Page 34 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

"Are you feeling well, Nymiria?" Brandt asked, his hand falling to the curve of her spine.

His face was kind, but she couldn't ignore the hint of anger that flickered in the blacks of his eyes upon realizing that she hadn't been paying attention to a single word he'd said.

It was always the same with diplomats and noblemen, anyway.

All they spoke of was hunting game, cards, and their most recent excursions—great and elaborate stories that reminded her more of a male bird fluffing their feathers to attract a mate, rather than to have an actual meaningful conversation.

Nymiria wasn't impressed, but it was not her boredom that had snatched her attention. It was the golden light from the chandeliers glinting off of a head of white hair that'd drawn her away from Brandt's incessant bragging.

She suppressed the urge to shove him off of her and instead, gave a polite nod.

"Oh, yes, I'm quite alright." She covered her mouth to hide her smile, hoping that her cheeks looked red enough to be deemed believable.

"I must apologize. When you began speaking of the islands overseas, I couldn't help but imagine what they must be like. I suppose I got lost in my daydream."

Brandt smiled down at her, ushering her closer to a more private location. "I must say that you look absolutely divine when you are blushing."

Thank you. It's fake.

She bit back on a flirtatious smile, averting her eyes to give the appearance of flattery.

She took a deep gulp of her wine, manners be damned, as the conversation picked up again.

He was speaking of his vacation home on the coast, spewing more buttered words about how lovely her freckles would look after some sun.

She did her best to follow her cues—batting her lashes when he said something sweet, laughing when he made tasteless jokes, and placing her hand on his chest when he gave her that look.

Nymiria let her fingers toy with the golden buttons on his blazer, watching as the skin above the collar of his dress shirt started to turn red.

When his fingers closed over hers, she knew that the level of intimacy she strived for had been achieved.

Men like Brandt were the easiest to persuade—they knew that they were attractive and that their status, alone, could woo even the most seemingly unattainable suitors.

They had an arrogance about them, a god-like view of themselves and believed they were untouchable.

And because of their staunch-like egos that made it hard to see anything else other than the greatness in themselves, they didn't even know they were being tricked until it was too late.

Much to her own chagrin, she allowed him to move her fingers to his lips, her eyes hooded as he placed a chaste kiss to the tips.

"I have to confess something, darling," Brandt whispered, his voice dripping with an oily glaze of seduction that made her stomach churn.

"The past few times you have graced me with your presence, I have been left utterly unfulfilled.

I believed that I would be receiving more for the amount that I paid to have you in my company. "

The statement drove a stake directly through her chest—her breath stilling in her lungs as she fought with the shame that riddled her body. Her corset felt too tight, the fabric of her dress felt to heavy. And her skin, good gods, her skin felt like it was squeezing her bones.

Paid. He'd paid for her.

There were very few things that made Nymiria feel shameful in this world, but this was certainly a new one.

She hadn't simply been assigned to him. Dorid had accepted money off of selling her existence and Nymiria would likely never see a single coin of what he made.

And if she knew the king as well as she believed she did—which she did—the price that the duke paid for her was not low.

"Would you like to come outside with me?" Nymiria spoke over a crescendo of piano keys, slipping her fingers through Brandt's. "I believe that I might have the perfect place for us to be more alone."

There wasn't an ounce of hesitation in the duke when she started leading him towards the doors of the ballroom.

The attention of the revelers was focused solely on the debauchery set in front of them, all of them too drunk or too enthralled with their friends and partners to care about what Nymiria was doing with the Duke of Fairnam.

But there was one set of eyes, wild and flickering with every color of the universe, that seemed to burn through her glamour. She caught sight of him as she passed the guards manning the doorway to the ballroom, his eyes trailing her as they always did.

Not even Dorid watched her this closely.

To be so fond of her, he never seemed to offer her more than a glance at social gatherings. Even now, he was busy entertaining—too busy getting drunk, parading around whatever poor courtesan he was going to rut against that night.

Nymiria wasn’t quite sure what led her to making this decision.

But she could feel the prickling thorns of her anger attaching themselves to her.

The pain of her ire was more of a comfort than anything in this world.

It was all that she had left. Seeing Brandt standing in the overgrowth of white trumpet-shaped flowers, right above the place where Owen’s body rested, she started to regret her decision.

Her anger was not worth his impenetrable stare, it was not worth the way he licked his lips when he asked her to show him her true form.

“May I see you?” He sounded polite, forever the gentleman he was raised to be.

And though he was raised to have impeccable manners and be a reputable figure of society, these noblemen were a breed of their own.

They looked docile enough—even spoke with honeyed words that could make the heart flutter.

But inside, they were evil. Vile. And when his hand brushed along the silver marks that stained her shoulder, Nymiria could feel the darkness that was hidden beneath those simple words.

Still, she released her glamour. Although it was a relief to shed her skin, she couldn’t face him.

Her eyes dropped to the ground, white blooms seemingly curling around her legs to keep her rooted in place.

Brandt drew in a shuddered breath, his eyes devouring every inch of her—from the silver hair on her head to the opalescent hue that shimmered beneath her skin.

His gaze finally landed upon the silver outline of the moonflower on her chest, which was far more noticeable and luminescent, the color of the very moon that peeked at them through the sparse overhang of plump, pregnant clouds.

