Page 143 of Crown of the Courtesan

Of betrayals and treating me as though I were a pawn to be manipulated.

Of sleeping draughts and lustful nectar to sway my choices.

The little hairs on my arms stand up.

“You’ll feel better after some sleep.” Rett turns down the bedcovers and starts readying the bed. A burgundy curl falls over his eye as he yanks his undershirt off and stands next to me. He smiles as he picks at the beaded material on my puff sleeve. “How about you dress more comfortably? It’ll help you relax. We’ll only get a few hours of sleep before our wedding, so we’d best not squander it.”

My grimace deepens knowing that he’s right about one thing at least. My ballgown is itchy and tight—and my breasts desperately need out of this low-cut bodice. He helps me to my feet and attempts to unbutton the back of the gown, but his fingers are too thick to grasp the buttons. “Would you like me to call a lady’s maid?” he asks.

I grow hot, pulling away. “Don’t worry. I’ll do it myself. I want to freshen up, anyway.”

By the time I leave the bathing chamber, Rett is asleep. I still can’t get my gown off, but I’m too upset to try anymore. At least I’ve removed the crinoline.

His rumbling snores fill the quiet night, a companion to the turmoil tearing me into pieces. I’m not sure how long I lie in bed next to him, listening to the tick of the clock on the mantel. Over and over, my mind burns until a half-sleep claims me.

Tossing and turning, I reach out. Shadows caress, dark and swirling over the curves of my body, through my fingers, my face, and each tendril of hair.

The whispers make low and deep promises.

I’m unable to get out of bed. Sheets twist around me as they tangle with the heavy fabric of my gown. The wet nose of a shadow hound nudges my hand hanging over the mattress’s edge.

My eyes fly open.

The shadows disappear.

Rett is still asleep next to me. His arm drapes lazily across my middle. I heave his heavy, muscled embrace off. It falls with a thud on the mattress, but he doesn’t move.

On the desk, under the moonlit window, lies Princess Cliodna’s diary, pages flipping in the wind.

When I approach, the pages stop moving and rest open to a specific passage—the last page with written words. Moonlight streams down, illuminating Cliodna’s loopy handwriting.

I pick up the leather-bound journal; a deep shiver runs from my spine into my racing heart. I carry it to the balcony to get a better view. Struggling, I read:

Close my eyes

I see blue waves

on a blanket of black

Like the sea

He never did

Listen to me

Where the ocean sleeps

The rough wood saves

Floating on the deck

Lover to be

A white ship

named after me

Cliodna,