The Hunted

by Bethany-Kris

  He didn’t look forward to that.

  Never did, really.

  A throat clearing drew Eryx’s attention back to the party, and his father sitting a few paces away in his gawdy throne. The monument of a chair dominated the room—the back sitting high at six feet tall, and wide enough that he’d not seen a man’s shoulders be able to fill the width. Not that he’d seen anyone but his father sit in that chair. Ornamental carvings curved the arms and legs, coils of gold spun around the edge of the throne as if it weren’t ostentatious enough.

  In the morning light, with its placement in front of the windows, the chair glinted brightly in the room. The first thing one noticed when coming into the main room of any house his father used during his travels, since the throne came with the king.

  And the man sitting in the chair?

  Not much better.

  “Yes?” Eryx asked from his smaller throne.

  His father raised an eyebrow. A good sign, if there ever was one, of the man’s displeasure at Eryx’s lack of interest in a day and party that were meant to be for him. Or rather, his twentieth birthday celebration.

  He wished he cared.

  Except he didn’t.

  The king tilted his head to the side, bringing Eryx’s attention to the man who waited just beyond the stairs leading up to the platform where their thrones rested. With the sky dark outside, and only candles in the ballroom of the estate house, it almost seemed like the dinner party had gone long into the evening.

  It hadn’t.

  It was only a little past midday.

  The season, again.

  Eryx stared at the man and woman, both well-dressed with jewels on their fingers and gold hanging from their throats, waiting for them to greet him properly as was custom. One of the servants of the house stepped forward with her head tipped down as to keep herself from meeting the prince’s gaze.

  In a simple gray dress that didn’t showcase much of her figure or expose too much skin, one might think the woman was just a servant. Even he’d thought so at first glance. If not for the silver shackle around her throat that practically covered the entire delicate column and designated her a slave. Had her hair been pulled back, the spattering of shimmering scales at her temples would have given away her true breed as well. Sometimes, the mermaids blended in far too well with the rest of them when they walked on land.

  The slave stepped up to speak. “Prince Eryx Bloodhurst of Atlas, the Lord and Lady of the house would like to—”

  Eryx’s father was quick to quiet the slave with a slice of his hand through the air. “Return to your position—quietly and quickly.”

  The slave did as she was told, but not before daring to defy the laws of the land by raising her head. Violet eyes—another sign of her heritage—flashed with indignation and anger. She spun sharply on her heel and returned to the spot behind the waiting man and woman.

  “King Misael, your highness, I apologize for my slave,” the man spoke up, doing his best to look apologetic. “She sometimes forgets her place. Rather new, that one. Bought her from the last hunts.”

  “That so?” his father asked.

  “Yes, sire.”

  Misael nodded, his sharp gaze slicing through the crowd to find the slave woman while he tipped his head back. The candlelight caught the jewels encrusted around the rim and pointed tips of his gold crown. “Bring her to my rooms later—I enjoy teaching them how to behave around the royal family.”

  It wasn’t even a request. The king didn’t have to make those. All Misael ever had to do was point a finger, and he was given what he wanted. It was their way.

  Eryx wasn’t much different in that regard, but he didn’t share a lot of the same interests. He didn’t find quite the same enjoyment in fucking and keeping slaves for sport like his father, and too many others, did. A bit too much work, honestly.

  Mattue, the advisor appointed by his father to Eryx when he had been just a young boy—and also his uncle, through his father’s side of the family—stepped forward. Always waiting in the shadows for his moments.

  “Prince,” Mattue said, hands clasped at the front of his closed fur cloak before he bent over subtly at the middle in some semblance of a bow, “the Lord and Lady simply wanted to give their greetings, congratulate you on your twentieth year, and thank you for allowing them to host you at their estate for this evening.”

  Was that all?

  All this conversation for that?

  Ugh.

  “Could have sent up a message through Mattue,” Eryx replied dryly. “No need for a scene.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the clear frown that pulled his father’s mouth down at the corners. He had a record of how many times he could displease his father in a day—twenty-two. Sometimes, he made a sport out of breaking said record.

  It wasn’t as though his father would punish him. Eryx was the only living son Misael had left on Atlas. The youngest had been sent to their closest neighboring realm the moment he’d turned seventeen, married off to a princess of an unworthy royal family to keep the peace and continue their trade of slaves.

  His other brothers?

  Dead.

  Eryx was his father’s last hope.

  Misael let out a sigh and waved at a servant who dared to move in the corner of the room and draw in his attention. “You—boy! I want another drink. Hurry with it.”

  The boy—who looked no older than thirteen—bowed with a quick nod. “Yes, sire, right away.”

  Soft chatter returned to the room, and soon the music started playing. With no clear effort from Eryx to conversate with the man and woman of the house, they were also led away, and he was left to his throne and thoughts.

  Mostly.

  Mattue joined him, stepping behind his throne where he liked to place himself. That way, he could whisper all sorts of things into Eryx’s ear the same way he’d done from the time he was a boy. No one ever thought anything of it, being that Mattue was his advisor. He was also one of his father’s most trusted members of the court, considering they shared blood. And yet, Eryx did not think people realized how manipulative his uncle could be when he wanted. As a young boy, he’d often fallen into Mattue’s trap.

