Page 57 of Crown of the Courtesan

I drop the letter, my hands stiff. Did he think a few trinkets would sway me to his side?

The stew’s aroma makes my mouth water. I picture a proper meal in a fine dining room and almost burst into tears. Despite wanting to refuse out of stubbornness, I wrap myself tightly in the furs and eat until my stomach nearly turns.

The bolt scrapes and the hinges squeak as the cell door opens a fraction. Accepting his gifts doesn’t necessarily have to mean I’m agreeing to his offer.

I sit, licking the spoon. For now, I’ll take what I can and gather my strength…

The books beckon from the table, calling me to lose myself in their pages. I scold myself for not being smarter, more resilient. Don’t fall for the bait. At least I’ll die on my own terms in here.

But the whispers chant: go go go.

I attempt to block them.

They grow louder.

Angrier.

Restless and heedless, I struggle between staying and leaving as I pace back and forth. I’m not ashamed to admit that my legs beg to walk unrestrained in the fresh air and sunshine, that my voice aches to converse with anyone other than the mute guards. I crave freedom, but could I survive as the Witch-King’s courtesan?

Even as a false ploy?

The waste bucket in the corner stares at me.

With a breath of resignation, I gather the stack of novels in my arms. Wavering before the open cell door, I finally decide to leave the dungeon, and the whispers celebrate.

* * *

The musty aroma of book bindings irritates my nose as I lean against the bookshelf, gathering my bearings. I begin to wander the narrow library rows, trailing a reverent finger over the leather tomes as if I haven’t just come from the dungeon. By all rights, I know I’m a mess. My gown bears the grime of the cell, dirt smudges the torn hem, and my hair frizzes wildly, unkempt from days locked below.

Yet even at my most disgusting, I’ve decided to carry myself as the lady I know I am. To not give up on everything I’ve been taught. I’ve had my cry, and now I won’t let him break me, my composure, or my thoughts.

A content almost-smile plays at my lips as I explore the shelves, completely lost in the art of not rushing while I select interesting titles to add to the stack of novels I brought out of the dungeon. Sunlight shines through the top windows, illuminating a spot on the bare wooden floorboards. I step into the light and enjoy the warmth on my feet.

That’s when I spot him across the room. My burden-laden arms tighten across my chest as I turn my face toward his lingering form in the doorway. His high cheekbones and bladed jaw make him undeniably attractive, a fact that makes me despise him all the more. I’m well aware that his handsome face means nothing when his soul is as ugly and dark as his castle. A wall goes up in his storm-cloud eyes as we lock gazes.

The Witch-King is a riddle I’m desperate to solve for the sake of my freedom, but I should never confuse curiosity with infatuation. Because who knows how long this arrangement will last before I must escape or perish. Eventually, he’ll show me the true beast that lurks beneath, and I’ll have to make a decision.

“We need to discuss the rules,” he states.

My eyebrows rise slightly, but intrigue wins out.

The Witch-King steps behind me into the study, clicking the door shut between us and the outside world. He stands in front of his desk, watching me.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” I say, my voice resigned and slightly irritated as I set my stack of books down on the messy desk. “If we’re going to do this… if I’m to play the part of your courtesan, then I’ll only agree if certain stipulations are in place.” I grimace. “Mine, not yours.”

Gingerly, he removes some freshly-inked letters from under my stack of books and places them aside. Tension crackles like static between us, and a flicker of doubt crosses his face for just a moment before he masks it.

I’m out of my depth, yet…

“And what sort of rules would those be?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms.

I take a breath, noticing the slight bob in his throat. “You already mentioned it, but absolutely no intimacy,” I start.

His face stays emotionless, but he nods for me to continue.

“Nothing… crossing that line. This is strategic. An act. I don’t want you to change your mind like most men would.”

“I’m not like most men.”