Chapter 9
Cora POV
We ride for Bellon City, the road stretching long and uneven beneath the hooves of our horses.
I have been there once before, when I was seven.
Even then, I understood what lingered in its streets, the way whispers carried more weight than coin, the way secrets were traded like gold.
In Bellon, the main currency is not silver or steel, but knowledge.
I will need to be careful. I must give nothing away.
Every glance, every word, every gesture will be watched, and whatever is seen will find its way back to my father. Of that, I have no doubt.
We stop only once, long enough to let the horses drink and rest. The air is heavy with dust, the sun pressing down, but we move on quickly. I ride between Garrion and Mika, the two men like opposite poles, one silent and brooding, the other talkative and restless.
Mika’s face is beginning to bruise from our sparring match, the purple shadow spreading across his cheekbone. Guilt pricks at me. I will gather herbs when we reach the city, something to ease the swelling and help the healing. It is the least I can do.
Mika, of course, does not seem bothered.
He loves to talk, filling the silence with stories, jokes, and challenges.
His latest obsession is me, his determination to make me strong enough to wield a sword.
He speaks of it with enthusiasm, as though it is inevitable, as though I will one day stand in the circle with steel in my hands instead of a bow.
I glance at Garrion, his silence a stark contrast to Mika’s chatter. His eyes are forward, fixed on the horizon, but I feel his presence like a shadow at my side. Between them, I ride, caught between amusement and unease, between the weight of secrets and the promise of steel.
Bellon City looms ahead, its towers rising against the horizon, stone walls catching the morning light.
The sight of it makes me straighten my posture, as though the city itself demands composure.
As we near the gates, I shift my legs, forcing myself into the side-saddle position expected of a lady.
The moment I do, discomfort sets in, my back aches, my balance feels unnatural, and every step of the horse jostles me in ways that make me grit my teeth.
Garrion notices. His eyes flick toward me, amusement dancing in them, though he says nothing at first. I catch the faint curl of his lips, the kind of look that makes me bristle.
“Whoever decided this is the proper way for a lady to ride a horse should be cut down with a sword,” I mutter under my breath, unable to contain my frustration.
The words draw a low chuckle from him, though he doesn’t argue. His gaze lingers, steady and unreadable, as though he’s weighing whether to tease me further or let me stew in my own irritation.
I shift again, trying to ease the ache in my spine, but it’s useless.
The city gates grow closer, the guards already watching, and I know I must endure it.
Appearances matter here. In Bellon, every detail is a weapon, every weakness exploited.
So I sit taller, even as the discomfort gnaws at me, refusing to let them see anything but poise.
Once we reach the inn, Garrion swings me down from the horse with ease, though my back protests sharply after the long ride.
I bite back a wince, unwilling to show weakness.
The inn staff hurry forward, taking the reins of our horses.
Zeus, however, is far less cooperative, snorting, stamping, tossing his head in full protest as though he resents being led away from me.
I glance at the inn itself, its timber walls weathered, its windows glowing faintly with lamplight. It looks far too small to house all of Garrion’s men. The thought barely forms before Garrion’s voice cuts in, as if he’s read my mind. “Don’t worry. My men will find a warm bed for tonight.”
The words settle uneasily in me. Then it clicks.
Bellon City is full of pleasure houses, their doors open to men with coin.
The thought of women forced to sell their bodies simply to survive twists my stomach.
Secrets may be the city’s currency, but flesh is its trade. The realization makes me shiver.
We step inside the inn, and almost immediately an elderly man hurries toward us. His face lights with recognition, and he bows deeply. “Lord Darkmoor, it is a pleasure to see you here again.” Then his gaze shifts to me, and he bows once more. “My Lady.”
His deference unsettles me, though I keep my expression composed.
“I have prepared the best room in the inn for you, my lord,” he continues, gesturing for us to follow. We ascend the narrow staircase, the corridor stretching long and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of wood polish and old smoke.
At last, he opens a door. The room is spacious, far larger than I expected. A grand bed dominates the center, its sheets crisp and inviting. To the side, a bath already waits, steaming hot, fragrant oils and soaps swirling in the water. It is luxury, carefully prepared.
The innkeeper bows once more before retreating, the door closing firmly behind him.
I stiffen. The silence is immediate, heavy. I am alone with Garrion now. My heart beats faster, the awareness of the bed and the bath pressing in on me. Will he take what is owed to him tonight? The thought coils in my chest, equal parts dread and uncertainty.
Garrion begins to undress, his movements deliberate, unhurried.
One by one, his clothes fall to the floor, the sound of fabric against wood loud in the silence of the room.
When his pants hit the ground, I freeze, my eyes betraying me as they linger on him.
