CHAPTER TWO
I swallowed back bile, desperately trying to remember every branch and name of Eskalon’s royal bloodline. As if knowing who the nobleman was, knowing his name, his title, and just how much power he possessed would save me.
But despite my knowledge of the royal family, my mind came up blank, unable to find a name–though much good it would have done me.
The royal house named their children from a very small pool of names–each member possessing several of them at any given time.
Which meant that even if I stumbled upon the correct name, it would still tell me very little of who he was.
Half of his bloodline, including the previous king, were all named Nathan.
I tried to shake the thoughts of the man’s identity away.
Because the truth was, what or who he was didn't matter. He was something. Someone. And there was no fucking way I was going to stick around to find the answer. The minute this song ended, the second my dance stopped and my curtsey was complete, Geoffrey could stick his Godsdamned prick in the fires of hell. I would not entangle myself again with King Tirian’s bloodline.
With someone as cruel and sadistic as Jaron.
Not after all they’d done to my family, to me.
Not after last time. I’d worked too damn hard to get where I was.
And I wasn’t going to lose it. Not again.
The music stopped, and I spun around one last time before facing the audience. My knees bent to curtsey, and when I rose, it was to thunderous applause, my name shouted out again and again.
“Samara! Samara!”
My chest tightened painfully. I hated that all these men knew my name. One version of it anyway. The one my mother had called me.
I’d abandoned it when I first went into hiding.
I’d had to. But after the prince, after my heart had been shattered, something snapped inside of me.
I took the name back. I had already lost everything.
So when I had to become someone else again, when I had to start over again, I wanted one thing that was mine.
One thing that was true. If I couldn’t have my title, my home, my face, my body, or my freedom, then at the very least, I wanted my name.
Sweat beaded down my forehead and neck, sliding between the curves of my breasts.
I resisted the urge to wipe it away, both with my hands and my mind.
My audience liked it, liked seeing me in such a state.
Hot and sweaty in an imitation of what they really wanted.
I forced one of my practiced smiles at the crowd.
Seductive. Bright, but just a little shy.
Just enough to give me another sip of energy.
The nobleman grinned from below, his smile almost boyish as he clapped.
Gods, help me. He was handsome. Not that that was ever enough to sway me.
Nothing could fade handsomeness faster than the introduction of a personality.
But with him though, it was more than his looks, it was what they seemed to convey.
And his looks, combined with his mannerisms, conveyed something sweet and kind.
Something true. He watched me intently, his gaze never wavering.
His expression was adoring as he applauded, and even his eyes were gentle. The green familiar.
My heart pounded. The prince had looked that way at me, too. Once.
In the beginning, Jaron could make my stomach flutter. He could weaken my knees, as my heart pounded with just a look. But such deceptive flattery was no doubt a trait honed and perfected within the royal household.
Coins splashed across the stage floor as the men shouted in appreciation, calling out to me what they’d given in the hopes I’d notice and take them upstairs.
“Seven silver, Samara!”
“A ten for you, my lady.”
“I have one gold. Pick me, dancing goddess.”
I ignored them all, especially the cruder calls and requests.
Cecelia, one of the dancers who’d performed earlier, quickly made her way across the mouth of the stage with a basket, collecting our earnings.
She kept her head down as her hair swept over her face.
She’d become much more talented at concealing the scar across her cheek, but I could tell she never forgot its presence.
Just as I was unable to forget how she received it—the last night I ever saw Jaron.
The night I gave him his own scar to bear.
The scar that the crown never acknowledged, never mentioned.
I moved closer to her, still trying to protect her—at least, as much as I could in a place like this.
A few men walked by and nodded at me: a middle-aged stoneworker who was a regular, and another man, a young armor smith whose hair was already gray.
Both of whom I’d brought upstairs in the past. I thought of trying to entice them both again.
To maybe even pick a third and a fourth.
But Geoffrey already had his claws in the nobleman’s arm, leading his entourage to the stage.
I’d have to fuck every man here tonight, and probably every night for a week to attempt to make up for this man’s wealth. It still wouldn’t be enough for Geoffrey’s debt.
“Well now. Look at the redhead,” Finlay said almost reverently, his gaze on the nobleman’s friend—the one who’d watched only him.
