and Nyxia were at an all-time low. Although, those may be his only redeeming qualities.
He chuckled softly as he approached, and his face came into light. His complexion was a light brown, sculpted with an artist’s hand. His strong jaw held a groomed shadow of a beard. Hair, heavy on top and shorter on the sides, black as night fell over his brow. But his eyes…oh, his eyes. They were lined in gold and framed with full lashes. They were an unnamable shade. They were the lightest of blues and the softest of golds. They were piercing and captivating.
“You say my name like I’m in trouble.”
All the fine hairs on her body were raised at the sound of his voice. It was lilting and lyrical, smooth and melodic. It was a lethal calm and a soft chide.
“I disagree, Your Majesty. I say your name in reverence and acknowledgment.”
He scoffed, showing off his white teeth. “What a pretty little liar you are.”
Her lip curled. “I try.”
King Malik now stood before her, and she took in his frame. He was lean, yet muscles showed through his fine ebony clothing. His boots were jet and clasped with gold, the thick soles of which only added to his already impressive height. She stared up at him, daring him toward his next move.
“Why is it that I had to resort to a courtesan hiring you rather than regular channels? You ignored my previous summons.”
Valine hid her surprise. She hadn’t realized Nallia had hired her so that the king could access her. To know exactly where she would be and when. It was a slight blow knowing she hadn’t been hired to mete out Nallia’s justice but rather turned into another pawn on the king’s chessboard.
“Apologies. I suppose I never got the letters.” A lie, of course.
The redheaded man from home—Alastair—chortled behind the king, knocking elbows with the darker figure next to him. The other man smirked but remained silent.
Malik leaned toward her, and she could see his eyes taking her in. Soaked as she was, she knew she was a beauty. Long hair, creamy skin, luscious curves, an ample bosom. She knew with the cold and the wet that her nipples were erect, and she dared not consider it might also be due to the king’s hungry gaze. He was slow in devouring her person, and a thrill shot through her. She contemplated if she would taunt him.
She would.
Ever so slightly, she parted her legs and shook out her hair.
Malik immediately noticed and placed a hand directly on her bare thigh. His touch was hot, and wetness seeped between her legs. His other hand came to rest on her throat, and he applied an expert amount of pressure. And she knew two things at once.
One, he knew just the right amount of pressure to expend where to heighten sexual desire.
And two, he knew just the right amount of pressure to expend where to strangulate.
She didn’t care that two others were in the room; her pulse went wild with Malik’s touch, and he knew it. The bastard even smirked.
“As much as we both might enjoy those services, they are not the ones I am referring to,” King Malik teased, and she flamed.
Releasing her from his spell, he backed up and paced.
“I’m in need of an assassin that I may retain in my employ. After careful consideration, word of mouth, and frequenting of the seediest establishments Astra has to offer, your name was consistently on everyone’s tongue.”
“Well, how sweet of you to think of me. Truly, I’m honored to be your selection, but I don’t do repeat business, and I don’t work for royals.” Valine shrugged. “It’s dangerous in my line of work.”
Royalty notoriously paid well, but it was always messy. It was always siblings, cousins, and parents, and they were not the sort of clients she preferred to prey on. Small hits on lords and ladies were a gray area to her, but she drew the line at princes, princesses, and regent rulers. Besides, more often than not, kings could make you disappear with the right words—a wealthy mistress had only the reach of her money. It was smart business, Valine had reasoned.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You possess a certain skill set and presence I need, but I could hire many other assassins. Though, to be frank, yes, you were my first choice.” Pivoting toward her. “And you do now. I own you. You will only work for me. Only do the jobs I place before you, and you will be happy to perform such duties.”
“And if I don’t? You’ll kill me? Or am I just to be your slave?”
The prospect was terrifying to her. To be at such a mercy. There were reasons why she chose to use her body for death rather than sex. Simply, it was an easier choice with her predisposition towards the darker of the two—with her necromantic abilities—but even so, the idea was horrifying. Horrifying enough that she debated assassinating the king and his men right then and there.
She tried.
She reached out with her magic, a charcoal smoke visible only to her, and coiled it up the king’s legs, circling his form and twining its tendrils up around his throat. Then, with the slightest conscious decision, she squeezed.
And nothing happened.
Malik raised a groomed brow in question. “If you’re trying something, you’ll be disappointed. I’m protected from all magics.” A breath. “My men are, too, if you were considering.”
