Page 56 of Reign

I considered lying—portraying myself as a heartbreaking lothario who’d seen more women in compromising positions than sunrises. But with so many lies already weighing on me, I decided to be honest.

“Never have,” I confessed before glugging his ale.

I recalled a fleeting summer romance with a boy from Green Glenn. Our days spent in the forest, barely able to keep our hands off one another. We were driven by lust, yet careful not to overstep the boundary that could compromise my maidenhood.

Bash raised an eyebrow. “Are you a virtuous fellow by choice?”

I shook my head, knowing that it was both a lack of opportunity and fear of social ostracism that kept me chaste.

“Shall we go back inside the Anchor and change that?” Bash asked with a coy smile. “I could give you a helping hand?”

I choked, spluttering ale down the front of my tunic.

Bash laughed. “I’m talking in jest,” he said, patting my back before dabbing the dampness from my chin with his fingers. “Careful, you don’t want to die before you…”

His words trailed off, his attention completely absorbed in wiping the droplets from my bottom lip. His thumb brushed back and forth against my slightly parted mouth, sending a tingle up the back of my neck as I silently begged for him to kiss me.

Bash cleared his throat. “I’m drunk,” he admitted, folding his arms across his chest. “If I had one more ale, I wouldn’t even remember my own name.” He stood abruptly, his demeanor shifting. “I need to check if Fletcher’s managed to stay out of trouble. Are you coming inside?”

I nodded, swinging my legs back over the deck before rising to join him.

Bash hesitated in the flickering rushlight, as though he had something more to say. But he never did. Moments later, we stepped over the threshold into the welcoming warmth of the Anchor.

As we entered the brothel, a palpable unease filled the chamber. The air felt thick and suffocating with mounting tension.

“Argh!” A deafening scream shrilled.

All the remaining patrons were already staring toward the curtain, as if this wasn’t the first screech to erupt from that direction. My mind conjured unnerving visions of what might be unfolding beyond it—perhaps there was a creature like Dog, but not loyal to me, savaging flesh just out of view.

“Get off!” The desperate cry of a woman echoed through the stillness.

Bash’s hand found my arm as he stepped slightly ahead of me, like he thought I needed shielding from what was coming.

I peered over his shoulder as Red ducked beneath the curtain and into the main chamber. For a brief moment, I felt a surge of relief.

But as he stumbled into the firelight, I saw him fully—his cheeks as fiery as his locks. In his fist, he gripped one of the working women, dressed in nothing but her chemise, by a tight handful of her dark hair.

“She spoke in that nefarious tongue,” Red spat, his unhinged eyes glinting with feral rage.

Mr. Bednot stepped forward. “Margaret,” he said. “Is this true?”

Margaret shook her head slightly, restricted by Red’s ironfisted grip.

“The whore’s gone quiet,” Red said through clenched teeth. “Beneath the sheets she was garrulous, now she acts a milksop.” He yanked Margaret’s head back, so he could look down his nose at her. “Repeat what you said in that bedchamber.”

Without hesitation, Margaret pursed her thin lips and spat at Red, proving she wasn’t intimidated by his domineering presence.

Red wiped the spittle from his cheek. Then, with gritted teeth, he slapped her. The forceful blow sent Margaret stumbling into the barrels, before crumbling beneath the table.

Bash lunged to Margaret’s side, scooping her from under the furniture and propping her against the bar. If Margaret was facing true north, her nose would now be pointing eastward—it was broken and bleeding, staining her chemise in crimson splatters.

Red barreled toward Margaret with a mirthless smirk, as if he wasn’t content with one shattered bone.

“Stop!” I yelled, stepping into his path to protect her from his brutality.

Earlier that evening, I’d tried to persuade Fitzroy to find the courage to reveal that he was a wizard, foolishly forgetting the deep hatred for magic that poisoned Lyonesse. As the scene unfolded before me, despair returned, and I realized Fitzroy was right. Had he confessed to sorcery, some men would stop at nothing to have him prosecuted.

Red sneered. “Why’s he defending a witch?” he asked, his sour breath wafting unpleasantly in my face.