Echoes
Sleep was impossible under the weight of Cova’s words. There was nothing left to do but wait. For the sun to rise and set again. For my death.
Pacing did nothing to quell my shaking hands.
After an hour, I laid down to rest my throbbing feet.
Needling hay poked through my blankets as I stared blankly at the dark ceiling.
The stale stench of the keep coated my deep inhale.
The tang of the iron mixed with lingering, putrid excrements shared my quarters like we were prisoners in this room together.
I let my eyes fall shut, trying to calm my body, but my mind knew no such rest as it raced from memory to memory. Vivid scenes from my formative years replayed themselves in no particular order.
Practicing writing my letters with my tutor by the lake at our family manor.
Learning to ride and getting scolded by my mother for ruining countless dresses.
Burning my fingers from sneaking sweet loaves from the kitchen with Cova, my unwilling co-conspirator.
Discovering the fluttering feeling that would erupt in my chest when I noticed the apprentice stablehand, Beau, glancing at me.
Mother’s funeral service. The months of hiding my growing bump and Lydia’s birth splitting me in half.
Sending my daughter away to live with Cova and her wealthy husband.
My tempered indifference after learning I was betrothed to Hollis Ashford, Lord of Merchants.
The elegant calligraphy on wedding invitations donning my new surname.
Lady Reyva Ashford.
I was Hollis’ second wife. The first had passed during labor and I’d always known I was a disappointing replacement.
I was his consolation prize, and he was mine.
In those early days of marriage, Hollis loved showing me off to his privileged peers.
His new, pretty, young bride. I met anyone who was anyone all across the continent of Atoris.
From the warm shores of Bromport to the bustling streets of Illica.
There were countless dinner parties where tidbits of gossip were exchanged like currency over expensive southern wine.
We were the picture of happiness—in public at least—for our first year of marriage, but after our second anniversary and no pregnancy to show for our efforts, our social circles turned on us. Hollis couldn’t take the glances and gossip. Men are so fragile.
What was natural for me was irregular for other women.
My late cycle would nurture a false hope of pregnancy, only to be dashed by bloodstained sheets.
My continued failure to conceive led to raised voices and broken furniture.
Hollis’ displeasure compounded each month until I could depend on his disappointment sending him into clamorous fits that justified leaving me unattended at the estate until his temper cooled.
“Why must I always be saddled with such incapable wives?” he would spit. I couldn’t admit I’d had a child out of wedlock or that the chances of conceiving and delivering another healthy baby were abysmal. My shameful truth became my most practiced lie.
It took failing him in the most paramount of my duties to expose his malicious nature, a state of being that made him unfit in every regard to be a decent father.
Other than the very rare occasions where he required me to play ornament on his arm for events at the Illica court, we lived separate lives.
Hollis traveled and socialized without me, condemning me to isolation at his manor.
He would go to…wherever he went. I eventually stopped asking his whereabouts and began to prefer his extended absences.
Hollis tended to business and left me to run his estate.
I was always surrounded by servants, guests, extended family members, or business acquaintances as they passed through. I was rarely alone, although I was constantly lonesome. Shunned and companionless.
In our fourth year of childless marriage, Hollis had need for a new horsemaster, and I’d suggested poaching Beau for employment. It had been a reckless and entirely self-serving suggestion, but one Hollis had appreciated.
At the time, I wouldn’t have admitted it.
But in the dark solitude of the Illica keep, alone with nothing but my anxiousness and memories, I could confess that I knew from the moment I’d given Beau’s reference, I wouldn’t be strong enough to resist him.
Beau was my taste of home. My best friend. My first...everything.
While most of the rumors circling from tavern to village to the royal court about my involvement with Hollis’ untimely death were absolutely false and ridiculous, the theory of my secret lover was not untrue.
My affair with Beau felt wrong at first, but as Hollis’ displeasure and viciousness grew, my guilt faded.
If I were given one final wish, I would have requested him.
Warmth flooded my core with thoughts of hands and lips and dark corners and stolen moments of passion.
Beau.
I let my fingers wander my surfaces, gently trying to mimic the precise rhythm of his touch.
First tracing my neck, then the skin between my breasts, down to my navel.
My breath quickened as I summoned memories of his lips traveling the same path until all I could see was tousled brown locks and a devilish, determined gaze looking up from between my legs.
My fingers slickened as my body reacted to the movement.
Hollis’s wine cellar, not unlike my current cold surroundings, was one place where Beau had given me similar pleasure. So, I let myself be transported.
Back to the dimly lit room where mead barrels and other stores waited to be called into service by one of Hollis’ elaborate dinner parties.
Back to rough hands lifting my skirts until they firmly gripped my thighs and effortlessly lifted me onto an empty barrel.
Back to fighting with every fiber of my being to not make a sound as Beau’s tongue slowly passed over the most sensitive parts of me.
My tempo leapt, meeting my body’s desire.
The familiar, agonizing pleasure—the kind you want to savor but also can’t achieve fast enough—coiled itself in the depth of my core.
I remembered the way Beau would moan when he knew I was close.
Like it gave him just as much pleasure to see me well satisfied.
The thought of the low growl accompanying his strong, calloused hands holding my thighs open so he could complete his conquest sent me willingly over the edge.
More. Yes. Don’t. Stop.
A soft moan escaped me and echoed off the stone as I erupted.
I’d forgotten myself.
Frozen, I listened. My mind rejoined my body—now firmly back in the prison. My fingers betrayed me as they held their position against my pulsing nerves.
The small iron opening to my chamber slammed shut; metal meeting metal rang through the quiet of the night.
I bolted upright. Caught. Shit.
My thundering heartbeat was a war drum in my chest. Each thrum delivered heat, stoked by my embarrassment, across my arms and legs.
“She isn’t decent,” my guard warned, his voice muffled by the wooden barrier.
Had he been watching me?
“She forfeited privacy when she chose the life of a criminal,” a foreign voice retorted, their accent drenched in aristocracy.
Shit.
Keys jostled as I fixed my skirt and fought to flatten my unruly hair.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
The heavy door groaned, and I hastily stood to greet my late-night visitor.