His cheeks were rosy on either side of what was a substantially sized nose, but one he wore well and handsomely.
He smiled shyly as he approached Finlay.
A smile that was almost as innocent and boyish as the nobleman’s.
“He’s smitten with you,” I said dully, my throat dry.
“As am I with him,” Finlay said. “You know what they say about nose-size. I think I’d fuck him for free.”
I rolled my eyes. “Nothing in this world is free. Not even your desire.”
Finlay shook his head and pushed his blond hair back from his face.
“Luckily for me, I like it both ways. Desire. And coin. Aw, Sam. Cheer up. The others are fine specimens. You’ll do quite well for yourself tonight.
You always do.” He winked and leapt down from the stage, turning back to offer me a hand.
I grasped it as he took hold of my waist with the other, helping me to the ground.
“Love you,” he whispered. I whispered it back.
Then with a quick kiss to my cheek, he released me and strolled forward, walking right up to the redheaded man.
Geoffrey paused, his eyebrows raised in surprise at Finlay’s forwardness. But the deal was done, so he moved on, fixing his eyes on me.
Stop fighting. You know you like it.
Jaron, please. Please don’t. Don’t do this.
I blinked away the memory, my heart racing as I eyed the bar, wondering if I could escape. If I could run fast enough. I could pretend I needed water. That I was hungry. Or maybe that I felt sick. Anything to delay this meeting, anything to push back what came next.
But Geoffrey was faster, his sharp fingers already digging into my shoulder, holding me in place. If he gripped any tighter, he would draw blood.
“Ah, and here she is. Our dancing star.” Geoffrey winked at the noblemen. “This,” he said, emphasizing the word, “is our Samara.”
My nobleman smiled boyishly again, but said nothing. He simply stared at me, transfixed. Then his friend with the black hair elbowed him in the ribs. The nobleman blinked and nervously straightened out the folds of his cloak.
“Nice dancing up there,” his friend said brusquely. He looked back at Finlay, already engrossed with the redhead, then bowed his chin to the nobleman, something silent passing between them. “Try and have some fun. I need a drink. I’ll be at the bar.”
“Tell them I sent you, my lord,” Geoffrey said. “Your drinks are on me tonight. Whatever you please.”
“Wonderful,” the black-haired man said, and vanished into the crowd.
The nobleman then smiled graciously at Geoffrey before returning the full force of his green eyes back on me. “May I be the next to compliment you on your dancing?” he asked. His throat bobbed. “You danced beautifully, Lady Samara.”
My name rolled slowly off his tongue. He’d spoken it purposefully. Not as if he was trying it out. But as if he liked the sound of it.
And for some Godsdamned reason, I wanted to correct him.
No. I was not Lady Samara. I was Princess Samara. In fact, I was Princess … I slammed the thought away. I no longer claimed my formal name. And I wasn’t a princess anymore.
Princesses didn’t dance in taverns. They didn’t wear coins around their waists and across their breasts. Nor were they ordered to bed strange men by their oily prick of a landlord and boss.
I had to remember myself, remember the cost of each choice I made.
And all I could do at that moment was play along.
Be the dancer. Be the whore. Not the princess.
So I laughed and shook my head. “I’m afraid you flatter me, my lord.
It is just Samara. I am no lady. At least,” I smiled coyly, “not here.”
He nodded. “Just Samara then. My apologies.” The nobleman smiled and stepped forward. He leaned in toward me, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
He was so close I could smell the spiced musk of his perfume, and mint still fresh on his breath.
I looked up at his eyes, sending a small burst of energy to my lashes, just enough to make them lengthen and darken as I blinked. “You have nothing to apologize for, my lord.”
“Do I not?” He let out a shaky breath. “You’re most gracious. I feel then I should confess to you, just Samara,” he leaned in, whispering like we already shared a secret between us like we’d shared hundreds, “I’m not a lord either.”
He wasn’t a prince. But not a lord? I shook my head.
Liar. He was something. Someone. I recognized that golden thread.
I’d seen it on the floor of my bedroom over a dozen times.
The green of his eyes, despite their warmth, were unmistakable in their shape.
As were the curls on his head. He was of the blood of House Lafir.
The blood of my enemy. Practically Jaron’s twin.