Snow: A Naughty Fairytale Series (The Happily Never After Series Book 1) Read online

  SNOW

  BOOK 1 OF THE

  HAPPILY NEVER AFTER SERIES

  by

  Plum Pascal

  HP Mallory

  Copyright ©2020 by Plum Pascal

  Published by HP Mallory

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Follow me on Facebook

  Follow me on Amazon

  ALSO BY H.P. MALLORY:

  Paranormal Series: (Writing as HP Mallory)

  Lucy Westenra Series

  Mists of Magic and Mayhem Series

  Lily Harper Series

  Dulcie O’Neil Series (over 1 million downloads of the series!)

  Jolie Wilkins Series (New York Times bestselling series!)

  Sinjin Sinclair Series

  Peyton Clark Series

  NuLife Series

  Reverse Harem Series: (Writing as Plum Pascal)

  Happily Never After Series

  Sacred Oath Series

  F My Life Series

  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  About Snow:

  Fairy Tale Princesses Like You’ve Never Seen Them Before…

  10 Champions destined to defeat an evil that threatens to wipe out the land of Fantasia...

  Snow White, Goldilocks, Rose Red, Sleeping Beauty, Tinkerbell, Cinderella, Bo Peep, Belle, The Little Mermaid, & Red Riding Hood

  Book 1: Snow

  Hair black as night, lips red as blood, skin white as snow. Beautiful. Ethereal. Enchanting.

  Profitable.

  Bought and sold for male entertainment, Neva Valkoinen, or Snow White, as patrons know her, dances for the wealthy and lecherous at the Wicked Lyre Tavern in the city of Ascor.

  Void of her memories, Neva’s life before the age of twelve is a mystery she has no time to solve, chained as she is to the cruel whims of her master.

  Enter Herrick Vorst. The most handsome stranger Neva’s ever seen in all of Ascor. Herrick purchases a night with Neva but doesn’t touch her. Instead, he asks her questions she can’t answer and reveals his belief that she’s a witchling capable of great magic.

  When Neva is purchased by another stranger a few nights later, she learns this one wants her heart. To carve out.

  Narrowly escaping certain death, Herrick comes to Neva’s rescue and brings her back to his cottage where she meets his brothers, Reve and Malvolo. Reve is currently stuck in the land of dreams, courtesy of a curse. And Malvolo is surly, unfriendly and lets it be known he wants nothing to do with Neva or the man who’s hunting her. Well, he might want something to do with her body…

  With no other options, Neva will be forced to put her trust and hope into these three sinfully sexy brothers who hide a secret of their own…

  Searching for answers to her past, the four embark on a journey into the shadowy world of magic and monsters, wars and treachery, and lustful desire.

  Something dark brews on the horizon.

  A huntsman lurks in every shadow.

  But nothing can keep Neva’s mind off her burning need for Reve’s touch in the land of dreams, for Herrick’s stolen kisses and for Malvolo’s all-consuming hunger.

  10 Chosen Ones:

  When a pall is cast upon the land,

  Despair not, mortals,

  For come forth heroes ten.

  One in oceans deep,

  One the flame shall keep,

  One a fae,

  One a cheat,

  One shall poison grow,

  One for death,

  One for chaos,

  One for control,

  One shall pay a magic toll.

  Snow White:

  The shadows form a bloodless face

  a shapeless girl lacking grace

  on midnight wings her fate is found

  and puts a djinn into the ground

  ONE

  Neva

  Air escapes me in an undignified wheeze as I hit the unfinished hardwood floor, and I curl onto my side to minimize the pain of what’s coming next.

  The toe of Darius’ boot catches me in the ribs, just below my sternum, where he knows the bruises won’t show. Bruises don’t make money. And that’s what Darius is after. Even so, no man who’s entered the Wicked Lyre Tavern has ever had the chance to get a good look at my tits. No one except Darius, that is.

  But that’s the price of sharing the attic space above the tavern with him. I’m given three meals a day, and a hit of the only thing that makes living in this miserable place remotely tolerable.

  The force of his kick flips me onto my back and I turn my head sharply to the side, hiding my face behind the sable fall of my hair. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing the tears that squeeze from the corners of my eyes.

  “I said get up, slag. Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

  I choke on my response, producing only a few inarticulate coughs instead of an answer. I do manage to prop myself up on one elbow, peeking up from beneath a fringe of hair to ascertain just how pissed he is. He wakes me like this most mornings, and I have to say, I prefer it to the mornings when he tries a gentler approach. Namely, when he prods me awake with his cock and demands I satisfy him. Somehow, the beatings seem a little more dignified.

  “Maybe, if you hadn’t kept me up all night,” I grumble under my breath, crawling onto all fours. I keep my voice low, though. I’m sore enough as it is. Besides, push Darius too hard and he’ll decide to teach me a lesson. One I don’t want to learn.

  “What was that, slag?” he demands.

