Page 3 of The Faceless Queen

One regular in the crowd, a farmer with a bright red beard and hands that were never quite fully clean, was so engrossed by my movements that he stumbled forward as I fed from him, barely catching himself against a table. My hair gleamed even brighter, my skin glowing from within as the energy from his lust poured into me. The more I took, the more beautiful I became.

I did my job here well. Too well. I’d always been a good dancer. Since I was a girl, I had trained with the best, and as often as I could. But the Azete powers I held allowed me to hone in my appearance, to become the object of anyone’s desire.

I could have the farmer on his knees, have him begging as he crawled to me. I could have anyone I desired do the same. Anyone at all. But none of that mattered at the moment. Because despite all of the power I’d taken, all the power I held within, I was still beholden to Geoffrey. And he’d chosen the man I’d seduce tonight.

The man in the green velvet cloak.

Finlay quickened the beat of his drum, the heels of his hands snapping against the goatskin top, just as Thomas, another good friend of mine and our mandolin player, began to pluck vigorously at his strings. He grinned wildly, his bright blue eyes sparkling with the pleasure of simply playing music. The song swelled, the rhythm almost spinning as the verses came faster and faster. Between Finlay’s frenzied drum strikes and Thomas’s fingers flying against his strings, we were hurtling toward the dizzying crescendo of the finale.

It was then I found the nobleman again in the crowd. I met his eyes, and I took them in so fully that my breath caught. Even in the dark, they were a startling green, framed by lush eyebrows. His hair was a golden brown that seemed to curl in every direction. And for a moment, I felt something warm and wonderful bloom deep within me, something that seemed to originate from my heart, before it spread out through my arms, and down low to my belly. It was a feeling of familiarity and comfort.

Like I knew him.

But that was impossible. I didn’t know him. I’d never seen him before. Yes, he was handsome. Beautiful even. I would have noted him had we met prior. I would have remembered him. Not his wealth, nor his clothing, but him. The color of his eyes, the blush of his cheeks. The plump shape of his lips, and the way they lifted into a genuine smile as he watched me. I would have taken in the sharp contours of his chin and darkly stubbled jawline. The way his face lit up. His curls, and how they shone almost golden in the torchlight …

Golden.

Golden curls glowed in the firelight of my bedroom. Dark green eyes turned icy and cruel. A belt unbuckled harshly, the metal clanking to the ground. A sharp slap of his hand stung my cheek. My eyes watered in pain as I stumbled, losing my balance and falling backward as my knees hit the bed. My heart was breaking even as he crawled over me, pressing my body into the mattress, his fingers tightening against my throat, squeezing harder and harder.

I pried his fingers back, and screamed.

“Stop fighting,” he growled. “You know you like it.”

“Jaron, please. Please don’t,” I cried. “Don’t do this.”

But his hand swung again.

And then there was blood. So much blood …

The truth came crashing down on me like a wave in a storm. I’d been so focused on the nobleman’s wealth, and on the most superficial aspects of his appearance, I hadn’t allowed myself to truly take in his face. To see him. To see the way his features all came together.

But Gods, I saw it at that moment. The nobleman was familiar to me. He looked just like someone I’d met before. Exactly like someone I’d met before.

He looked like Crown Prince Jaron, Heir to the Throne of Eskalon.

Their hair carried a similar curl pattern, their eyes nearly identical in shape. The green of their irises in the firelight was equally startling. And now that I was paying attention, I knew that the gold thread in his cloak was reserved only for the royal members of House Lafir.

King Tirian’s house. My people’s enemy. My enemy.

This man wasn't Jaron. He wasn’t the prince. But Gods. By the look of him, and his clothing, he was damned-near close. Too fucking close. And Geoffrey had marked him for me tonight.

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.