Page 87 of Crown of the Courtesan

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“Please—please don’t, Balor,” my voice begs, the sound of it waking me as lightning and thunder crash nearby.

A pair of strong hands grips my shoulders, shaking me slightly.

“Shhh,” the voice whispers. “Tabitha, it’s only a dream. You’re safe here,” he urges, sliding my sticky hair away from my face.

My eyes fly open when I recognize Ashland’s rumbling northern accent. He’s leaning over me, so close that it’s hard to see anything but his silver eyes in the dim light.

I’m surprised to see him, especially when it’s been a week of silence and avoidance since our last conversation. He doesn’t even bother to eat in the dining hall anymore. Not when he’s been taking each of his top commanders to dine alone with him in his chambers so he might influence their fickle natures.

It’s been a long seven days in which I’ve done nothing but train with Stormwatch and better plot my next escape. I’ve decided I can’t stay here, my uncle be damned. No amount of guilt can make me stay somewhere where I’m caged like a pet. So I’ve started timing the guards from my window, storing away little bits of food, eyeing the rusted weapons littered in the halls, deciding which one could be restored more easily than the others⁠—

“The storm,” I gasp, trembling. “I was back in…” A strike of lightning illuminates the rain beating against the windows as the wind howls and begs to be let in, rattling the hinges and latch.

“You’re safe now.”

But am I?

Coming to my senses, I murmur suspiciously, “What are you doing in here? What time is it?” A draft of frigid air sends a shiver down my already tense body as I lie tangled in my sweaty sheets.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he says. “I thought someone was hurting you, but then you kept repeating that name.”

With those words, the sadistic memories of my nightmare weigh me down as the details become sharper—an ache through old wounds. The fact that Balor’s ghost haunts me makes my stomach curl with the thought that I may never be truly free of him.

Ashland, shirtless and only wearing cotton pants, is already striding across my chamber, heading back to his suite. I surprise myself when my timid voice asks, “Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep again?” A flustered embarrassment threads through my every word as I lie, “I’ve never seen a storm like this.”

Ashland turns around. The slow deliberation he gives to my request doesn’t help the shivering that racks my ribcage. “Ah, my lady beckons me, does she?” A grim smile slowly gains traction across his face.

“Yes, she does,” I play along.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if a commander witnessed me leaving your chambers come morning.” Before I can attempt to think of a witty retort, he says, “And as far as the weather is concerned, the farther north you go, the worse the elements fight back. The people who live here must be resilient enough to endure their love for their home. I suggest you make your peace with the unpredictability.”

I carefully study him as he returns, relief melting from my body. If only I could convince him to grow closer to me like on the boat—to want me—to need my body, I might be able to carve out some semblance of trust and freedom; otherwise, he’ll never let his guard down.

Without some serious and drastic changes, I would accomplish nothing but more wasted time and another piss-poor escape. A week of obsessing over this ugly truth has made me realize I need to wedge myself into some sort of power by proxy—that I shouldn’t let my growing distaste for manipulation cloud my judgment, not when I’m a Lady Courtesan capable of anything.

Ashland heads toward the chair next to the bed, but I scoot over and offer him space on the mattress.

His step falters.

Highly aware that the only thing I’m wearing is my thin shift, and that I’m still downright freezing, I pull the bedding up to my chin. He seems relieved at that, and the bedframe groans under his weight as he eases down on it next to me. Our arms graze.

An awkward silence grows before he asks, “Do you wish to talk about this former Keeper of yours, this Balor Black?”

“N-n-no.” My teeth begin to chatter.

“No, I wouldn’t either,” he says, giving me a sideways glance. “I already know he’s the rat who implemented those war-free zones in the border villages, yet turned around and called for attacks on the commonfolk. You were his Lady Courtesan during this time. Were you not aware of what he was doing?”

“Yes, I kn-knew. But what was I-I going to do? B-barge into the High Council? They would’ve s-sent me to the cathedral.”

Ashland seems both disappointed and surprised by my honesty and admits, “You should know that if I ever get a hold of this wretch, I wouldn’t use my powers on him; I’d snap his neck with my bare hands for the simple satisfaction of never having to hear of his cruelty again.” With a tilt of his head, he peeks over at the fireplace. “There should be more wood in here. Did you burn it all?”

“There’s n-never e-extra wood for my f-fire,” I say, glad for the subject change. I decide to use this opportunity and allow the blankets to fall to my waist when I’m hit with a particularly violent shiver. The sheer fabric of my shift outlines my peaked nipples as I make sure the material pulls tight with the help of my arms pinning it in place. “I thought it w-wasn’t allowed.”

“Unacceptable.” He clears his bobbing throat. “I’ll speak to the housekeeper first thing.” With a deepening of his crooked frown, he studies me. By this point, my shivering is causing my whole body to jiggle in all the places that should catch his attention.

Before he can say anything, I blurt, “I’m s-sorry. I c-can’t help it.”