Page 4 of The Faceless Queen

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.