Far from the grandeur of Merthingham palace, Delilah Purstek rode under the cover of night, cutting into Forest Purmount, northeast of the closest inns or villages. Her mien was clean-cut and proper in spite of the haste she'd departed in. But it couldn't compare to how unpunctual her insides squirmed and tussled, sensing dire apprehension.

Preferring not to think like that, however, an apt task of mentally accounting for her surplus, lavish belongings—yet another innumerable time—which a certain wench, not far from being a cheeky thief, could have unscrupulously embezzled, surmounted in her head.

Lucy, was it? She recalled.

Delilah allowed the queer pang of affinity to thaw her frigid blood, pitying the youth who, although adjudged socially dishonorable was admirable to she, herself, wielding a drive and spirit that Payhen law dictated a gentleman's honor. Likes and dislikes aside, it wasn't often—borderline rare—those unusual emotions meddled with Delilah's sordid heart. But when they did somehow invade her worldly solitude, she always took solace in the chances they hardly stuck around.

In a manner of speaking, Lucy's resource will undoubtedly go untouched, squandering away scrubbing grimy chamber pots for an eternity. Therefore, one can suffice it did little to any good crying over spilt milk, her being charming or whatnot notwithstanding.

It also wouldn't stand to reason... changing her rank... her life... or even destiny, itself, with one sole (half-hearted) sympathetic approval.

To assuage the heavy mood, Delilah decided to pay heed to much better circumstances, exempting the fact that she, herself, wasn't any less ill-bred than—or on par with—the strange specimen, via their irreputable bloodline, there was at least one thing she certainly knew she wasn't; a beggarly servant.

Going as far as revelling exultantly in the stark distinction—and would especially in the next few hours—such notoriety in association with Delilah Purstek's existence was exactly that. Acting selfishly, earning wages solely on her own terms, and consuming them just the same. This, for several reasons, ordained nobody to dare dictate how she handled, managed, or expressed herself. Not even her own mother—the bawd who she worked under.

Living with that exquisite kind of evil... the trade ought to come naturally, after all.

So in following set notion, Delilah branded reliance a fickle doctrine—or maybe, just the little her mother apportioned—after the sick words "Trust me" were cooed into her little, cold ears that fateful dawn, inciting the sentiment. "Wait like a good, little girl, and mommy will come running right back," it had continued. The voice, so sweet... warm... and loving sang its words like a serpent melody.

Such a viable thing!

Taking place underneath Mistress Purstek's already guileful nose!

Without relinquishing a sparing ounce of profit!

Delilah could almost feel her mother's 3rd-person, high-pitched voice rake across every lobe within her skull. Constantly swaying from hot to cold was her sort of "reliance". Which in turn, without a doubt, will very well tie her down to Deidrick for a pitiful sum once word of their uncommercial dalliance circulated within the brothel.

The tedious situation simply couldn't be overlooked, whichever sugarcoated excuse is put forward. And certainly, no amount of blazon autonomy, either, when the person in question was an affluent member of the continental aristocracy. Purposefully excluding a bloody crowned prince amongst her clientele was not an option for that woman. Delilah knew that much.

And it seemed to be the hardest pill to swallow.

She'd quite liked him—Deidrick. The long, blond tendrils ironed till the brink of his nape, his silk-smooth skin on hers, his full, lush blonde lashes, his skillful and wicked ways in bed had also all turned her on. How he humored her generously in East Sewithia where they'd first met or his unconventional, surly temperaments included were not, however, sum enough for her to bide faithfully by his side. Or, less humoredly, in his bed, as a mistress.

"Pardon, Madam..."

Unable to bring herself to split the plight so unfairly, a supposition within her convicted the brothel for half her misfortunes, then a fair half to the world itself who made it abundantly clear that women are deemed unimportant for being birth as the weaker sex. Which could only denote preordained doom for the existence of a "lesser commoner," fair and square. No amount of sympathy or crocodile tears could change that.

Not for herself.

"Madam?"

...nor for Lucy

"Madam, I'm opening the door."

Turning to move out from her dejected position, she met the mocha eyes of a stout, crunched man, whom she supposed was her coach, staring dubiously into the carriage space. He must've been the one knocking incessantly at the door, rattling her skull along with her mother's vile screeches. His fidgety hands sold the story. Then another realization dawned.

