Page 113 of Crown of the Courtesan

“Tabitha was right.” Klara spits at his feet. “You’re every bit a demon.”

His black eyes begin to swirl and flow out hypnotically. He snarls, “My dear wife, you have no idea.”

Lightning splits the sky with a deafening crack, and my eyelids fly open to Beatrix’s cramped bedchamber. The flash illuminates her small bed frame and furniture. Outside, the wind howls as rain lashes at the window.

Sweat covers me, and my throat is painfully parched.

I struggle to get out of bed and reach for the pitcher on the side table. My hand misses, sending it crashing to the ground, the porcelain shards scattering. Water seeps across the mahogany floorboards. I’m reminded of the broken vase from the night of the Bidding Ceremony, and suddenly, it seems like the walls will close in at any moment.

Beatrix sits up in bed. My breathing catches. There’s massive pressure on my chest.

Groggily, she asks, “Tabitha?” She reaches over for the flint and candle and lights them. “Is everything all right?” As she watches me from the rumpled sheets, her long braid hangs over a shoulder, coming slightly undone. With that one quick assessment, she knows I’m not fine. “Did you have a nightmare about the Witch-King?”

Caught off guard, I cough before shaking my head vigorously.

I can tell she doesn’t believe me because she softens her voice. “Was he as wretched as the bards sing about?”

“He would like you to think that,” I slowly croak, wishing I hadn’t smashed the water pitcher.

Unperturbed, Beatrix probes, “Then what did he do to you? I know you didn’t tell me everything.”

“He threw me into the pits of his dungeon,” I deadpan as I close my eyes, trying not to think or worry about Klara.

“I’d say that’s pretty horrible.” Beatrix lets out a nervous laugh.

One of my eyes peeks open with an arched brow. “He also gave me royal quarters and lavished books and furs and gowns upon me.”

Beatrix’s eyes grow big. “Did you⁠—”

“Did I sleep with him?” Both of my eyes are open now.

I can’t help but remember the night he woke me from a nightmare, much like tonight, and the blade of rejection nestles deep in my gut. He pushed me away—he refused me—and I still can’t stop thinking of it. Just like I can’t stop thinking about how he toys with my mind, telling me one thing while doing another. How he forces me to kiss him and then denies me in the same breath. I should have believed him when he said he didn’t want me.

“No.”

“No?” This is the second time disbelief has colored her response, and I’m starting to get annoyed.

“What?” I snap. “I didn’t.”

“But you wanted to?” She leans forward.

“What is this?” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

She bursts into laughter but clamps her hands over her mouth. “I’ve been dying to know ever since you first described him. A person doesn’t use a word like provocative without feeling something…”

Slowly, I blink while ignoring the rising heat around the collar of my nightgown. I answer her matter-of-factly, “Then I used the wrong phrasing because the only provocation is his unyielding need to overcomplicate things, including my would-be dreams, when he’s the furthest thing from my mind tonight. Also, you shouldn’t twist my words. You act just like Vennisa when you do.”

Her smile drops. “Don’t bring Vennisa into this. You know that isn’t fair. Just tell me what upset you.”

My throat is increasingly scratchy and desperate for water, making the confession come out in a hoarse whisper, “I had a nightmare about Balor. He’s making Klara suffer in that castle…”

Beatrix scoots closer. “But it was only a dream.”

“No,” I insist. “It was too real.”

“Stress can make dreams very vivid sometimes.” Beatrix begins cleaning the mess from the broken pitcher while I sit on the edge of the bed, questioning my sanity.

Forty-Nine