The fog was just starting to tumble in over the green lawn, blanketing the earth in an eerie mist that had the hair on Nymiria’s arms raising to attention.

Something had happened to him. She could see it in the way his eyes consistently shifted from brown to black, his skin rippling on the surface to stretch across the beast that lurked underneath.

As a child, she’d heard tales of creatures that snatched bodies, drained them of their blood, and wore their skin like costumes. She'd had nightmares of them after discovering them and her guard had to sleep at the foot of her bed for months before she felt safe again.

“Anam.” Brandt whispered, the name rousing a pain in between Nymiria’s ribs that was so fierce that she nearly lost her footing. She stumbled back upon his predatory approach, watching with vengeful eyes as he drew nearer to her. “We’ve been searching for you for so long.”

She gripped the hilt of the blade at her thigh, through the concealed slit that Desi had strategically cut into the dress before she put it on.

Brandt’s eyes followed her movements, as if already knowing her intentions.

Yes, he’d definitely changed. Any ounce of softness she’d seen in him at their last meeting, mere months before, was gone.

She was no longer just dealing with a human. That much she knew. Still, she could not understand what this creature meant. He'd called her Anam. “Who are you?” Nymiria asked.

Brandt had her cornered now, his sneer a twisted mimicry of the smile he was trying to procure.

“I have been sent to kill you, Nymiria. The Witch Queen sends her regards.” He tilted his head to one side, his elongated fingers with sharp nails now brushing over the skin of her shoulders, leaving nothing but burning pain in their wake.

Her breaths quickened, her heart rate accelerating as she pulled the dagger from its sheath.

Though the creature in front of her knew the blade was at her side, it didn’t move away from the blow.

She drove the dagger down into his neck, eyes going wide as she watched the creature howl and yelp—his form shifting from that of The Duke of Fairnam to something hunched with hooves and horns, two elongated tusks curving up from the bottom row of sharpened teeth.

But no sooner than the beast writhed in pain did he right himself, ripping her dagger from his neck and tossing it into the mass of vines beneath them.

The bulbs and seeds crunched under his feet, his movements quick as he pinned her to the iron bars encircling her garden.

“You little bitch.” He snarled. “I told them I would kill you, but now I do believe that I will have a little fun of my own.”

Nymiria couldn’t even scream. It felt like her mind and body were at a disconnect.

She could think—she could feel, but could do nothing about the grotesque hands that were now ripping at her dress, shredding the fabric away from her breasts and torso.

The beast licked its lips, growling deep in its chest as it moved to lower it’s head to the dusty pink peaks of her chest. Nymiria closed her eyes, repeating prayers in her head to any god that might be able to save her.

She didn’t hear the footsteps that were now approaching the garden. She didn’t hear the snarling creature that was getting closer and closer to where they stood, nor did she see the flicker of light snap in the air.

She was knocked over into the bed of moonflowers by the force that struck the beast. And as soon as she hit the ground, she looked up to see Aziel standing over her attacker with a blade drawn, but this blade did not shine like that of the silver one she carried with her.

No, this one was a deep black—the same lackluster color as the iron gate beside her.

Doing her best to pull the shredded fabric of her gown back over her chest, she let out a small gasp as she watched Aziel repeatedly plunge his blade into the creature’s neck.

Blood splattered from the wounds, coating Aziel’s pale skin with crimson.

Even when the beast laid motionless on the ground, Aziel kept going.

And going. Until Nymiria mustered enough strength to extend a trembling hand in his direction and whisper his name.

When he turned to her, she saw it, the dark death that crawled through his veins—the putrid scent of decaying foliage surrounded them as fungal roots sprouted from beneath Aziel’s feet, twisting and curling around the large body of the horned beast with slimy, scaly skin, and swallowing it whole.

The roots wove back into the soil, pulling the motionless body into the ground with it as if a pit had been opened up beneath him.

Aziel straightened himself, eyes locked on hers as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his face.

She was still trembling from the feeling of the creatures hot tongue on her skin, but the moment Aziel lifted her to her feet and wrapped his jacket around her frame, the tremors seemed to calm.

“What was that?” She asked.

Aziel shook his head, his gloved hand smoothing away the wild hairs around her face before cupping her cheeks. “I’ll answer those questions later.” He said it tenderly, without any sort of malice or sardonic cadence to his tone. “Are you alright?”

Nymiria stared at the place where the creature had been swallowed up. She wanted to nod. She wanted to say that she was fine, but her mind was still racing with a flurry of a thousand shameful memories that would haunt her to her death. She shook her head.

He didn’t hesitate.

The Demon of the Forest scooped her up into his arms, covered her bare chest as well as he could and walked her back towards the palace.

He didn’t take her near the main entrances, where revelers were still laughing and crying out with joy.

Instead, he carried her in the direction of the servant’s quarters—the narrow entryway that led into the lowest level of the palace.

There was not a single part of her body that rejected his help.

She didn’t even question the roots that moved at his command.

All she could do was look up at the angular lines of his face, taking in the flex of his jaw as he swallowed through clenched teeth.

His eyes were focused straight ahead, weaving through the servant’s tunnels until they were ascending stairs that branched off in the direction of their tower.