Ophelia has always had trust issues. But it all started when her father, the person who was supposed to love and care for her mother and her for the rest of his life, allowed the excuse of an empire called the Yerpen to kill her mother, his own wife...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The prince was stirring, mumbling a name Narelle as he opened his eyes.
I swear I'd heard of that name before. But now wasn't the time to wonder where I'd heard the name from.
It had killed me, being so near to him, my knife at his throat. There were so many ways, so many times I could've killed him then. While he was unconscious, while I had a knife to his neck, while he had just fucking stood there like he knew how it had killed me to not kill him.
It hurt. So much. The prince had the fucking audacity to contact me, to ask me for my help? The fact that he wanted to kill his father was shocking, to say the least. But the reasoning behind it was typical. Predictable. Why he wanted to contact me was beyond my knowledge.
His eyelids fluttered open, revealing bright green eyes that I'd seen many times before tonight, they flicked left to right, scanning where he was. "Narell-" He started before he closed his mouth. Hurt flickered across his eyes before he replaced it with a look of nonchalance.
His eyes met mine, and the look of nonchalance was replaced by one of hatred. He tugged at the bonds holding his arms. "Where am I?" He demanded.
He really was an idiot.
Silviya took a step forward from where she stood behind me and punched the prince. His head snapped to the side, and he groaned.
I unsheathed one of my daggers, walking forward. The prince took in a deep breath, angling his head away from me. I placed the dagger under his chin, pressing it onto his skin and forcing him to look at me. I smiled down at him. "My dear prince, you've been kidnapped."
He squinted his eyes. "Have I?" He asked.
I barked out a laugh, and so did the rest of the Point. It was quick and cold, and the laugh faded. I stared at the prince once more. It would've been so easy to kill him, so easy to just poke the dagger through his neck. My dagger inched up, up, up, digging into his skin until I was a single breath away from penetrating skin and splitting his throat. And I was about to do that, about to put the dagger through, when the door to the torture cell opened.
He let out a shaky breath, relief flooding his eyes. I removed the dagger, and turned around to glare at the person who'd entered. It was a new recruit.
Except he wasn't new. He wore the typical green sash of a new recruit, but his face was one that was old and scarred. It was stony, and the dark eyes that stared at me blazed with rage at the sight of the prince. It was the face of one of the founders of the Anarchy Heist, the face of one of my superiors. Evrin Aviel. Known in campfire stories as the one born with stained hands.
And there was only one reason he'd take the time to come all the way down here to see me, and that reason was sitting right in front of me, tied to a chair and bloodied up.
"Ophelia Xander, could I have a word." He growled.
I took in a shaky breath and re-sheathed my dagger. "This isn't over yet, Prince." I bent down and whispered before leaving.
