Page 16 of Crown of the Courtesan

“They received twenty additional laps down the beach because they wouldn’t stop arguing about whether the Witch-King used his shadow powers erotically with his bedmates. I refuse to picture what you used to do with my sister. So I figured if they couldn’t breathe, they couldn’t talk—and that solved that.”

The twitch moves to my eyelid.

Taking the verbal punches, I refrain from offering a rebuttal, which would have included recounting how the two had just fought over who would open her throat first. But I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I let out a resigned sigh. “Why are you here?”

“We just received an update from Alexandria.” She pauses, an oddly cruel yet satisfied glint growing in her eyes. “The king is ill, though he tries to hide it.”

“Alert the other generals.” I head back into my chambers to ready myself. “Now.”

Eight

Finn Wellcrest, Captain of the Kingsguard, reveals himself as he opens the drawing room door, his voice deep and commanding. “Quick—come with me…” He trails off, absorbing the sight of Balor’s mangled face. His hand brushes the pommel of his sword hanging at his side, then stills as his gaze takes me in.

I’m a mess, but not as bad off as Balor appears to be.

The captain’s thick brow juts upward over his violet eyes. His russet skin is smooth and his onyx hair, tied back into complicated braids, contrasts with his silver armor and crimson cape. Everyone knows him as the Captain of the Kingsguard, but he was raised as the king’s ward and has been betrothed to Princess Klara since the day she was born—he will become the consort when she ascends the throne someday.

Balor straightens and wipes his blood away with a black handkerchief. A red welt that looks almost like a blister glistens on his cheekbone. He winces. “Right away.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” the captain corrects. “King Xander summons the Lady Courtesan.”

A heartbeat of silence. “Me?”

“Her?” Balor echoes.

“It’s a direct order from His Grace. You are not to keep her from him.” Wellcrest’s words are sharp as he focuses on Balor’s still-panting form.

My mind reels.

Why would the king want me?

Balor stops talking as his eyebrows knit together in a dumbfounded expression. No one ever speaks to him like this.

Craning his neck, he sneers at me. He will try to find a way to blame and punish me for this—and for his attack—when we’re alone again. My stomach lurches at the sight of him tidying his hair and soiled doublet. What little affection I have remaining for him has grown into unfettered hate and disgust. These feelings burn from the inside out until I can’t feel anything at all, and numbness overtakes me.

Wellcrest readjusts his stance, his sword and scabbard rattling with impatience.

“If you do not tell me what the king wants with my courtesan,” Balor hisses as he follows, “then I’ll find out for myself.”

Down dimly lit corridors, Wellcrest leads us under hanging tapestries and into hidden passageways to avoid the crowds still twirling the night away. The ballroom music grows muffled through the walls, adding to the feeling of being out of place.

Balor’s presence stalks from behind, chilling my blood. I try not to dwell on him and what’s happened. If I stop and think of it, I’ll break down, and there’s no time for that, not when I need to save what’s left of my composure.

I rack my brain but fail to guess why the king summons me—unless he wants me for the same reason most men do.

Could he?

No…

It’s common knowledge that he hasn’t shown interest in sexual relations since the Courtesan Queen disappeared. Madame Phyrne has connections at the castle; if something changed, the news would have immediately spread to the Bidding House.

Instead, the king goes to bed alone, drunk on mead and port. And the court hens have little to share except the same old gossip: he eats roasted pig, finances theatrical productions, and ignores politics while his brother brings him spoils of war.

As we go deeper into the castle, the corridors are much less decorative than the common areas. Bare stone walls with iron sconces barely illuminate the way, guiding us to a lesser-used wing. I look down at my hands. My skin’s glow wavers, almost extinguished.

We climb up a spiral staircase with uneven steps until my side aches. I stop to peer out the turret’s minuscule window. Fireworks erupt over the land, marking the night’s celebrations.

Wellcrest’s hot breath grazes the back of my neck. “Just a little farther to the top, if you please.”