The Velvet Oath (Book 1)

The room reeked of old wine, sweat, and betrayal.

Ziva sat still, her back straight despite the ache in her spine, her hands clenched in her lap like folded daggers. Her father stood a few feet away, speaking to the envoy with a calmness that was somehow forced, but his hands trembled as he poured wine into two silver goblets. He didn’t look at her. He hadn’t looked at her since the letter from the palace arrived.

She already knew. The minute he refused to meet her eyes, she knew something bad had happened. She knew he’d sold her.

Not to just any noble.

To the king.

King Malric. The man people compare to a curse. Even men from noble families say the same about him. Some said he carved loyalty into flesh. Others said he kept the hearts of traitors in jars, displayed like an art gallery. All Ziva knew was that he was old enough to be her father and cruel enough to make even the gods flinch.

And her father had offered her up to him like a sacrificial lamb.

She bit down on my lips trying to control her temper but at the last minute, she just couldn’t.

She stood abruptly. “So that’s it?” Her voice sliced through the chamber like a dagger. “I’m a coin you toss at a man you fear?”

Her father froze. The envoy turned his head slightly, amused. Ziva didn’t wait for permission. She walked closer until she stood in the firelight between them. Her gold-flecked eyes like her mother’s burned as they locked onto her father’s.

“I am not a tool. I am not a gift. I am not yours to give away.”

“Ziva,” he said, quietly. Almost gently. But it was too late for softness.

“You’re delivering me to a man who kills women who speak out of turn.”

“You’ll be queen,” he said, as though that meant anything. As if that was supposed to make her feel better.

“I’ll be shackled, ill have no freedom,” she whispered.

The envoy stepped forward then, tall and armored in black steel. “You won’t be shackled, my lady. Not physically. But if you break the oath once taken, the punishment is... permanent.”

Ziva laughed, a low, bitter sound. “Will he kill me before or after he fucks me?”

Her father slapped her.

The sound echoed through the room, sharp and cruel. Her cheek stung. Her pride didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. But he wasn’t. Not enough.

Ziva turned away, her eyes fixed on the fireplace. The flames reminded her of something. It was the same as the look in her mother’s eyes before she died; bright, desperate, and burning.

She would not beg.

By dusk, the deal was sealed. A velvet box was delivered. Inside it was a ceremonial cord dyed in the King’s personal hue: black threaded with crimson. Symbolic. Binding. She would be expected to wear it around her neck during the oath. Like a collar.

They bathed her in rosewater and dressed her in soft silk, as if luxury could soften betrayal. As though it would make her feel any better than a slave.

She stood before a mirror and stared at the girl reflected back. Her skin shoned. Her curls had been tamed and twisted into an elegant knot. She looked like a nobleman’s daughter. One perfect for a gift but behind her gold-flecked eyes, was pain, anger and desperation for freedom.

They came for her at dawn. Four guards and a closed carriage. She didn’t speak as they led her down the hall. Her father stood at the threshold, pretending not to cry. She passed him without a glance. He wanted to say something to her but she walked past him making him swallow his words.

She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d broken her and her trust. He had given her away in a desperate move to protect himself and his house.

But what about her? Does she not matter?

They soon arrived at the palace and as the gates closed behind her, Ziva whispered to herself, not a prayer, not a wish, but a promise.

“This will not be the end of me.”