Page 96 of Crown of the Courtesan

My head jerks up at the sound of sloshing water.

Ashland stands on the bank in all of his naked glory, his cock long, thick, and swinging as he leans over the boulders and asks, “What’s this?” He pulls Cliodna’s diary from my pile of clothing.

Shit.

“Stop—that’s mine!” I swim to the shore as fast as I can, but he’s already flipping through the pages, stopping at one in particular.

Disbelief carves into his hardened face, and his voice is full of venom as he accuses, “You thought you could hide this from me?”

Water streams down my body as I run from the hot spring. I push him in the chest as hard as I can. “Give it back! It belongs to me⁠—”

Fury ripples over his face, transforming him from Ashland back into the Witch-King. He holds the diary above my head, far out of reach, and growls, “Do you forget who you are, my lady? My captive. Mine. You own nothing.” He restrains me with his other hand, pulling me against his naked body and trapping me beneath his muscled arm.

“Let go of me, you’re disgusting⁠—”

“I should’ve had them strip-search you the first night in the tower.” My breasts are pressed flush against his chest, drawing his gaze downward. His cock swells against my hip.

I give him a cruel, knowing grin.

“You claim you want respect from me, and when I give it to you, this is how you repay me?” he asks, the quiet in his voice worse than any threat.

My smug smile is short-lived when he lowers his head and forces me to kiss him. His tongue pushes into my mouth, claiming what he can and nothing more. Somehow that hurts more than if he fully took my body against my will, but I’ll never be enough for him to break that restraint. Never good enough to tempt his basest desires.

I know these thoughts are wrong.

I know they are.

Yet they won’t stop. I’m helpless as he devours me. All I can do is taste him and remember the tenderness he so rarely shows me. I despise him for making me feel this way—for making me crave the man beneath the cruelty while also making me hate the man standing before me. He pulls away breathless, angrier than ever, when he whispers, “Every time I’m with you, you remind me how kindness is my truest weakness. This is why I’ll never trust you.”

My fists hammer into his chest. I don’t care that each strike is the same as pounding iron—or that my knuckles beg for me to relent as I let out a guttural scream. “I hate you!”

“The feeling is mutual. Now what else have you been hiding? What else aren’t you telling me?” He grips me by the back of my neck and pulls me firmly against him until I stop fighting.

“Nothing.” I tilt my head to look up at him. My voice cracks. “It’s just a diary…”

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.” He releases me and steps back.

“What if I refuse?”

“You cannot refuse your king.”

“You’ll never be my king.” A bitter scowl twists my lips.

“Tabitha, you may have a few drops of fae blood, but your new eyes mark you as a witch, a Devana Witch…”

My scowl falters, and I shake my head. “I thought it was an after-effect from the magic—from the power of those trees.” My water-wrinkled fingers touch the corners of my eyelids, wishing I could change them back.

“It is. The magic brought your heritage to the surface.”

“Even if that’s true...” I take a shuddering breath, emotion blocking my throat. “I’ll not honor a king who’s no different than the men keeping those women locked on that wagon. Don’t lie to yourself. You aren’t some great leader—you have an inflated sense of worth, the same as every man with a little power. When in reality you’re the one who owns nothing. You don’t own me, you don’t own wealth, you don’t own food, you don’t own anything but a crumbling castle⁠—”

The night grows darker, the stars disappearing. His voice echoes inside my head: “I am the Witch-King of the Devana. I am your king, whether you like it or not.” His jaw clenches, his mouth not moving as he sets his lips downward into a tight grimace. He rubs the spot above his left chest muscle before stalking off with Cliodna’s diary still clutched in his clenched fist.

I call after him, “Only a weak king would insist on reverence.”

Forty-Three

Our party leaves with darkness still surrounding us. We travel at a brutal, unrelenting pace until we reach the mighty Hetaira River. Following it south, we cross the rocky border marked with Alexandrian banners, which whip in the cold autumn air just as the sun rises. The letter A, enveloped by ivy on the flag, makes me queasy as I survey the rippling grass covering the rolling hills, not a tree in sight.