His body is carved with strength, every line a testament to years of battle and discipline.
He steps into the bath, the steam curling around him, and sinks into the water with a low, relaxed sigh. For a moment, he looks almost human, just a man easing into warmth.
His back is to me now. “Are you going to join me, wife?” His voice carries amusement, light but edged with something deeper. “They won’t give us another tub of hot water tonight.”
My hands tremble as I reach for my cloak, undoing the clasp.
The heavy fabric slips from my shoulders and falls to the floor.
Slowly, I peel away my riding leathers, my boots, each movement heavy with dread.
My mind races. Is he going to take me in the tub?
The thought horrifies me, coils tight in my chest.
But then he shifts, moving to the far end of the bath. His back to me, deliberately giving me privacy. The gesture unsettles me more than any threat could. He is not pressing, not demanding. He is waiting.
I step into the hot water, the heat enveloping me instantly, seeping into my aching muscles. I sink down, curling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself small. The steam rises around us, filling the silence, and though we share the same bath, it feels like a chasm stretches between us.
Little droplets of water cling to his mask, sliding down the steel like tears. I find myself staring, the question slipping out before I can stop it. “Do you ever take it off?”
“Yes,” he answers simply, his voice low, and then he moves closer. My body freezes, every nerve on edge.
His hands rise to my hair, fingers deftly undoing the braid that circles my head. I realize with a jolt that I haven’t touched my hair since the wedding. It must look tangled, messy, unkempt. Yet he handles it with surprising gentleness, as though it is something precious.
“Your hair reminds me of fresh fallen snow at home,” he murmurs, the words a compliment I never expected.
I don’t know what to say. Thank you would sound absurd, too small for the weight of the moment.
Then his hand finds mine, firm and unyielding, and he pulls me into his lap. His hard body presses against mine, heat and strength wrapping around me. It feels incredible, overwhelming, and yet I begin to tremble.
“Don’t worry, Cora,” he says, his voice steady, almost reassuring. “I won’t take your virtue tonight—not in that bed, not in a place that’s seen countless men and women doing ungodly things.”
Disgust coils in my chest at the thought. “The floor looks more inviting than that bed,” I mutter, unable to hide my revulsion.
He chuckles, the sound deep and amused, but my mind drifts elsewhere. How many women has he bedded? How many times has he laughed like this, whispered reassurances, touched another as he touches me now? The thought gnaws at me, sharp and bitter.
A loud knock on the door shatters the moment. “My Lord!” Mika’s voice rings with urgency, concern bleeding through the wood.
“What?” Garrion snaps, his tone sharp as steel. He releases me instantly, rising from the bath in one fluid motion. His naked body is on full display as he strides toward the towels, unashamed, commanding.
“Couple of men got in a fight and have been thrown into lockup,” Mika calls from behind the door. “We need you to sort it out.”
The silence that follows is heavy, charged. The moment between us is broken, but the echo of it lingers in my chest.
“Stay in the room,” Garrion orders as he dresses, his tone clipped, leaving no room for argument. “I will have the innkeeper bring you a meal.”
I nod silently, watching as he fastens his cloak and leaves, the door closing firmly behind him. The room feels larger without his presence, the silence pressing in around me.
I remain in the tub, letting the hot water soothe my aching muscles.
I wash my hair, scrubbing away the dust of the road, the sweat of travel, the tension that clings to me like a second skin.
My fingers work through the braid he had undone, loosening it fully, until my hair falls free around me.
I scrub my body until the skin feels raw, as though I can wash away not just dirt but the weight of the day.
When at last I rise, I dry myself carefully, wrapping in the cloak for warmth. Just as I finish, a knock sounds at the door. My dinner has arrived, as Garrion promised.
I pull the cloak tighter around me before opening the door. A young girl stands there, no older than fourteen, her eyes wide and shy. In her hands she carries a simple plate of bread and meat, and a cup of ale balanced carefully.
“For you, my lady,” she says softly, her voice almost trembling.
“Thank you,” I reply, offering her a small smile. I reach into the folds of my cloak and find a silver coin tucked away. Pressing it into her palm, I add, “For you.”
Her eyes widen further, and she bows her head low, clutching the coin as though it were treasure. “Thank you, my lady,” she whispers, her voice filled with awe.
As she retreats down the corridor, I close the door gently, the sound of her gratitude lingering in my ears.
I glance at the bed and my stomach tightens.
I have nothing to wearno nightdress, no shift.
I will have to sleep bare against the sheets.
The thought makes my skin prickle. I hesitate, torn between exhaustion and dread.
Hopefully Garrion will not notice when he returns…
or if he does, perhaps he will choose to ignore it.