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I slid down from the wall, into a puddle on the floor, both hands fanning my feverish cheeks. The fire beneath my skin was scalding me alive—and he was the one who had lit the match.
“Tell me more,” Harper preened as we got ready in my room.
“There’s nothing else to tell. Everything was going good and then when things started getting . . . heated, I panicked. He left and I went to bed,” I said, studying my neck in the reflection of the mirror.
The bruises were . . . gone. I thought they would be around for a week or two. But no, they were gone, the evidence of my run-in with Von’s sister completely erased.
I turned my attention away and plucked the glass tube from the dresser. I pumped the goat bristle wand before applying it to my lashes. Three coats—Harper would not let me leave the manor without it. Although, I was beginning to understand why—who knew I had eyelashes? The girl from the cottage hadn’t.
“I mean, I get it. He is not like other men,” she said as she shucked off her top and shimmied into a flowy yellow bit of silk. The color suited her bronze skin tone. I could never pull that color off, not like she did.
“No, he definitely is not,” I said honestly. “Are you nervous about tonight?”
“Not really.” She shrugged, “You?”
I paused, thought about it, and shook my head. “No. I’m just looking forward to getting it over with. After tonight, hopefully, I’ll be one step closer to Kaleb.”
“One way or another, we’ll get the information we need.” She flashed a confident smile, her manicured fingers pulling her hair into a high ponytail—her tell when things were about to get serious.
My bare feet padded against the slippery, wet tiles, my toes working a bit harder to keep me upright. A light gold chain decorated in tiny, shimmering, dark crystals snaked its way over my ankle and up my leg, ending just above my calf. Earlier, Harper had found the small black box, adorned with a gold ribbon, by my door—no name attached. Although, when she handed it to me, I didn’t need a written name to know who it was from. When we went downstairs and Von’s gaze had drifted to my ankle, that was confirmation enough.
Tonight, I wore white—the color of a virgin bride. Lace hugged every curve, leaving my stomach and back exposed—the outfit of a harlot. And it was not lost on me that both bride and harlot had two vital things in common—both were woman, and both had sold themselves. The currency for their transactions was nestled in either coin or love.
The giant nude columns, carved with a manmade hammer and chisel but crafted from the divine feminine, greeted me. I offered them a wink, feeling every bit of my confidence tonight. I looked the part—a fantasy, a dream. I prowled the bathhouse like a sex goddess, a far cry from the woodland shrew I started out as.
I caught my reflection in the crystal-clear water—where was the girl from the cottage?
That girl was gone now. Reborn a woman.
A woman who would do anything for the people she loved.
My fingers wrapped around the clay jug as I sauntered towards a group of boisterous men gathered on the west side of the pool. They were no better than a flock of hens as they clucked away, more interested in the tales streaming from the mouth of one man than the beautiful women who hung off them—women who would have enchanted their attention if it were any other night.
I wondered, for a moment, what was it about this man that seduced them in such a way?
“More wine, my lord?” I offered an elderly male, my voice sensual.
But my offer was declined as the elderly man waved me away, dismissing me as if I were interrupting the grown-ups.
Mentally, I hissed.
Physically, I wanted to do a whole lot worse.
It took every fiber of my being, but I refrained from drowning him and his patriarchal ways and glanced to Harper.
She was already in the pool, her toned arm draped over a shorter man with a wily beard, but he was completely uninterested in her.
She flicked her eyes to the man who sat in the middle of the group—the man who they all listened to. He was an eloquent speaker, his stories captivating, but still, I could not possibly understand why the other men were so ensnared by him.
That is when it hit me. It wasn’t his stories—it was his power. His position. They all wanted to bask in the light of it, of him, in hopes that the sun would shine upon them too.
He was the king’s advisor—the second-in-command of the kingdom of Edenvale.
He was a far cry from the old man I imagined him to be.
He was tall, toned, and roguishly good-looking. His hair was trimmed short at the sides and left long on the top. The red strands deepened in color as he combed his wet fingers through. A dusting of freckles was sprinkled across his tanned skin, lightly scattered over his nose, cheeks, and chest. Warm, honey-brown eyes glittered responsively as he weaved his tale, his hands emphasizing the story just so. There was an art to the way he spoke, the way he moved.
And as he maneuvered his muscular arms, his tight torso contracting in response, I realized that his body was built for the battlefield, not politics. Yet here he was, raptured in politics.
