Page 5 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

As the story went, the king threw his son into a pit filled with the most heinous and ferocious criminals and forced them all to fight to the death for the title.

How Aziel, a young man of fifteen, had bested forty men was a mystery.

But the next day, when the crowds gathered to see which man came out as victor, they were all surprised and horrified to find that every single man in the pit had perished.

Save for Aziel. And there was not a single drop of blood on his body.

There were no bodies left, either. It was as if they'd merely vanished into thin air or that the ground had opened up and swallowed them whole.

“Get the Mystic!” Nymiria knew they were talking about her the moment she heard the excited command.

Her insides curdled almost instantly, a curse forming at her lips as she grimaced.

It should have bothered her more that she was being hunted for sex, but Mystic was a name she believed she didn’t deserve.

Not when her powers had long-since vanished and the goddess she worshiped had turned a blind eye to her fate.

Physically, yes, she was a Mystic. But she believed there was nothing special about her aside from her peculiar features and the ability to shift those features if the time called for it.

No… everything that made Nymiria special and unique to any regular Mystic had vanished the day she was thrown into an iron cage and transported to a place where she was conditioned to fuck for survival.

Thankfully, she survived for ten years without being called upon.

She supposed her whit and charm and her naturally curious personality had subsequently enabled her to win over the king.

She could hear the strong thumping of boots against fallen leaves and twigs drawing closer, getting louder as she turned and headed for the large pond just beyond the tree line.

With a grunt, Nymiria turned and darted through a thicket of ferns, hurdling herself over a fallen tree and ran closer to the pond.

“Fuck, she’s fast.” One of the men gasped.

It was too soon for her to feel proud of herself.

She still had about ten yards to go before reaching the pond and the clearing that led to it was sloped, which would certainly aid in their speed.

Nymiria held her breath for a moment, closing her eyes and allowing herself to feel the frantic beating of her heart in hope that it would inspire her to go faster.

When her eyes opened again, her breath caught in her throat.

It was too much of a shock for her to stop herself or turn the other direction so instead, she collided with the broad-chested man that had stepped in front of her.

His arms locked around her waist and both of them grunted as they tumbled to the ground.

The two of them rolled, limbs knocking together and tangling, until they landed in the gods-forsaken pond at the bottom of the hill.

The thick wetness surrounded her, muffling the noise of the world around her for just one moment before a strong hand wrapped around the top of her arm and yanked her back to the surface.

That same hand—rough and calloused and large enough to cover her face—cupped Nymiria's cheeks and tilted her face up to meet his.

Paintings were less beautiful than the face that she saw in front of her.

Black curls clung to his forehead just above a set of thick brows that were drawn together in worry.

His deep blue eyes were narrowed, roving over her.

He released a sharp breath from between his plump lips, swearing under his breath as he tugged her back onto dry land.

Nymiria was too distracted by the way his black clothing clung to his skin to realize that there was no one chasing her anymore. The clearing was silent.

“I wish they would stop this nonsense.” He grumbled. “Simply barbaric and entirely classless.” Finally, his stomping ceased and he turned to her again. “What is your name?”

It was more of a command than a question, but she still hesitated. She was sure that she looked like a fish plucked out of water—her mouth opening and closing as she tried to formulate words. “Nymiria. I am a courtesan to the royal family.”

One thick brow raised, an incredulous and breathy laugh sounding from the back of his throat as he thrust one large hand through his hair to brush it out of his face.

“Is that so?” She was prepared to say something else, but the man was already tugging at her again, leading her in the direction of the palace grounds.

Fear lodged in her throat, the overwhelming desire to kick this man in the groin and take off in the opposite direction was stronger than ever. No matter how handsome he was, she did not want to fall victim to a man on Hunting Day.

Her eyes darted around in search of any familiar person, but the grounds were empty and silent, not a single soul near that could potentially help.

Not that they would, anyway. Nymiria was not particularly favored by the servants or the other courtesans.

They would much rather some strange man cart her off and defile her than for them to waste their precious breath on anything to do with her.

Nymiria's eyes burned with tears and even though it was not the smart thing for her to do, seeing as this man towered over her by more than a foot, she wrenched her arm free from his grasp. Unfortunately, she'd tugged so hard that she ended up falling straight to the ground.

The man whirled around, his blue eyes searing into her own as he knelt in front of her. “What are you doing?” He asked.

“I don’t… I’ve never done this before. Please, if you have any sort of decency in you, don’t make me have sex with you.

” She'd had sex before, but no one was supposed to know that.

Playing the terrified virgin seemed to work in her favor before.

Most of the hateful bastards took pity on her if she acted like she was scared out of her mind.

The man stared at her for a moment, blinking slowly before a smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You think that I participate in this bullshit?” He laughed.

“Please—the last thing I need to do is chase down some poor, defenseless woman and force her to have sex with me. Do you think I have any problems finding a woman to fill my bed?” His hand curled around the upper part of her arm, hauling her to her feet with one graceful and gentle tug.

Nymiria's brows drew together as she observed him because… no, he certainly did not look the type. His devilish good looks were enough to have any woman falling at his feet. She shook her head. “I don’t know you.” She shrugged. “You could be a murderer.”

“Really.” He huffed, scrubbing a hand over the thick hair along his jaw. “Does the name Oran Yaarborough ring a bell?”

"Yes, but what does that have to do with you?"

The stranger blinked at her, his mouth contorting from an almost-sneer into a confused expression. "Did you hit your head or something? I am Oran Yaarborough."

She was too wet to be embarrassed. Nymiria raised her chin, shrugging. "You should have said that first. You could have been trying to tell me you were his lover."

"Some days, I am." He grumbled. A look of disgust formed, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink that matched her dress. "I was joking—you can laugh."

"I'm not in the mood to laugh."

Oran continued his marching through the palace grounds until they reached the veranda outside of the throne room.

Servants wove around them, carrying large boxes of food and imported flowers that were surely for Oran's engagement party.

When perfectly concealed under the shade of the awning above them, Oran spun around to face her.

"Why aren't you in the mood to laugh?" He asked.

Nymiria frowned. "I just had a group of ten men running after me trying to take me against my will." She cocked her head to the side. "Did you hit your head? Or did you think that I purposefully fell because I wanted one of you ill-mannered, beetle-browed brats to mount me?"

The look he wore was one that she would never forget.

For a moment, there was anger behind those stormy blue eyes, but then he smiled.

And it was not a smile of malice, nor was it villainous in any form.

His laughter was a shocking surprise. Nymiria didn't think it was much of a laughing matter.

Once his laughter died away, Oran shook his head and ushered her into the throne room.

All she could do was stare at him, watching his shoulders roll as they approached the dais and how his shirt was plastered to the corded muscles along his back as he stooped to a bow.

She was shocked. Perhaps she expected him to look more like his father.

Or for him to be just a hateful, spoiled prince that would demand her to bend over for him upon their first encounter.

Nymiria certainly didn’t expect for him to drag her, sopping wet, into the throne room and start yelling about the barbaric practice of Hunting Day.

She certainly did not expect for Oran to pull her forward and demand that his father look at her and see her state of dishevelment for what it was.

“You wrote to me about Nymiria, father, and you claimed she was a bright and intelligent young woman that was worth more than all of the courtesans combined. Is this what her worth amounts to?”