¬ Fashire
A benign smile curved her reddened lips. She tilted her head to the side, a soft, controlled movement that was accompanied by the sway of her gold earrings.
The golden hoops danced, reflecting the light like captured sunbeams.
She had dark skin but appeared to be on the fairer side. Wavy curls of whitish pink hair cascaded past her hips, and her eyes, though light, held a peculiar tinge of pink.
My hairs rose on end and the icy cold within me raged, sending a numbing chill coursing across my skin.
No one had ever made me feel this unhinged just by being near them.
I was suddenly hyper-aware, almost too conscious of her presence, and it grated on my senses.
"Paloma," her voice flowed like syrup, delicate and entrancing, "I go by Paloma. A paramour of your father, the King."
I paused, astounded by her audacious declaration of herself as the King's prostitute. The sheer boldness of her words grated on my nerves.
Where exactly had that decrepit fool pulled her from?
