The first time I met Prince Toom, I was fourteen years old.

He approached the palace with reverent wonder, feet shuffling forward like shoenails drawn to a magnetite. Standing in the shadow of a tree a distance behind him, I followed his gaze to the gold palace steps, marble pillars, proud turrets, and embellished window frames. And for just a moment, I saw my own home as I had never seen it before.

Just for a moment, the palace was beautiful.

Then the prince's eyes locked on the naked, gold-painted Claimed kneeling at the foot of the palace steps, and he froze.

I read the fear and alarm in his stance, and I thought he would run away. The thought brought both relief and an unfamiliar biting sensation I could not name.

Prince Toom stepped toward the Claimed.

"Why are you naked? And what happened to your hair?"

"Oh, Goddess," I murmured under my breath. I pressed the heel of one palm to my forehead and dug the fingernails of my other hand into the treebark beside me, anchoring myself in place. "I'm not talking to him. I'm not getting involved in this."

Toom crouched and waved a hand in front of Gold. Voice both tentative and determined, he said, "Hello?"

"He's not allowed to speak to you." The words spilled from me before I could stop myself. When he jumped and spun toward me, I reluctantly stepped out of the tree's shadow.

Now just ten feet from him, I noticed how the sunlight dappled his messy blonde hair and rounded boyish features. But I was most stricken by his eyes. Though I had assumed the comparison to the Paksha Sea was mere exaggeration, the vibrant blue swirling through seafoam green proved unnervingly hypnotic.

A person could drown in those eyes.

"Why not?" he asked.

When his voice cracked, his cheeks pinkened. I filed this weakness away for later use.

"Because Gold is a Claimed," I said.

"A Claimed?"

"Gold belongs to my brother, Makash." I stated the words with a practiced calm.

"Like a slave?"

I propped an elbow on one hip, eyeing a sliver of bark stuck under one fingernail. "Slaves keep their spirits and identities, but when a person is Claimed, their former self is completely erased. And when the Master tires of them or dies, the Claimed is killed."

"Why? Why would anyone do that to another person?"

Despite the hesitance in his voice, I also heard the kind of brash confidence born of a sheltered life and a lack of imagination. It was almost sweet, really.

I wanted to destroy it.

I glanced at Gold, whose gaze was still fastened to the ground near Prince Toom's feet. "Revenge. Power. Entertainment. And of course, unlimited sex." Then I cocked an eyebrow at Toom, waiting for his reaction.

He did not disappoint. His cheeks flushed several shades darker than before, and he blinked twice before speaking again. "So your brother prefers men?"

I swallowed a smile watching how easily he became flustered. Even pummeling the smug son of the Zarku tribal chief had not been as fun as this. 

"Actually, he has Claimed more women than men," I said. "I'm not even sure he is actually attracted to the men sexually — I think he just enjoys breaking them."

I watched horror play across his face before he squeaked out another question. "How many Claimed does your family have?"

I ran a quick count in my head. "My brother just Claimed his sixth. My father has five Claimed, and my mother has almost twenty. Voracious appetites seem to run in the family."

He bit his lip and furrowed his brows. Then, with guileless confusion: "Your parents have each other. Why would they need a Claimed?"

That innocent question hit me like a slap in the face. The unfamiliar biting sensation returned, stronger than before, and I realized what it was.

Shame.

Because this naive prince was already noticing the cracks in the facade of the magnificent palace where I lived. And no matter how easily I could belittle him now, at the end of day, he would return to his family.

And I would go back to mine.

"You have the eyes of a whore," I said.

He blinked, almost a flinch, and I felt his confidence flag. However, his drop in morale failed to provide the usual corresponding boost in my own.

"I have my mother's eyes," he said.

"Is that not what I just said?"

His reaction was immediate, hands balling into fists at his sides. "Before you say anything else about my family, you should know my father is King Karoo."

The way he brandished his identity like some secret weapon made me laugh. "I know who you are, Prince Toom of Fooja. I just don't care."

