Yasmin couldn't begin to understand why anyone would want her.
What had happened was common knowledge by this point. With the Shah as their audience, two slaves had gone into the arena--and refused to kill. It hadn't started out that way. When Yasmin had entered the coliseum, she had been determined to leave it, and when her eyes fell on Agrian, her friend, her mentor--well, none of that changed. She adored him, but he would kill her if she didn't kill him, and that was just the way of things. She had been determined to survive at whatever cost, and she had fought like it, too, but he had always been better. He had taught her his tricks, but not all of them, and in that moment she thought she was going to die. The Shah had given her judgment and signaled him to make the killing blow--and he threw down his sword.
Truly, he was the brave one. The rebellious one. She wouldn't have thrown down her sword for him. But that's not how the crowd saw it, and now people saw her as a rebel when she'd just been trying to live.
...She was oddly okay with that title.
She hadn't known until that moment that rebelling was even an option. Or at least, she hadn't realized it was possible to live past it. She'd disobeyed once before--and been thrown to a lion for it, with no expectation for survival. But instead of punishing them in this case, the Shah had punished their masters, executed them both. Publicly.
Who on earth would want either of them after that? With that kind of reputation, with that kind of risk?
Yet, someone purchased her.
And when Yasmin tried to answer her own question, the question of who would want to buy a slave like her after all that, every answer made her ill. Someone who wanted a challenge. Someone who wanted to well and truly break her. Someone who felt confident enough--and cruel enough--that they could do it.
Her masters had been varying degrees of unpleasant, even awful, but her horror stories were mild compared to others. She was always afraid when she was sold--but this was fear of a different sort. She'd experienced cruelty, but she hadn't really experienced sadism, and as she walked with the guardsmen to meet her new master, it was an effort not to panic, because a sadistic sort was the only sort she could imagine. And it was different in these situations versus the arena. Here, in a nice palace, her hands bound behind her back, she felt helpless, and domestic, social battles were a whole different sort anyway. Out there, at least she could fight back. At least she had the illusion of choice and control, even if it only extended to her own actions.
The guardsmen ushered her into a lounge and stood beside her, weapons sheathed but ready. "Prince Khosrawi," one greeted to get his attention. He gave Yasmin's shoulder a slight push, and she took the hint and bowed, peering through her veil to try and get a good look at her new master, even if it was just his back. "We've brought you the slave, as requested."