He was Persian. This man, Priscilla knew She had seen him before. The only Persians she'd ever seen were the ones who came as part of Philipppe, Adriana's dead fiance's entourage. Perhaps, he'd been one of them.
The reminiscence of Philippe brought back painful memories to her wounded heart and Priscilla felt like clutching her chest to stop the pain. She reasoned it would be better to fall into the hands of a Persian, than that of a Median or slaver. All of a sudden, she felt her courage rise anew.
"You are quite brave for a woman. . ." He mused.
Priscilla lifted herself until she was fully on her feet and looking him in the eyes. He raised a brow at her actions but aside from that, he showed no other reaction. Not even as much as moving a muscle.
He just remained standing there like a big statue staring down at her with eyes as black as night, his expression unreadable.
Her knees were trembling, but somehow her voice managed to ring out clearly.
