Her Fate is Sealed: Target of the Vengeful Beast King

LADY BAEVERA   I stared at the mirror. The black dye-stain I used on my hair for centuries had been washed out. Seeing my fiery red hair again hurt so much.   But at least I would not be wearing the red mask. Small mercies. Instead, they drew a tattoo marking on my face two nights ago, covering it with pressed parchment to let it dry. Then, revealed this morning. A coiled snake resting in a bed of ethereal, blooming flowers veiled half of my face in disguise.   The design was so masterfully drawn that if I walked onto that stage, no one who knew Lady Baevera would suspect I was her. I looked down at the lace garment they had given me. A soft pink that concealed next to nothing. Strategic floral patterns covered my breasts, dipping into a pointed V to hide my most intimate part. The rest of the gown was made of translucent lace that clung to every curve like a second skin.   I felt naked. I was naked.   The door creaked open.   Sesora Byziv, the header and floor overseer of Naked Den, stepped inside. Her long blonde hair framed a beautiful face. "Come with me, Vera."   Vera.   That was the name I had given them. Not Baevera, not Eve this time... Vera.   To everyone in this cursed place, I was just the newest contract slave. Just another pretty face in the sea of beautiful bodies.   My hands trembled by my side as I clenched them to still the shaking.   At this moment, I hated Revandrel more than I had ever hated anyone. If I had a poison-dipped arrow, I would bury it in his heart.   But not before I shot Jolan Kolls seven times in the gut. His betrayal burned me. It was crippling and agonizing.   Seven hundred years, and the male who beat the truth out of the bastard-who made him violate the only secret he had every reason to protect-was Revandrel Cel'theren? Why, of all the power-hungry magnates and perverse, pleasure-seeking fools out there, did it have to be him?   Now I was at his mercy. It was the past all over again, only this time, the fate awaiting me might be even worse.   Jolan had protected my secret because it served him to do so. But Revandrel?   If he ever discovered what I truly am... what I have kept hidden... the effects I had on males...   A full-body shiver rattled through me, and I swayed, catching the edge of the counter before collapsing.   The taste of my last meal rose to my throat, and I swallowed rapidly to keep it in.   Revandrel will exploit me to the fullest, won't he? Sell me, bid me out again and again until there is nothing left of this broken, malfunctioning doll who somehow managed to piece herself just a little bit back together over the centuries.   Jolan may have ruined me, but Revandrel would bury me and nail the coffin shut.   "You are an odd one."   The voice startled me, and I glanced up through the mirror.   The head slave was still standing by the door, arms crossed, watching me.   "You are not what I expected," she said.   My hands gripped the hem of the lace dress until the fabric nearly tore as I forced the words out through a dry throat. "What did you expect?"   "Confidence, smugness, the usual show. You should be out there working the VIPs, seducing them and teasing them. That is what the others do."   "Every slave here throws themselves at the VIPs?"   "Slaves," she corrected without missing a beat. "And no, that is not what I meant. I am talking about the ones the big boss himself hires. Lord Cel'theren does not involve himself often, but when he does, the girls he selects are... exceptional. They are experts. Confident and entitled. And they damn well own up to it."   Her eyes roamed over me, clearly confused. "You are stunning-maybe more beautiful than all the rest. But you look scared. Hesitant. Nervous, even. He told us you were experienced. But something about you..." She shook her head slowly. "There is this innocence you carry that does not make sense."   She saw too much. I looked away, jaw clenched tight.   "So odd," Sesora muttered, more to herself than to me. Then she straightened and turned toward the door. "Well, let us go. The exhibition is about to start."   She stepped out.   I took one long breath that did not help at all... then stood and followed.   *** LORD REVANDREL   I surveyed the room from my vantage point, at the upper level of the hall, seated in the shadows. The exhibition was running smoothly, as expected.   It was always private, intimate, and exclusive. An indulgence reserved only for the wealthy and the noble, where both seasoned slaves and new hires were put on display to entertain, seduce, and entice.   Music floated lazily above moans and murmurs, pleasure dripping from every corner like honey.   Slaves lounged in the laps of powerful men, as the males kept their eyes on the main stage.   There, maidens scattered everywhere. Some danced in synchronized formations. Some weaved slow, serpentine solo dances. Others staged live shows in the corners for the voyeurs. The rest struck poses, baiting the crowd with their bodies and smiles.   And then there was Baevera Eldareth.   Leaning stiffly against the far wall, radiating defiance like heat.   She was not dancing, was not flirting, wasn't even trying to allure.   The pink lace she wore must have been the most modest outfit out of the selection presented to her.   Revealing, yes, or it would not have made it into the wardrobe at all, but compared to the others, it was practically a nun's robe.   She stuck out like a sore thumb. A broken blade in a pile of new, polished daggers.   Yet somehow, she was drawing attention.   A few of the VIPs had already taken notice of her. Their eyes lingered, tracking her, appreciating her shape, her body.   I snorted. Unbelievable.   Their taste in women was appalling. Idiots. What did they see that I did not?