Page 54 of Crown of the Courtesan

“Those who are worthy call me Ash.” His breath is on the back of my neck.

I turn around and raise my eyes to meet his, locking onto his silver gaze through lowered lashes—our heights, a stark difference. With a hammering heart, I place my palm on his rigid chest, caressing upward to his neck, and ask in a low voice, “What does one have to do to earn that worth?” Tendrils of my curly hair tumble between us like a curtain providing privacy. The air heats between us as time slows.

He doesn’t move.

I drop to my knees, purposefully ignoring the distaste growing in my belly. Looking up at him, I give him doe eyes, offering myself for his desires.

“Do I appear slow of mind to you? This is the second time you’ve treated me as if I’m an imbecile, and I assure you I’m anything but.”

Every fiber in my being freezes. “No, of course not.” I retract my hands as if someone slapped them away.

“Get off your knees.” He pulls me up by my elbows, bringing our bodies even closer than before. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, he pauses.

But I can’t give up.

I bridge the gap—an inch of space between us. He lowers his face. My toes tip forward the tiniest fraction. A wave of raven hair falls over his forehead as he whispers in my ear, “I’ll show you how I deal with people who try to manipulate me.”

Every harsh word steals my breath.

Grabbing my wrist, he drags me, not caring that I trip over the train of my dress, the fur trim tearing as I stumble. I attempt to pull back. “Let go of me!”

“You forget your place, my lady.”

Out of the dining hall, through corridor after corridor. Maids duck into doorways. Servants turn away. I dig my heels in, but they scrape along the floor, forming stinging blisters under my wool stockings.

He lifts a tapestry, and we descend a spiral staircase, going deeper and lower under the castle.

“Please—please, don’t do this⁠—”

My body stops, colliding with his. I wonder if he can feel my racing heart through the fabric separating us.

“Never forget we are enemies,” he warns before wrenching me down the stairs. We arrive at a dimly lit stone archway, where water drips and men moan from behind dungeon cells. Guards snap to attention upon seeing the Witch-King. He orders them, “Keep your distance from her. She’ll only bring you to ruin.”

He shoves me, and I fall into a private cell with nothing but a wooden cot, a stinking refuse bucket, and scratch marks etched into the walls.

No window.

No light.

The whispers crackle.

Twenty-Six

Sometimes a flickering light seeps through the bars of my cell, and at other times, it remains pitch black.

Time becomes meaningless.

Lying on the wooden cot, I ignore the sliding of meal trays, one after the other after the other. My stomach hurts too much, so I let the rats steal my neglected food while I thumb the diary pages absentmindedly. It’s too dark to read, but I can imagine the words.

Lonely and broken, I welcome the ever-present whispers, pretending they tell me stories of chivalry and old knights—anything to prevent me from remembering how the Witch-King is a miserable son of a bitch who deserves every bit of suffering he’s ever had. In fact, I’m relieved my plan failed. It’s far better to rot here alone than in that brute’s bed, anyhow. I probably saved myself by my sheer stupidity.

My fingers find the deep scratches grooved into the stone wall, and I picture what sort of person came before me. Had they deserved this cell? Was there a family waiting for them?

My thoughts turn to Klara. It looks like General Metalla will be getting everything he wants with me out of the way.

At some point, I tuck the diary back into my stays, roll over, and hum the song I heard under the moat before it carried me to this horrible place.

Then I feel it.