She was.
It wasn’t worth the risk of attempting to harm his men if the king could not be touched. That was a surefire way to end up positively dead.
Sighing, she loosened her hold, and the smoke slithered from him, crawling back to her over the floor and bleeding back into her skin. It filled her with the coolness of night and the scent of cinnamon. She didn’t see a Veritasium Medallion, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have the magic-repelling silver somewhere on his person.
“You’re a despicable fucking asshole,” she spit.
He only grinned. “You don’t get to be king by playing nice, Little Liar. Although, you never let me finish. You won’t be a slave, rather, you will be an esteemed employee and paid handsomely, I assure you.”
Valine’s interest was piqued. “How much exactly?”
He named a sum.
“Monthly,” he added.
Valine was floored. It was an astronomical amount. More than she dared to hope for in her lifetime and it was a monthly fee. It was enough for her to obliterate her self-imposed line in the sand and leap over it. With that amount she could pay off all her debts and then some. With so much money she could live comfortably. Forever.
Valine grinned.
“Now, why didn’t you start with that, dear king?” She jingled the buckles on her restraints. “If we have an agreement, is there any chance these can be removed?”
Malik cocked his head to the side and signaled to the third figure in the room, the one she’d yet to interact with. He stepped forward, and this man embodied everything about a Valmotti warrior.
The years of training Valmotti had to go through were grueling and intense, shaping them into the finest weapons the continent had to offer. From near infancy to early adulthood, they were trained in every weapon from each kingdom until they were proficient enough to best a master. Their education included identification of poisons and their following symptoms, in addition to survival in all climes. First and foremost, they were protectors of the innocent, but they were more dangerous than the ōrdinem or the Vanguard. Both of which were prestigious societies dedicated to the training and enlisting of assassins and warriors.
The Valmotti had a short, well-groomed beard, sculpted brows, fine lips, and a vivid set of amber eyes narrowed in concentration. It was clear he was the tallest of the three and the most muscular. His skin was warm brown, several shades darker than the king’s, but his hair was the same raven black—albeit longer, the length brushing his shoulders.
“Sarim, care to help the lady?”
“You’re a pain in my ass, prince, you know that?” Sarim’s voice was gravelly but playful, and a light glittered in his eyes, unfitting for the current circumstances.
Malik’s mouth twitched, and at first, Valine thought there was a rift between the two—one she considered driving a wedge between to further her means and potentially gain the upper hand—but she was mistaken. Sarim was teasing Malik, and Malik was letting him because they were friends. She inwardly sighed.
“Careful there, Mal, you almost cracked a smile that time,” Alastair announced, bumping shoulders with the king before he turned his attention towards her. “He hates when Sarim calls him ‘prince,’ but that just makes him want to do it more.”
The king flipped him off.
Sarim took Valine’s wrists in his large hands and looked her dead in the face, his amber eyes burning. “If you attempt to harm me, these go back on with a black eye and a broken nose to accompany it.”
Valine feigned innocence. “I would never! Besides, don’t you have codes about beating women as a Valmotti Warrior?”
Sarim smirked with amusement. “If you know I’m Valmotti, then you know that we do not consider female warriors lesser. Therefore, your status as an assassin places you safely within my ethics.”
“Well shit,” she muttered, and Sarim laughed low in his throat. The rumbling noise sent shivers down her body and through her core. She chastised herself; she didn’t need to be sexually aware of two of her should-be captors, but again, Sarim was very attractive as well. Frankly, they all were.
Pulling her wrist towards him, she attempted to cool herself while his fingers expertly worked the straps. They loosened, and as he bent to her ankles, he stared up at her from heavy lids. She quite liked the view.
“Kick me, and I swear—”
“Worry not, Sarim. I feel no need to get any more blood on these boots.” Captain Ishaq’s blood still stained the leather—and her skirt, too.
He removed the last of the manacles and stood. Valine also got to her feet, reaching only to Sarim’s chest. She crossed her arms, stared up at him, and skirted around him.
With a confident stride, she crossed the room to Malik, and he watched her with amusement. The moonlight hit his eyes, and for a second, they glittered silver. She took in this man, the King of Adraali, holding so much power in his grasp, her life in his hand. But in them, she knew he saw her, too. Saw her not as an adversary, or a tool he now possessed, but as a woman who could bring him the world.
Her lips pulled up.
“When do we start?”