Page 48 of Crown of the Courtesan

With a rough, calloused hand, he grabs the bone structure of my jaw, tilting my face upward until my head can’t go back any farther. He forces me to look at him.

I stop breathing.

Beneath dark eyelashes, his silver-moon irises pierce my terrified soul. “Gladly.” He gently pushes me back, and that’s all it takes for me to stumble to the stone floor.

With his other hand, he throws the wad of fabric at me. I clutch it to my chest. “What’s this?”

“Get dressed, and try not to lie to the Witch-King. He isn’t as forgiving as I am.”

Twenty-Three

I peel off my wet stays and shift, hanging them to dry on the window ledge. Once I’m sure no one’s looking, I hide the soggy diary under the half-burnt mattress. It’s probably witless to try to conceal it, but thinking under duress isn’t my strongest attribute. And honestly, I don’t know what else to do with it at the moment.

The crimson and taffeta gown is meant to humiliate me—I’m sure of it. The swooping neckline plunges lower than what is socially acceptable, even by courtesan measures. Too tight and too small, the gown clings in a way that makes every curve and dip of my breasts noticeable. Even the backside of the gown is lacking, as there isn’t enough fabric to meet in the middle, making the laces cross over the gap of my bare flesh, taut and without give. To complete the humiliation, the damn thing is several inches too short, showing off my ankles and dirty, soot-smudged feet.

Since no one has provided a brush or a comb, I pick at the tangled knots in my hair with my fingers, but I’m interrupted before I can make progress. The door opens to reveal armored guards who beckon me out.

On my right and left, four sentries march in perfect unison, their expressions stoic and unflinching. As we descend the winding tower, our footsteps echo through an impoverished castle. Jagged cracks splinter across old, run-down walls, where the mortar has begun to crumble between the stones. Ripped tapestries hang limp and threadbare while mice scurry over rusted weapons scattered on the corridor floors. Absent any plush rugs, there is nothing but unrelenting stone against the bare skin of my feet. Each step is like walking into fresh snow—so cold it burns. The dimly lit passage stretches on endlessly, and I can’t help but feel a suffocating weight as we proceed through the gloom.

There’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind that the neckline of this dress is low-cut for the ease of a swinging ax⁠—

Don’t think like that.

The guards halt before imposing double doors with white trees painted onto their wooden surfaces. They open inward, revealing a darkened hall. At the opposite end, the Witch-King is bathed in near-complete shadows. The only light source flickers from behind a basic and square throne, casting an eerie ambiance.

A guard nudges my shoulder. I stumble, craning my neck to watch the doors slam as they lock behind me, trapping me in this tunnel of terror.

A musty, damp odor overwhelms my nostrils as I slowly move through this obscure throne room. The whispers in my mind chant gleefully as I trip over a broken piece of what I suspect is an old bone. I fall on my hands and knees.

Darkness encroaches.

A frantic rhythm takes over my heart. Stifling a grunt, I brace my stinging palms against my knees and rise to my feet. So far, life has felt like an endless, overwhelming journey, and now I can hardly believe I’m at its end.

As I step closer, I struggle to see the king’s features. The absence of light masks every inch of the man reclining on the throne, leaving only his long legs and the bottoms of his boots visible.

I halt at the steps leading to the throne.

“Bow before the Witch-King of Ashland,” commands a voice. The hate-filled words bounce off the walls, hitting like blows. I throw myself to the floor with my arms outstretched and my hands clasped.

“Stop the pathetic theatrics and get up. Your hatred is far more respectable.”

“I only did as I was told,” I say, choking on the words as I rise from the ground. Fear and embarrassment twist into something ugly that festers in me.

“I’m curious, is that the obedience you learned as a Lady Courtesan?”

“Obedience?” I’m unable to restrain my disdain. “Obedience is but a gift to make small men believe their power is anything but a shackle.” My mouth clamps shut.

The outline of his body overwhelms the throne as he leans forward, and I glimpse the sparkle of a white tooth. Wait—is he smiling? “I’m surprised you’re here, considering I sent my shadow hounds to retrieve you, yet they returned empty-handed.”

Yellow eyes gleam on either side of him. Familiar growls and yips echo like a pack of horrid creatures. I scurry backward and fall on my bottom. A sharp sting reverberates through my tailbone, and my crimson gown poofs around me before it deflates.

“Those—those things came from you?” My voice is hoarse as I watch their eyes follow me.

“My loyal hounds,” he says. “Tell me, my lady, do you perform for me now as you’ve done your entire life in Alexandria? Do you think me impressed by your witty words and fuckable face?” He gives a sharp whistle that hurts my ears. The yellow eyes disappear from his sides.

I don’t answer him. I furrow my brow, trying to get a better look at this king who fills me with such silent, shaking rage. “Let me guess—you’re the one who also spiked my goblet with poison? Didn’t you?”

Silence hangs thick and heavy between us before he asks, “What poison?”