He scrunched his eyebrows, a perplexed expression that made him look a little cute and even less intimidating than before. "Well, you should care. If I tell my father that Chief Makari's son —"

"Niako," I felt compelled to supply. "My name is Niako, not 'Chief Makari's son. Now do continue the threat. It is most amusing."

For a moment, he just stared at me. Then he said, "It's not amusing. You may be the son of a chief, but your father obeys mine."

Now this was a line of argument I would happily pursue. "Your father came because mine asked him to. So who really obeys whom?"

"My father came to meet with the Blessed Pair."

"Oh, really? Who will he meet first — the Blessed Pair, or my father?"

His mouth worked audibly before he managed a response. "My father is the most powerful man in Najila. He obeys only Goddess Rashika."

The brash confidence was still there, but I could hear him fighting to retain control, a thinning rope I was eager to snap.

I released a great yawn and stretched. "Your father is only king because of an outdated tradition of heredity and the protection of Najila's Royal Guard. He has no power over the tribes. I give him five years until someone takes his head and his throne."

The words were part bluff and part calculation. I had never met King Karoo, but I had heard enough to know he was more a peacekeeper than a leader. Rather than deal with a problem, he patted it on the shoulder and offered it a drink. And the problem would oblige him — until it didn't.

"My father should have you killed for saying that." By my estimations, his rope was down to a few fraying threads.

I shrugged. "He probably should, but he won't. Your father is afraid of mine — just like you are afraid of me."

When he glanced behind him at the dense green forest surrounding the palace, I thought he would yell for his guard. Instead, he said, "I'm not afraid of you."

Then he threw a fist at me.

I ducked under his fist and caught his flailing wrists with such ease I was almost embarrassed on his behalf. And when I shoved him away, he staggered back only two steps before flopping down on his rear end.

Instead of the anticipated satisfaction, I found myself feeling irritated. Prince Toom was younger and smaller than me, and he clearly had little training. What in the seven hells had he expected would happen? What would have happened if he tried that on someone like Makash? This prince was going to get himself killed one day.

I decided to teach him a lesson.

He was too busy scooting away from Gold to evade me when I dropped down on top of him, trapping his wrists in my hands and his stomach under my knee.

"Get off me," he said as he writhed.

I pushed his wrists above his head. "Say please."

"No." Spit flecked my face with the ferocity of his response.

He had some fight; I would give him that. Of course, that just meant we would have to do this the hard way. I flipped him to the side and pinned one of his arms behind his back, calculating the angle to inflict just a small amount of pain.

"Say please."

When he continued to struggle against me, I twisted his arm a bit further, and he emitted a hissing whine. The silly, humiliating sound should have brought me pleasure, but I was somehow unable to enjoy it. Instead, pain streaked up my own arm.

"Just say please, and I'll stop," I said, almost begging him.

His voice remained strong. "No. Go ahead and break my arm — I still won't say it."

Break his arm? I knew much more pressure could be applied without breaking anything, but hearing his expectations jarred me.

Perhaps I wasn't saving him from fighting someone like Makash.

Perhaps I was someone like Makash.

I released his arm and stumbled backward, and he rolled to his back to glare at me. "I hate you," he said, but barely withheld tears shone in his eyes.

I never pitied crying children, yet panic triggered a spasm in my lungs like having my head held underwater.

For some reason, I didn't want to see Toom cry.

I pulled my eyebrows together, fighting to regain control. "You're stubborn. I almost hurt you." My gaze flicked to the arm he rubbed, and my mouth moved to form a question, but I wasn't sure what to ask.

Are you alright?

Did I hurt you?

Am I like Makash?

Prince Toom said, "Don't worry — I won't tell anyone."

"I don't care if you —"

"But I will find a way to get even."

The return to familiar territory brought my head above water again, and I managed a smirk. "You can try." Then I patted his shoulder and sauntered past him.

As I climbed the steps to the palace, I felt those captivating eyes on my back, begging me to turn around for one more look. But a strange new part of me liked the idea that someone still saw the world as a good place — that someone could gaze up at the palace and see only beauty. It was better for this prince to keep living his perfect little life away from my family.

Away from me.

So I pulled open the door.