I examine my face in the small vanity mirror. Darius likes to buy mirrors and place them in every room of the tavern, so I can’t, for one second, forget the reason I’d been cast out of my parents’ home. Most women would spit on me for saying the beauty of my face is a curse; but then, most women don’t ever lay eyes on me. The Wicked Lyre tavern isn’t a place that boasts patrons of the female persuasion.
I run my fingers lightly over one cheek. It takes me being run damn-near ragged to put any flush of color into my ivory skin. My skin might have been fetching, if I’d been born with cornflower blue eyes and blonde hair. But the braided coil that gathers at my neck is a black so deep, it shines blue in sunlight. My eyes are large and luminous amber brown, like light shone through a glass of thick liqueur. They shine from a face that’s almost eerily symmetrical, like the crafted features of a porcelain doll, and I appear almost as lifeless.
My face has been described as off-putting almost as often as it’s considered desirable. If my heart didn’t thunder in my chest, most would have thought me a misbegotten beast from further north, one of the blood drinkers cursed for their part in what had been done to poor Princess Briar Rose.
The desire to shatter the glass of the mirror is potent, but I stay my hand. I’ve had enough bad luck to last me a lifetime. I don’t need to add still more to the already badly weighted cosmic scales.
Yet, I hate my reflection, all the same.
A knock on the door drags my gaze away from the vanity and the spoils of my performance. I’ve pulled on one of Darius’ heavy woolen coats to ward off the chill. The only remaining veil I wear is thin and offers little in the way of modesty or heat. I stuff the baggie away for safekeeping as two men enter.
Darius walks into the room first, just as agitated as I’d seen him last, running thick fingers through his dark hair. He flicks his angry gaze back to the doorway and then at me, completing that loop a few times before he heaves a sigh.
“Well, don’t loiter there,” he says to the man who stands behind him. “Come in, then.”
A second man appears in the doorway, and I recognize him instantly. He’s the man from before, the only one in the crowd who didn’t appear to be slavering over me. My breath catches in my throat now that I’m able to get a glimpse of what he truly looks like. From a stance, he appeared quite handsome. Now that he’s nearer, it’s all I can do to keep myself from running a hand along his lightly tanned skin to see if it feels as warm as it looks.
The man is truly stunning. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
His scarlet tunic bunches around a belt at his waist and gives me a hint of just how muscled he must be beneath. A strange stirring begins between my legs, warmth pooling in my belly and every muscle within my body clenches tight. I’m actually shocked at myself.
Is this… Desire?
It must be! It feels exactly the way men have described the feelings I create in them. It’s also the first time I’ve felt this way in the presence of a man. Usually I try to imagine I’m anywhere other than this rotten tavern. I try to busy my mind as ugly and lecherous men stare at me and attempt to touch me.
And though I’ve known the feel of a man inside me—I’ve only ever known Darius. Yes, he’s been offered incredible amounts of coin by numerous men in return for my body but Darius always denies those requests. Why? Because he’s selfish and he’s greedy and he’s never wanted another man to know me as intimately as he does.
Not that I’ve minded—all the men who have asked to pay for my privileges have been ugly, usually as ugly as Darius, himself.
Regardless, Darius, as my only lover, has never been able to bring me to that final, shuddering point where women supposedly find their pleasure.
I can’t put my finger on why, but I have the impression this stranger’s hands could handle a woman’s body deftly. I find myself fixated on those hands, wondering if they’re as rough as the rest of him appears, or if they’re uncalloused from living a soft life of leisure.
I disregard the last thought as idiotic—to look at this man, one would immediately realize he’s never lived a day of leisure in his life.
Darius regards him with a scowl and the sullen air of a child who’s had his favorite toy stolen. The man only smiles back benignly, but even that touch of humor brightens his entire face, making him more lovely, more compelling.
“This man has just offered to pay for a night with you, Snow,” Darius informs me, turning his glower in my direction, as though it’s somehow my fault.
My eyes bug. Surely this is a joke? Because there’s no way this man, with his simple spun clothing and his unassuming demeanor, can afford the price Darius asks for such a thing. Even the exotic and incredibly wealthy Prince Achmed could only afford to monopolize one of my nights with private dances, wine, and conversation. An heir to the throne of an entire nation still couldn’t pay the sum Darius asks for me. An exorbitant sum because Darius knows no man will ever pay it. It’s his failsafe, his assurance that he’ll continue to be the only man who has even known the inside of Snow White.
Yet this man says he can pay that sum and