  Not so much as a man, however.

  “Your father thought you might like the Lady,” Mattue noted. “Her husband was even willing to share her for the evening, had she caught your eye.”

  Eryx’s lip curled up at the edge before he plucked the goblet from the arm of his throne and downed what remained of the red wine in one gulp. Setting the gold cup down harder than he should, he let out a dark laugh. “I don’t, and won’t, fuck women he picks for me. I wouldn’t care if she were the queen of the skies—if he picks her, then I won’t touch her.”

  “Eryx—”

  “It only means he wants to fuck her himself.”

  Mattue didn’t even bother to deny it.

  There was no lie, so he couldn’t.

  Deciding to switch to his advisor tone, Mattue said, “The storms are rolling in—you’ll return to the west court with your father when the rest of the royal caravan begins the trip back. He’s decided. Over the season, you’ll have ample opportunity to consider each and every woman in the land who he believes is appropriate for your position. He wants you to have picked one to marry once the season has passed and a wedding can be had.”

  Was Eryx supposed to be listening?

  He really wasn’t.

  Despite having to listen to Mattue because he’d been appointed by his father, Eryx didn’t actually care to do anything the man wanted or told him to do. Not unless it benefitted him in some way.

  Tit for tat.

  “Get him to lay off that for a year, would you?” he muttered.

  His gaze swept the crowd, searching for someone who should have been milling near the rear of the room like she usually did. His mother, that was. The only person in this entire realm that he gave any care or concern to at all.

  “What—a mar
riage?”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Eryx, your twenty years have passed. It’s time to marry.”

  “I can marry anytime. You posed it like I was meant to pick a woman. Which woman has he already picked for me? I’m sure she’ll be just a respectable and fertile in another year as she is right now, no? I’ll marry no one when this season passes, and if he wants me to marry whichever cunt he’s picked for me, then he’ll wait another year, anyway.”

  Hell, his father had probably already had a taste of the woman. Eryx wouldn’t rush to have his.

  Mattue sighed. “You seem frustrated. Perhaps you should take the Lady of the house to bed tonight. Drink a bit, then fuck away your mood. The rest of the court would appreciate it, Prince.”

  Right, right.

  “Undoubtedly not,” Eryx murmured.

  He was still searching for that familiar face in the crowd—her clothes would, of course, be a bit finer than those around her, considering she was favored by his father within the court. Something else his mother never did was try to hide what made her so unique amongst the people with whom she was allowed to mingle.

  And he couldn’t find her.

  Eryx had a feeling he knew exactly where his mother had gone when she’d had the chance to slip away from the room and people. Events like these often allowed her less attention from his father, and she used it to her advantage.

  “You have that look—the quietness in you—again,” Mattue noted.

  “Do I?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  Eryx stood from his throne, saying, “If they ask, tell them I went to take a piss.”

  “Are you? Taking a piss, I mean.”

  He gave Mattue a smirk, feeling the weight of his crown tilt with his head as he met the man’s dark eyes with his own stormy blues when he replied, “Well, as long as that’s what you tell them, then it really doesn’t matter what I actually do, now does it?”

  His uncle didn’t respond.

  Eryx didn’t really need him to.

  • • •

  If there was such a thing as love—if it was true and real like fairy tales and myths suggested—then that’s what Eryx felt for his mother. Not the romantic love that women in the realm cooed about when they thought men weren’t close enough to hear, but something else entirely.

  A love worth more, maybe.

  More loyal.

  Far more coveted.

  His father spent years fucking his way through slaves before discarding them. A lot like he did to any wife he took, almost all of whom died under circumstances no one really understood when the truth had never been told. A number of his brothers had come from women kept in his father’s harem of slaves, and yet none of them had ever seemed to care for their mothers the way Eryx did.

  He wasn’t sure why that was.

  Perhaps it was because their mothers hated the children they’d been forced to birth, and his mother never had.

  He also didn’t understand why it felt like he could hear his mother wherever he went. Even when she wasn’t with him, she was there. As much a part of him as the blood running through his veins, she was just there. He didn’t tell anyone—they wouldn’t understand—but he knew his mother was aware. She simply wouldn’t tell him why.

  “I knew you would be here,” he said, smiling when Anthia turned her hooded head in his direction when the horse approached the water orchard. Rows of water fruit trees stretched through long channels with deep sea water on either side. He listened to the wind whispering through waving branches with low-hanging fruit. The water fruit was best at the start of the storm season. Harvest would happen soon, and the fruit would be good to store for the coming year. “Always your favorite spot, Mama.”

  He had her dark hair, twisted with curls down past his ears, while hers was long enough to touch the small of her back when she let it down. He also had her small lips that seemed perpetually turned into a smirk, even when he didn’t realize it. And the sharp lines that made up her delicate features, although from his boyhood to adulthood, his had become harder and more masculine.

  “You’re going to ruin your cloak,” he added, dismounting from the horse that he’d taken from the estate’s stables earlier. “It’s not meant to be worn in the rain.”

