Then there were the others—mers of striking beauty, the kind that could charm their way into the hearts of the weak-willed. They were different from her guide, weaker in presence, but undeniably dangerous in their own way.
Looking at them, anyone could be mesmerized by their beauty and effortless charm. Their smiles were enough to enchant, their presence enough to turn heads.
But for Esme?
They weren't even worth a second glance.
To her, no one could compare to her husbands. They weren't just beautiful—they were godlike, untouchable, beyond anything these people could ever hope to be.
And why wouldn't she see them that way?
She was the daughter of Gina Vallahe—the woman whispered about in both reverence and scorn. The so-called slave wife, the woman who had loved her husband to the point of madness, who had worshipped them as if they were the very gods that ruled her world.
Esme carried that same blood, that same devotion.
