Page 59 of Crown of the Courtesan

Jumping from the tub, I carefully scrutinize each dress. Finally, I stop, my hand hesitating over my selection. A feline smile takes over my face, and I grab it.

Even with a maid’s help, it takes a ridiculous amount of time to dress in the high-necked, long-sleeved contraption. It has nearly a hundred pearl buttons down its brown silk front. I frown at the reflection in the dressing mirror, worrying that my curves strain excessively against the skin-tight silk, but it will have to do.

I pin my hair into an elegant, twisted coiffure with tendrils framing my face and finish the outfit with a dusky pink shawl. Never forget that we are enemies, repeats in my already busy mind.

Oh, I won’t be forgetting.

A knock sounds at the adjoining door. I open it and find Ashland standing there. His broad shoulders fill a finely embroidered black-as-midnight tunic decorated with intricate silver knotwork and adorned with medals of valor. It used to bother me when Balor only wore dark colors because it brought out a sickly yellow in his pallor, but on Ashland, it suits him, which burrows an annoyance under my skin like a hard-to-find splinter of wood.

He takes in my appearance, a twitch of surprise running across his fine features, but he doesn’t remark on my choice of outfit—just an offer of his arm. I don’t hesitate for fear I’ll show weakness. So I take hold without a second thought.

In the shadowy corridors, he says, “Call me Ashland tonight, without formal titles. We must convince them you’re here willingly, or they’ll never believe you share my bed.” I nod in agreement as an unwelcome warmth floods my veins, and I thank the fae above that he disdains me enough not to desire that.

When we reach the dining hall, he makes me wait outside until they’re ready. Standing behind the giant doors, I try to listen in on their hushed conversations. Perhaps something that could help me in the future, but just as I lean in⁠—

“Are you late also?” a female voice asks behind me.

I startle and flip around to find a beautiful warrior woman of prominent rank. Face to face, she’s a vision of russet skin brushed with accents of rose blush across her high cheekbones. Her powder-pink hair twists away with gold pins that rise into spiral cones tipped with rubies while connected chains delicately rest on her forehead. Despite the magnificent diadem she wears, she doesn’t bother dressing in a formal gown. Instead, she’s outfitted in expensive leather pants and a gold breastplate decorated with filigree that fits the curves of her small bust. Though she is lithe, her muscles are well-defined, and her violet catlike eyes say strength is the least of her abilities as she surveys me in return. Not bothering to hear my answer, she strolls into the dining room, leaving me behind.

Another agonizing fifteen minutes elapse before the double doors swing wide and stay open.

I enter the cavernous dining hall, my footsteps tapping on the broken marble floor. Iron candelabras line the long mahogany table while the generals and commanders sit stiffly, their whiskered faces illuminated by the candlelight.

I’ve always been used to people leering, even pointing.

But this is different.

This sets my soul on edge. Their eyes dig in while I fight the urge to run in the opposite direction. Do they itch to grab their weapons like the men in the village? Would I be prey for this den of wolves as they watch their leader toy with me? My breathing hitches in my throat.

I scan the table for a seat, but no chairs remain. Uncertain about my next move, I shift back and forth on my feet.

The Witch-King reclines lazily in his high-backed chair at the head of the table, his eyes gleaming as he appraises me. The generals follow his gaze, astonishment rippling across their faces. Ashland gives me a come-hither look that would melt an average woman—yet it sours my gut.

Everyone gawks as I make the long trek to the head of the table. Ashland opens one arm, welcoming me to his lap. Embarrassment wraps around my neck as I lower myself to sit in his embrace, his hard-muscled thighs tensing under me as his chest radiates warmth. He immediately pulls the hairpin from my updo, releasing my tresses from their constraints. My hair falls around my shoulders in big, bouncy curls, and my cheeks grow hot as he tucks a spiral behind my ear. Out of the corner of my vision, I catch sight of the generals and commanders who watch wide-eyed, their mouths slightly agape.

Ashland’s voice booms, “Let me introduce our guest of honor, my beautiful courtesan, Tabitha Rilea Metalla, Queen of Alexandria.” I suppress a shudder, forcing myself to smile coyly as gasps erupt.

For better or worse, this is the path I tread.

Ashland raises his goblet. “Her presence represents a new era of possibility for our kingdom. Long have we fought a losing war. Now, under my reign and with Tabitha’s cooperation, we shall prevail once and for all.”

Everyone lifts their drinks and reluctantly sips in the cold silence. Before long, introductions go around the table, none of which I’ll ever recall. I will only remember how each commander looks as if they would kill me instantly, given the chance, as disdain and hatred and disgust paint their ravaged faces.

My thigh trembles until Ashland places his hand over it, steadying it with his broad palm. Without moving it, he introduces the bejeweled warrior woman from earlier. “This is General Valora Andarta, my second-in-command. If I’m not around, she’s in charge.”

“Just call me Valora,” she says. “When the history books write about me, I want no confusion about what name my enemies scream with their dying breath.” She fluffs and tucks a cloth napkin around her neck.

I respond with a polite nod, making a mental note not to get on her bad side.

The butler directs footmen to serve the meal. It’s a plain menu of mutton, greens, and other root vegetables, but there is plenty to accommodate so many people. The savory aroma of the roasted meat teases my stomach, and I tentatively spy a steaming bowl of delectable gravy. After a few words of gratitude from Ashland, the rhythmic scrape and clink of cutlery fill the hall as everyone eats.

While a servant pours wine into my goblet, Valora leans toward me, asking, “And how does Captain Finn Wellcrest fare?”

I blink. I didn’t expect a question about Wellcrest here.

Thankfully, this isn’t hard to answer. “He’s one of the few good men I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. He excels at his line of duty without compromising honor.”

Something sparks in her inquisitive gaze, and then I see it. She has the same nose as Finn. The same violet-colored and catlike eye shape. The same attractive features⁠—