  At least, not the one she was currently wearing. The satin fabric would be ruined by the time he got her back to the house.

  “It’s not raining.”

  “Yet.”

  Anthia shrugged, her hand raising to touch the silver shackle at her throat. Unlike most, his mother’s was always kept shined and gleaming. The three-pointed crown resting upon a cursive B carved into the metal designated her a royal whore.

  He hated that.

  More than even she knew.

  “I like the wetness, Eryx,” his mother returned, “because it smells like home.”

  “The sea,” he returned. “That’s what you mean.”

  She merely smiled.

  Once he was close enough for his mother to reach out and touch him, she did just that. Her warm palm came up to rest against his cheek, soft against the roughness of his few days’ worth of facial hair. A heady gust of wind pushed back the hood of her cloak, causing it to fall around her shoulders and open a bit to showcase the velvety green dress that had been chosen for her to wear that day. The low neckline did nothing to hide the collar at her throat.

  She preferred her hair up, when the style of the time was to wear it down, and she refused to let them paint her face to hide the spattering of scales at her temples. Because if she was going to be kept as a prize, then she demanded to be shown like one. She liked sandals on her feet instead of the tightly laced shoes with clunky platforms on the heels that gave women a bit of height. They showcased the empty spots where her pinky toes had once been, before the surgeons clipped them to devastate her. They would have become the tips of her fin tail should she shift in water. The loss made it harder for her to escape.

  His mother was a slave.

  A mermaid.

  Everyone in the land would balk at the title, and yet his mother seemed to wear it all with pride. She shoved it right back in their faces, and her favor from the king allowed it.

  “You never tell me about it,” he said.

  “What, the sea?” Anthia asked.

  “That, and them … any of it.”

  “I did when you were younger. Sang the stories, when they allowed me to have you. Someone told them that’s what I was doing, and they made me stop.”

  Eryx’s brow dipped. “Why?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  He really didn’t think he did.

  Anthia shrugged almost helplessly when he didn’t reply, and her hand slid down from his cheek to allow her fingertips to glide over the side of his throat. The pulse of his heart beat there, overtop scars that had faded with time. Just because they were faded, however, didn’t mean that the gills the surgeons had sewn shut after his birth hadn’t once allowed him to breathe. They existed, even if he now was incapable of using them.

  After all, he couldn’t be a slave.

  He had to be human.

  Or he had to look like it.

  “Because then you’d empathize, Eryx. And you can’t be what your father wants you to be when you care more for a slave than you do the people that slave is meant to serve.” Just as quickly as his mother’s mood seemed to turn dark, she smiled brightly and dropped her hand back to her side. “Walk with me?”

  “You know, if they catch you leaving the estate without a guard …”

  “They’ll whip me until I bleed purple, lock me in a chamber, and … well, what else could they do? They’ve already done and taken it all. If only the punishment scared me now.”

  He wished it did scare her. Wished so much he could protect her more.

  He stayed close to his mother’s side as they headed down one row of the trees. Plucking one of the low-hanging, white and red fruits from the tree, he offered it to his moth
er, knowing it was her favorite. She didn’t get it nearly enough.

  “How did the hunt go this season?” she asked, her fingernail dragging through the soft skin of the fruit to peel it back like a knife might. “I’ve only heard whispers about it.”

  “Not well,” he replied, “and it looks like most of the catches will be used for trading to harvest, because they can’t afford to keep any of them. Not with what the hunters promised the king, and what he promised the neighboring realm for the coming year’s trades.”

  His mother hummed under her breath, nodding but otherwise saying nothing about the hunt. She never did—or maybe it was that she learned not to over time. He couldn’t be sure. Sometimes, he found it interesting how she could stand to listen to people talk about the hunting, capture, and subsequent sale of her own people without as much as a frown on her face. He supposed she didn’t have much of a choice.

  And neither did Atlas.

  Their realm was only guaranteed safety from war with other kingdoms if they could continue to produce worthy goods in their trades. Creatures from the sea, with blood that bled purple and could produce results in medicines that cured ailments and slowed aging were definitely a commodity most other realms in the world weren’t currently offering. It was also why the mermaids remained young-looking once reaching adulthood, their aging taking a decade to show what a human’s year would for them. And while mermaids elsewhere had the capability and power to defend their people, the ones in the Blu Sea did not.

  The people of Atlas took advantage.

  Often.

  While his mother chewed on a piece of the fruit she’d broken off from the five prongs at the bottom, he listened to the wind dancing through the orchard. Others wouldn’t dare to stand out in this weather, knowing a storm was on the way while the sky swirled black overhead. He’d never been as afraid of it as the rest of them were.

  Neither had his mother.

  “You never tried to run.”

  So many did.

  And were killed for it, too.

  “No,” his mother said quietly.

  “Why?”

  Anthia’s walk came to a stop, and so did Eryx’s beside her. Her violet eyes—the one thing he hadn’t taken from his mother because he wasn’t full-blooded like she was—met his blue stare, and he mirrored her soft smile. “Now, that, you really should know the answer to.”