Page 60 of Crown of the Courtesan

“It’s good to hear that about my half-brother.”

“Brother?” My spine stiffens.

“I’ve never met him,” she says, cutting into her meat, “but we share the same blood, which makes me curious.”

For as long as I can remember, Finn Wellcrest has been a ward of the crown. Nobody ever speaks about how he arrived at Alexandria Castle—at least not with me. It’s old gossip, and besides that, it would be considered poor etiquette since he was King Xander’s favored. I’d always assumed he was the orphan son of some noble family.

Ashland moves his hand to rest on my lower back, jolting me from my thoughts. I’ve been staring blankly at the spread of food, not eating.

But… there is only one plate situated between us. Does he expect us to share?

It takes everything I possess not to scoff as it dawns on me: that’s exactly what he wants. He wants me to feed him like a doting lover. A courtesan on display. Revulsion rises in me. Isn’t it enough that I’m sitting on his lap? That I have to feel every part of him bulging beneath me? With slow strokes, I cut the meat into bite-sized portions, letting my knife scrape noisily against the porcelain.

Ashland whispers in my ear, “You forgot the sauce.”

My heart skips a beat. The heat of his body is too close, his breath disturbingly warm on my neck as I falter for only a moment.

Lifting the fork to my mouth, I savor the mutton, chewing thoroughly. A hum escapes my lips. “Oh?”

At exactly the same time, we both reach for the gravy bowl, our hands crashing in the middle, his finger dipping into the steaming sauce. I twist around to look him in the face, and we lock eyes, challenging each other. Shadows unfurl from his shoulders in great wisps.

“Oh dear, we’ve made a mess,” Ashland says darkly, rubbing his fingertip on my bottom lip. “Open.”

His command surprises me, and my lips part, allowing him in. My blood pulses as his long middle finger glides to the back of my throat, and I suck the gravy from it.

My face is surely beet red as I turn to find the sour-faced war leaders watching us, scandalized beyond measure.

“Is this what we’re to expect now?” asks the general with salt-and-pepper hair, eyeing me sideways down the long table.

With an eyepatch and scars running down his face, the short one barks, “Should we prepare and batten the castle for a siege? Will they try to win her back?”

I choke on a laugh but hurriedly attempt to cover my mouth with a napkin. It’s too late, though, and everyone hears. They’re waiting for an explanation, so I mutter, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

An outcry from around the table as fists beat down.

Someone shouts, “The girl wants us unprepared⁠—”

“I meant no one will come after me. They don’t know I’m here, and even if they do, they still won’t come…” I drain Ashland’s goblet of wine. It’s dark and dry, making me wish I had reached for the water instead, but the slight burn in my belly gives me something to focus on other than their disapproval.

“The courtesan speaks the truth.” Valora waves a forkful of meat, calmly explaining, “Our spies report she’s not popular with the people or her council.”

My whole body shuts down, shame taking over. All at once, my appetite is gone.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. The Alexandrians are war-hungry and love any excuse to slaughter,” says a voice at the far end as the other commanders devolve into insults and slurs.

I’m desperate for more wine, but Ashland moves the goblet far out of my reach after the footman refills it. “Eat,” he whispers in my ear, again nudging me in the ribs. I take a few bites while everything reels around me. Somehow, I keep chewing, hoping they won’t ask any more questions if I stay busy.

After I empty my plate, the table is dismissed with promises of strategy meetings in the morning.

Valora joins the commanders by the fireside, discussing another female leader named Adele who wasn’t able to attend tonight. I watch in awe as they show Valora deference. Muffling their conversation, they grow still when they see me approaching, but I care very little as I hurry past them, determined to leave.

Thirty

I now fully regret the high-necked frock.

It’s too tight, and I can’t breathe.

My hands claw at the fabric around my neck before I start the long process of unbuttoning the damnable thing. The lace edging scratches against my skin as I struggle with the pearl buttons running down the front of my bodice. Each tiny clasp feels slick between my trembling fingers. I grasp and pinch, but it slips away, evading my efforts. The gown clings to me, suctioning itself to my every curve, my perspiration only making it worse.