"Yes?" She jutted her head into her neck, allowing her eyelids to shadow her purple gems achieving an image of cordial irritation. So lost in thought, she hadn't noticed the coach had stilled. "What is it?" She asked. Which had really meant, "You'd better provide a plausible excuse for your incompetence!"

"Madam, this territory... it's scarcely inhabited."

"What's that got to do with my orders to take me further; this isn't deep enough! Must you be such a half-wit!"

"I quite know what you've ordered. But the horses are jaded. We need to stop at a coaching inn for the night, or"—he seemed distasteful of the preceding option leaving his mouth—"We could camp." Not quite to her severity, however.

"I don't think you understand."

"With all due respect, I fear it is you who does not! Your companions have abandoned you, it is well past midnight, monsters will certainly awaken, the horses have been moving non-stop for the past 11 hours, halting at only 2 break stations—"

"I do not fucking care!" Delilah seized him hard by the cravat and dismembered him with a searing, lethal gaze of criminal intent. "Take me to my destination, boy! Come hell or high water!" Before shoving him far from the coach and unto the ground.

The following meeting was going to determine her future and couldn't be rebuffed for anything. Some shady men promised her coin in exchange for the easy task of obtaining a royal carriage. What for? She didn't care. It was ridiculously easy a task—the only hard job was the arduous venture of finding them—that would pay the second half of the 3 million mercs they'd promised so she could flee. To anywhere, really. As long as the haunting shadow of her whoring days sank 6-feet under before she'll crumble with the immortal Merthingham.

There was no hope for this land—

No way humanly possible they would win the incoming war when the North, labelling themselves terrifying giants across the face of the globe, proved themselves so. And the only reason nobles are too blind to decipher the blatant message is because they're too busy "hunting" deer in royal forests, or dipping biscuits in "afternoon cream tea", at the cost of civilian blood loss.

Upon spotting a soft whiff of smoke from, presumably, a campfire, she sprung into action, frantically banging the carriage roof, hollering indications for a stop.

Then jumping out before the vehicle halted fully, "Delilah," A bronze, tattooed man sang her name with a familiar note, sending shivers up her spine.

"Felix," she replied squarely. Could she truly rely on this person? "You made me travel half the continent to find this place, so, money. Now! I've done my part of the deal." But he proceeded to stare at her. Dumbfounded, at first, then blazed with backwards pleasure. "Where's mine, sugar tits?"

"Your what?"

His wicked smile grew unearthly at the scorn riddling her blanched features.

"I need to get some kind of reimbursement, Lady Delilah."

Watching his eyes cover her intimate parts, she was overcome with self-abasement, bellowing a loud gasp as mental support from the shock. "Are... are you fucking slow? ARE YOU RETARDED? THE CARRIAGE IS RIGHT THERE! MY MONEY! NOW, FELIX! OR ELSE—"

"Or else what?" He closed into her freshly paralyzed form. "Or what, Lady Delilah? What is it you would do? Hurt me, is it?" But more than his mocking, perverted threat, Delilah froze, acutely aware of figures approaching them both from behind—accounting 6 sturdy, male shadows emerging from the density of forests, gripping savage animals that foamed by the mouth on tenuous, scant chains. Each one, ready to have their piece of her.

"Yoo-hoo? Delilah? " he jested facetiously. "You're enjoying it that much?" But her body remained unmoving, helplessly paralyzed with thinning fear and twitching nerves at his corrupt, perverted touch. Furthermore, she chastised herself for stooping as low as trusting the words of a man she'd known for less than 24 hours, and who would inexorably release wild justice to end her.

She'd relied on him.

And see where it got her.

The haunting words instantaneously snap her out from a somber daze, commissioning a fighting spirit from all her cells. "That is below me, Felix."

Cupping her bosoms firmly, he kneaded and purred the next words into her ear, enjoying the ticking timer of her gnashing teeth. "C'mon," he goaded. "Be a good, little girl and tell me more."

Apoplectic with rage, Delilah bit hard into the neck of the distracted man and loped from his grip enough to sight tall thickets in lieu of a carriage she had hoped to escape with—which should've also been trailing behind after she'd frantically exited it earlier.

The stout coward hadn't even bothered to follow after when she dashed out early, blatantly abandoning her. "Hahaha, you're a feisty one!" Her perpetrator, on the other hand, kindled an excessive interest, interpreting her defiance as a coy chase, laughing evilly as the wild dogs and men from behind came into full view at his side. "I love it."

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