primary
Adrial twists Mhazara’s arm sharply behind her back and forces her behind a magnificent column of carved marble. “Your primary purpose in Kenzia,” he hisses, his face so near to hers she can feel his breath on her cheek, “is to find the traitor who would bring our nation to ruin. I did not bring you into the palace, into my confidence to make eyes at the Prince!”
Mhazara wrenches her arm from his grasp, rubbing at her wrist where his fingernails dug into her skin. “Piss off,” she growls in return, “your precious Prince was making eyes at me.”
Just Another Struggling Writer 
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