  Yes. Definitely pissed. I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn his ire this early in the morning, but it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

  I manage to get my shaking legs beneath me and climb to my feet, leaning against the opposite wall for balance. I hug the wall, feeling like the most wretched creature in the entire city of Ascor. I doubt there’s a soul between here and the Forest of No Return that feels as shitty as I do at the moment.

  When I manage to stop shaking, I turn in a slow half-circle to face the man who’s both my tormentor and my savior. Darius leans against the vanity, careful not to disrupt the glass bottles and creams on its surface.

  He watches me struggle, a cruel glint of amusement in his dark eyes. I wish he didn’t look so much like his father. It makes it harder for me to hate him as much as I should.

  Gregory was the only man who ever sho
wed me an ounce of kindness, and it chafes me that this little bastard wears Gregory’s face. It’s not an especially handsome countenance: too boxy to be traditionally handsome, the eyes too deep-set and far apart, nose too large and teeth not large enough. But where Gregory’s eyes were kind, Darius’ always have the mean, rangy look of a feral cat. And he has the temper to match. He’s also shorter and thinner than his father ever was.

  “You’re dancing in the back room tonight,” Darius informs me, flicking the closet door open to reveal the small selection of gowns he’s procured for my act.

  All are made of silky or sheer fabrics and would easily cost a year of my wages. They’ve more than paid for Darius’ tavern in the last few years. More accurately, I have more than paid for this tavern. After all, it’s my body men are flocking to see.

  “Please.” The ragged entreaty is all I can force from my shaking lips.

  He knows what I’m asking for.

  Darius has kept it from me for three days. He can’t honestly expect me to dance while my stomach tosses like a ship at sea. I need a bump if I’m going to be able to make it on stage sometime tonight.

  I can read the answer on his face before he ever opens his mouth. That hateful smirk tics up a few degrees; he’s clearly enjoying my distress. It’s a rare treat for him to hear me beg like this. The last time he got the satisfaction, I literally came crawling back on hands and knees, begging for another dose.

  Hopefully I won’t have to do that again this morning.

  He toys with the small, leather pouch at his waist, jiggling it in my direction as a taunt before flipping the material of his coat over his front to hide it from view.

  “You’ll get it when you’ve earned it, slag.” Then he chuckles as he sneers down at me. “A group of merchants are selling their wares along Gendar Street for the next fortnight before moving north. At least half of ‘em will be downstairs tonight. You please them and then I’ll give you that bump you’re so desperate for.” His lips curl into a viper’s grin, dripping insincerity like cloying venom. “And if you please me tonight, I’ll give you another.”

  With his toe, he nudges a bowl across the floor, and a portion of my daily slop oozes over one corner and onto the hardwood. For just an instant, I imagine scooping the bowl off the floor and grinding his nose into the congealed mass of tasteless slop. Let him feel the indignity of being fed and put through his paces like a fucking show pony.

  But my fingers only perform an ineffectual flex at my side, instead of the suicidally stupid action I’ve just contemplated. This place isn’t palatial, my role is demeaning, my jailer is an arrogant prick, but I’m under no illusions. I’m better off here than I would be on the streets. That’s the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have. Because, as shitty as this life is, it’s still better than being homeless in Ascor. I’ll put up with Darius until I can squirrel away enough gold pieces to buy myself a way out of Ascor and a way in to some other city. Any other city, where my face isn’t instantly recognizable as the salacious Snow White.

  Darius selects a gauzy, multi-hued dress and tosses it lightly on the bed we share. I stare at it, mouth popping open in indignant surprise. I’ve worn this dress only once before, performing for Prince Achmed, who hailed from a place far, far away. A place called Agrabah in the Anoka Desert. The prince painted a hazy picture of Agrabah while I danced for him that night, dropping each layer of my gauzy drapings, one by one, until I lay mostly bare before him on stage. On the rare occasions I’ve dreamed of escaping, I’ve thought about traveling to Agrabah to find the prince again.

  “The Dance of the Seven Veils?” I breathe, too tired to summon true outrage. “You can’t be serious.”

  Damn Darius to the blackest regions of the nether realm! I’ve only done this dance once in front of an audience and that was a long time ago. Now he expects me to do it again without any practice, with barely a cup full of oats in my stomach and the fatigue of withdrawal threatening to drag me sideways to the floor? I’ll make a fool of myself and then Darius will punish me for it later.

  Darius worms a hand into his coat and dips one finger lightly into the pouch at his belt. It comes away dusted in white, like a baker’s confection. He steps closer to me, offering the digit. I don’t normally like to take it this way, but he’s not leaving me much choice. This is all I’m going to get.

  So I take his finger, guide it reverently to my mouth, and slide my tongue along every contour, trying to catch every speck of the priceless powder I can find. The process is over quickly, and my mouth tingles pleasantly as relief swells through me.

  “Perform well, and you’ll get more,” Darius promises. “But, if you don’t...”

