Page 9 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

Unfortunately, he was not so lucky today.

He was required to stay for months this time.

According to his correspondence with his father, the king detailed that there were numerous individuals plotting his death.

And Oran's. So, it would only seem fitting that he stays for however long he is needed.

He was their most skilled killer, after all.

That also meant that he would be subjected to ensuring that Camalia's needs were satiated.

A thought that had him itching to rip off his gloves and dig into the traitorous skin underneath them.

He drew in a long breath and held it, eyes narrowing and head tilting to one side when he saw a halo of white hair exiting the gate to his mother's grave. He watched as the woman locked the gate behind her, her own blue eyes scanning the horizon before she scurried towards the palace.

Her white cotton gown was stained with dirt, her silver waves flying in every direction as she hurried her pace.

He released the air from his lungs, craning his neck to monitor which direction she went.

And when she finally disappeared behind the pillars on the lowest level of the palace, Aziel shoved himself away from the window with a grunt and began stomping his way towards the courtesan wing.

Ten years.

It'd been ten years since he'd seen her and though he wanted to believe that the odd sensation that coiled in his chest was anger, it was a lie. It was something he hadn't felt in a long time—something that only the recollection of her face could arouse.

Dorid's favorite little subject. He couldn't believe it—couldn't understand it. And after all that he'd sacrificed to ensure that she was safe…

He scoffed and shook his head.

He made his way past servants who skirted out of his way, their worried eyes following his pace and eyeing his hands as if, at any moment, he would lash out and strike them for merely looking at him.

There were times that he wished he could.

Not for their foolishness, but for the simple fact that they saw him as something terrible and awful and he only wanted to prove them right.

It kept them in line. Kept them out of his way.

And keeping these people at a distance was a less harmful way of living than allowing them to get close to him.

His mother's closeness with the servants did nothing but aid in her demise. And that was something that he would not allow to happen to himself.

He turned the corner towards the east wing, preparing himself for what he would say to that white-haired woman when he found her, but each thought he had was cut short when he collided with… her.

He could smell her perfume, a sickening mixture of patchouli, vanilla, and cloves.

It was not so much that the scent was horrible, but that it was overwhelming to the senses.

She wore so much of it that the smell, alone, could cause one's eyes to water.

And her excuse for it was: "A kingdom should know when their queen has arrived. "

Little did she know, the entire fucking world could smell the moment she decided to crawl out of her hovel and prepare herself for the day.

Aziel clenched his teeth, forcing himself into a courteous bow before rising to meet her hateful blue gaze.

Camalia eyed him with the predatory look she always carried, a small quirk of her lips and a subtle arch in her brow as she looked over his clothing.

Surely, it was more than the clothing she was admiring, but Aziel had to comfort himself to some extent.

"You look well." Camalia hummed, brushing her russet colored hair away from her pale skin.

She was not an ugly woman, by any means, but a darkened soul could do copious amounts of damage to the way that someone looked.

And every time Aziel looked at her, he did not see a beautiful queen in the prime of her adult years with generous curves and a charming laugh.

He saw a corpse—one rotted and decaying with fungal roots jutting from the places her flesh had peeled away from bone.

He saw spindly hands with gaudy rings, looking more like the claws of a feral beast rather than soft, plump fingers that hadn't seen a single day of hard work.

Those claws were already sinking deep into his shoulder, holding him in place as she lifted her other hand to brush the blood splattered hair away from his forehead.

"I've missed you." She whispered, eyes flickering to the end of the corridor where a couple of courtesans were returning to their rooms. "I expect to see you in my chambers tonight. After the party, of course."

Aziel said nothing. He couldn't. His mouth and mind were too busy trying to keep his breakfast down.

But no matter how much he managed to swallow down, the feeling of her hands on his body was enough to make the acid in his throat feel as if it would burn a hole straight through.

Anyone who saw them together would chalk their interaction up to Camalia being a loving stepmother to her stepson, but they would not be able to notice the discreet movement of her hands over the front of his trousers.

He bit back a growl, eyes narrowing as he took a small step away from her.

"I haven't bathed in days." He grumbled.

It was a lie, of course, but one that would save him from her wrath.

If she believed that he was repulsed by her, there was no telling what sort of cruelty she would inflict.

"But I will be there. Tonight. After the party.

" With a curt nod, he turned away from her and started back the direction he just came.

He headed towards the west wing, wishing he could rip off the skin she'd just touched.

The night before, he'd buried himself deep in the cunt of the first willing participant that threw themselves at him.

He'd scrubbed his skin until it was raw, the burning image of blue eyes and white hair ingrained in his mind.

Even now, as he entered the safety of his room, he could not get that woman's face out of his mind.

He could not rid himself of the feeling that her eyes were everywhere, that she'd seen everything.

And even though he was angered at the fact that she'd disturbed his mother's resting place, he could not get that look of awe and horror out of his fucking head.

He was familiar with being repulsed by himself, but he'd never seen someone look at him like that.

He'd never cared. Aziel believed that anyone could think of him any way they wished.

It had nothing to do with who he was as a person, but that woman's gaze was one that made him wish she'd never seen him in such a position.

Shaking his head, Aziel shrugged out of his coat and began unbuttoning the matching black shirt underneath.

He ignored the dark markings that marred his skin as he passed the mirror poised outside of the washroom door.

He kicked his pants off and turned on the faucet to the tub, watching as the water filled the porcelain nearly to the brim before he climbed inside.

There was no temperature hot enough that could remove the feeling of Camalia from his being, but he could do his best. With his eyes closed, Aziel lifted his hands from the lip of the tub and began removing the gloves finger by finger.

With a shuddered breath and a clenched jaw, he dropped the gloves onto the floor and let out a shaky sigh as the cool air wrapped around each appendage.

He held them out of the water at first, eyes squeezed tight, flexing them and tightening them repeatedly until he reached for the soaps on the metal tray beside the tub and began washing himself.

He kept his eyes closed. But even with his blindness, he was diligent and thorough, completing his washing as quickly as possible before thrusting himself out of the water and reaching for those ridiculous gloves once again.

He shoved his wet fingers into the leather, ignoring the discomfort of fabric against his damp skin and gripped the drying cloth on the vanity.

"You clean up well." Oran grumbled from his place beside Aziel.

The young assassin quirked a brow, not even caring to hide the amused smirk on his face as he looked over the gaudy costume his brother wore that was definitely Camalia's design.

It matched the decorations placed in the grand hall just outside of the ballroom and Aziel was sure that once they opened those doors, every inch of the room would be decorated with gold and red roses.

The jacket he wore was a deep, shimmering crimson with golden swirls embroidered into it.

The trim along the color and the cuffs was also braided gold, his pants matching the crimson of his top.

The brocade shirt he wore underneath the jacket was covered by a golden vest. His shoes, black boots that reached the knees of his billowing pants.

On occasions, Aziel was incredibly thankful that he was the bastard and not the heir.

He'd surely kill himself before allowing anyone in a public setting to see him in something so ostentatiously ridiculous.

"You do too. You look very… festive." It took everything in him not to laugh the words as he spoke them, but the death stare he received in return for his jest made it well worth speaking.

"No doubt you'll be able to find a wife tonight, dressed in that. "

Oran growled, fidgeting with his jacket. "I feel like a male peacock."

"Sew a couple of feathers to your ass, we'd hardly be able to tell the difference."

"If I had a knife, you'd be wearing crimson too." Oran snarled.

Aziel only chuckled. "Too bad," he huffed. "I'd much rather suffer at the end of your blade than spend a night exchanging pleasantries with your mother's friends. Who, might I add, will all be standing in line to stroke my cock—"