Page 49 of Crown of the Courtesan

He’s toying with me. I can tell by the velvet in his voice. My thighs tremble uncontrollably, preventing me from putting weight on them and standing. I push onto my knees, trying to salvage what shreds of courage and dignity remain to me. “Why are you doing this?”

“So many reasons, but most importantly, you have something that belongs to me.”

I swallow.

“Take it off.”

He wishes to degrade me further, but I have my limits. “No,” I finally say, twisting my fingers in my lap.

“Stop thinking so highly of yourself. Now give me the damn circlet.”

Feeling foolish, I lift my hand to where the circlet rests in my matted hair. The braided loops wrapping around it are half undone. “I cannot.”

“Don’t be stupid. Surrender it.”

“It’s too tangled.”

“A maid can bring shears and cut it from your scalp if need be.”

I say nothing as I picture myself with a shorn head, forced to be his captive. It isn’t a life I’m willing to lead.

He clucks his tongue. “No, that wouldn’t do. I like to keep my spoils of war unblemished. The people of my kingdom will want to behold their beautiful enemy queen as I march her through the streets. The very one who didn’t even bother to negotiate peace before continuing the killing of her forefathers. They will beg to see who took their fathers, husbands, and brothers away, butchered in your latest battle assault, under your rule.”

“I didn’t⁠—”

“With you placed on my steed and bound by ropes as my war prize, everyone will know we are victorious.”

My head spins as I realize I’m someone’s property and prize again.

I stare into the darkness. There is no more to say. Begging accomplishes nothing. Being hateful only serves to worsen his treatment. The only thing left for me is silence.

He orders someone waiting in the corner, “Return her to the tower. Draw her a bath.” Turning to me, he says, “Never forget. The circlet belongs to me. You belong to me. Ready yourself. I’m coming for both.”

Revulsion sets every piece of me on fire. My lips go numb. I stop blinking. I refuse to dignify him with a response.

Twisting the knife, he murmurs with cruel amusement, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my eyes welling with tears.

A round-faced maid dressed in a brown service dress and white cap shuffles over to me. She helps me onto my wobbling legs.

The Witch-King stands. “Wait.”

But I’m already facing the opposite end of the dark hall. The too-tight laces of my gown, digging into the flesh of my back, are on full display. I detest that he’s watching.

“One more thing,” he adds.

Releasing the maid’s arm, I turn to face him.

“If you use even a drop of magic against my people, if you harm anyone in my kingdom ever again… I’ll run my sword through you myself, and that’s a promise, my lady.”

I give a curt nod of acceptance.

“Good. Now go. You stink.”

He collapses onto his throne, shoulders slumping, silver eyes reflecting.

Twenty-Four