Page 5 of The Faceless Queen

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.

“Not a lord?” I teased. “Surely, a man such as yourself holds a title of great importance.” I reached for the edge of his tunic and tugged on the rich material, grasping it until coins jingled. Not mine for once, but the ones he carried in a leather purse at his waist. The purse Geoffrey eyed like a shark.

The nobleman shrugged. “Debatable. Titles I’ve found have a habit of becoming relative in their importance. They mostly depend on who is willing to honor them, as well as who you’re standing next to.”

“Relative? Hmmm.” I tapped my chin. “Perhaps you’re right. Though I suppose that depends greatly on the company you keep.”

“And aren’t we all in great company tonight,” Geoffrey said, his voice lascivious.

I barely kept from rolling my eyes and smiled at the nobleman. “I shall concede to you that some rather impressive titles could be lessened of their importance, but only when standing beside a more powerful person.”

“You shall concede?” The nobleman’s cheeks flushed. “I did not know we had entered a debate.”

“Then you were not paying close enough attention.” I laughed. “However, it is a debate I’m most happy for you to win. Under the right circumstances, of course.” I raised my eyebrows, my eyes pointedly dipping down the length of his body, sweeping along his rich clothing. “Pray tell me, what sort of man might lessen a title like the one you must surely hold?” I met his gaze. “Perhaps…someone like the king?” I asked.

He paled and stepped back with a nervous shake of his head. My hand left his tunic and returned to my side.

I was playing with fire. It was stupid and reckless, and Geoffrey’s venomous look confirmed it. But I couldn’t help myself.

“Well,” the nobleman said, “isn’t everyone’s? Surely no title in Eskalon can compete against that of our sire.”

Except for a queen. But I bit my tongue. “Surely not,” I agreed.

Geoffrey’s eyes darkened. He didn’t like that the man had moved away from me. Didn’t like that he’d rejected my touch. Maybe the great big prick should’ve kept his mouth shut while I was flirting. Not that it mattered. He’d blame me either way.

“Well, I do not mean to keep you my la—I mean, Samara.” The nobleman looked embarrassed. “I simply wanted to tell you how grateful I am to have seen you dance tonight. You were—are—beautiful. Your dancing, I mean.” He let out a sharp, flustered breath. “Your dancing was wonderful. Most accomplished and skilled. Truly. But I shall join my friend at the bar and leave you in peace.” He paused, his gaze roaming over my body. “I bid you good night. Please, be well.”

“Thank you,” I said, my stomach unclenching. By the Gods. He was leaving me. Releasing me. I wanted to cry in relief.

But the decision wasn’t up to us. He may have outranked every one of us in the tavern combined, but he’d been right about the relativity of titles. And in Geoffrey’s Tavern, Geoffrey was king.

“Please, do not feel compelled to take your leave so soon,” Geoffrey said. “Samara would love to get to know you more. We have a room all ready for such purposes. Finely outfitted. Quiet. Private. I’ll send up some food and drinks. Absolutely delicious morsels from our cook. You can continue your…conversation. About dance. Or any other topics. As long as you like.”

It was only then that the nobleman seemed to fully grasp Geoffrey’s meaning. His face reddened, so much anger pouring out of him that his mind opened to me. But it was brief, fleeting. One thought. One word.

Scoundrel.

Out loud, the nobleman replied curtly. “I thank you for the offer, but I must decline. My friend Rowan,” he gestured to the redhead, “he’s the one who dragged me out tonight. Master Finlay’s reputation for drumming has reached across Eskalon. And now having heard him perform, I must say I agree. He is a most accomplished musician.”

“I can offer you a personal introduction to Master Finlay as well, if it pleases you,” Geoffrey said. “And let me assure you, your friend Rowan will be well cared for tonight. And you can be, too, if you so wish.”

The nobleman shook his head. “No, I—I cannot. I am sorry.” He turned to me with regret. “I am,” he coughed, “about to be betrothed.”

“Ah! Felicitations to you and your future bride.” Geoffrey poked his head between us. “I’m sure it will be a grand match.”