  He lets the statement hang, a sword over my head, waiting to drop. The meaning is very clear.

  Failure isn’t an option.

  ***

  I tangle my fingers in the velvet folds of the navy-blue curtain and drag it back a few inches to peer out at the crowd beyond. Male voices overlap, sounding like a rumble of distant thunder. The room is hazy with pipe smoke, the heavy fog of it pressing into my lungs and further tightening my chest.

  The number of men who occupy the chairs that ring the small stage staggers me, and I can tell there are still more I can’t make out clearly, arranged at the small tables or standing at the back. How many men are packed into this back room? Fifty? One hundred? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many men crowded into the Wicked Lyre at one time, even around the annual festival, when spirits run high and men pay their last coin to see the creamy flesh of a nubile, young thing.

  Every man in the room is wealthy. If their clothing isn’t a giveaway, their voices would be. Cultured speech, with accents that range from the clipped tones of Grimm, the airy sing-song of a Wonderland noble, or the lilting honeyed tones of a cove-dwelling merchant from the Sea of Delorood.

  I let the velvet slide between my fingers, dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy millstone. How the bloody hell am I supposed to pull this off? I’m dizzy already. I’m going to go out there, slide one veil off, and then trip and fall on my face. And that will be the end of poor Neva Valkoinen, the end of Snow White. They’ll find my body in an alleyway, a patchwork of blooming blue and purple bruises, swarmed by the city’s vermin.

  Darius’ voice issues from the other side of the curtain, an ugly common accent among the sea of more pleasant voices. The room goes silent when he begins to speak, introducing me to the crowd as he has for years now. Is it four? I think it must be. Gregory died when Darius and I were seventeen. I’m twenty-one now.

  And I don’t know what to make of those years. They’re gone and I have nothing to show for them. But nevermind. Thinking about the past only depresses me and my life is depressing enough as it is.

  “And now, the main event! The greatest beauty you’ll find in Ascor. Perhaps in all of Fantasia! I give to you, the lovely Snow White!”

  The curtains are drawn aside to the sounds of thunderous applause, revealing me in all my dubious glory. I’m bathed in the glow of a thousand twinkling faerie lights that illuminate the stage. The lights are another item that sets the Wicked Lyre apart from other taverns, besides the star attraction. Darius is the only man within the city able to afford to light the place with fae-spelled orbs, day or night.

  The weight of a hundred gazes falls on me seconds later, tracing what little they can see of my silhouette through the veils. The one dangled above my head is taupe, and the colors grow increasingly bolder the closer they get to the center of my body. Light glints off every jewel and bangle adorning me. And there are many. They chime as my body moves to the beat of the sultry music.

  It’s too bright. My head spins and I choke on bile. I feel as if I’m going to faint dead away. My eyes sweep the crowd, searching for something. Rescue? Pity? Perhaps a man who can look at me and see a sick girl being paraded on stage, instead of an object of lust to be used and discarded?

  Every face I meet is eager, drinking me in
like I’m a draft of Sweetland Port. There’s no one here who gives a damn about me, no one who…

  My gaze settles on a man perched on a stool near the back. He was easy to miss at first, because he’s not nearly as rotund as most the men I see. Many men in Ascor wear the evidence of their wealth around their belt buckles, where girth stretches the seams of their fine clothing. But this man is different.

  He’s as tall and lean as any farm hand, with a slightly golden cast to his skin that suggests he spends a great deal of time outdoors. His clothing is less elaborate than the rest of the men in the room—he wears a simple scarlet tunic draped over buckskin trousers. Only the gold buttons that stud both give away the fact that he didn’t just stroll into the Wicked Lyre by accident.

  The understated wardrobe makes the artistry of his face seem even more absurd in contrast. His jaw is slanted at an angle that appears sharp enough to cut glass. A layer of golden stubble ripples across that strong line, drawing my eye to a perfect bow-lipped mouth. His hair has been swept to the nape of his neck, the flyaway golden strands gathered together by a leather thong. But it’s his eyes that strike me most. I expect them to be blue, like those of one of the savage Northmen. But they’re not.

  They’re a perfect tawny color, like the piercing eyes of a hawk. He cocks his head in an almost bird-like motion, considering me with detached interest. There’s no ardent desire in this man’s gaze. He doesn’t even appear mildly aroused by my dance or by me. I can’t puzzle out what he’s doing here. Why come to this show, if he isn’t here to get a thrill by peeking at Snow White’s tits and ass?

  I don’t know how long I stare at him, but the moment I realize I’m still swaying to the melancholic beat of the music, I snap back into myself. My body begins moving without conscious thought, like a snake before its charmer. I close my eyes, trying to block out the appreciative murmurs that run through the room as I sway this way and that, releasing my veils to the ground one at a time. Amethyst, sapphire, ruby, and topaz drop from my body, curling like colorful smoke before they fall to the floor.