Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
I peel off my wet stays and shift, hanging them to dry on the window ledge.
Once I’m sure no one’s looking, I hide the soggy diary under the half-burnt mattress.
It’s probably witless to try to conceal it, but thinking under duress isn’t my strongest attribute.
And honestly, I don’t know what else to do with it at the moment.
The crimson and taffeta gown is meant to humiliate me—I’m sure of it.
The swooping neckline plunges lower than what is socially acceptable, even by courtesan measures.
Too tight and too small, the gown clings in a way that makes every curve and dip of my breasts noticeable.
Even the backside of the gown is lacking, as there isn’t enough fabric to meet in the middle, making the laces cross over the gap of my bare flesh, taut and without give.
To complete the humiliation, the damn thing is several inches too short, showing off my ankles and dirty, soot-smudged feet.
Since no one has provided a brush or a comb, I pick at the tangled knots in my hair with my fingers, but I’m interrupted before I can make progress. The door opens to reveal armored guards who beckon me out.
On my right and left, four sentries march in perfect unison, their expressions stoic and unflinching.
As we descend the winding tower, our footsteps echo through an impoverished castle.
Jagged cracks splinter across old, run-down walls, where the mortar has begun to crumble between the stones.
Ripped tapestries hang limp and threadbare while mice scurry over rusted weapons scattered on the corridor floors.
Absent any plush rugs, there is nothing but unrelenting stone against the bare skin of my feet.
Each step is like walking into fresh snow—so cold it burns.
The dimly lit passage stretches on endlessly, and I can’t help but feel a suffocating weight as we proceed through the gloom.
There’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind that the neckline of this dress is low-cut for the ease of a swinging ax—
Don’t think like that.
The guards halt before imposing double doors with white trees painted onto their wooden surfaces.
They open inward, revealing a darkened hall.
At the opposite end, the Witch-King is bathed in near-complete shadows.
The only light source flickers from behind a basic and square throne, casting an eerie ambiance.
A guard nudges my shoulder. I stumble, craning my neck to watch the doors slam as they lock behind me, trapping me in this tunnel of terror.
A musty, damp odor overwhelms my nostrils as I slowly move through this obscure throne room. The whispers in my mind chant gleefully as I trip over a broken piece of what I suspect is an old bone. I fall on my hands and knees.
Darkness encroaches.
A frantic rhythm takes over my heart. Stifling a grunt, I brace my stinging palms against my knees and rise to my feet. So far, life has felt like an endless, overwhelming journey, and now I can hardly believe I’m at its end.
As I step closer, I struggle to see the king’s features. The absence of light masks every inch of the man reclining on the throne, leaving only his long legs and the bottoms of his boots visible.
I halt at the steps leading to the throne.
“Bow before the Witch-King of Ashland,” commands a voice. The hate-filled words bounce off the walls, hitting like blows. I throw myself to the floor with my arms outstretched and my hands clasped.
“Stop the pathetic theatrics and get up. Your hatred is far more respectable.”
“I only did as I was told,” I say, choking on the words as I rise from the ground. Fear and embarrassment twist into something ugly that festers in me.
“I’m curious, is that the obedience you learned as a Lady Courtesan?”
“Obedience?” I’m unable to restrain my disdain. “Obedience is but a gift to make small men believe their power is anything but a shackle.” My mouth clamps shut.
The outline of his body overwhelms the throne as he leans forward, and I glimpse the sparkle of a white tooth. Wait—is he smiling? “I’m surprised you’re here, considering I sent my shadow hounds to retrieve you, yet they returned empty-handed.”
Yellow eyes gleam on either side of him. Familiar growls and yips echo like a pack of horrid creatures. I scurry backward and fall on my bottom. A sharp sting reverberates through my tailbone, and my crimson gown poofs around me before it deflates.
“Those—those things came from you?” My voice is hoarse as I watch their eyes follow me.
“My loyal hounds,” he says. “Tell me, my lady, do you perform for me now as you’ve done your entire life in Alexandria? Do you think me impressed by your witty words and fuckable face?” He gives a sharp whistle that hurts my ears. The yellow eyes disappear from his sides.
I don’t answer him. I furrow my brow, trying to get a better look at this king who fills me with such silent, shaking rage. “Let me guess—you’re the one who also spiked my goblet with poison? Didn’t you?”
Silence hangs thick and heavy between us before he asks, “What poison?”
He’s toying with me. I can tell by the velvet in his voice. My thighs tremble uncontrollably, preventing me from putting weight on them and standing. I push onto my knees, trying to salvage what shreds of courage and dignity remain to me. “Why are you doing this?”
“So many reasons, but most importantly, you have something that belongs to me.”
I swallow.
“Take it off.”
He wishes to degrade me further, but I have my limits. “No,” I finally say, twisting my fingers in my lap.
“Stop thinking so highly of yourself. Now give me the damn circlet.”
Feeling foolish, I lift my hand to where the circlet rests in my matted hair. The braided loops wrapping around it are half undone. “I cannot.”
“Don’t be stupid. Surrender it.”
“It’s too tangled.”
“A maid can bring shears and cut it from your scalp if need be.”
I say nothing as I picture myself with a shorn head, forced to be his captive. It isn’t a life I’m willing to lead.
He clucks his tongue. “No, that wouldn’t do.
I like to keep my spoils of war unblemished.
The people of my kingdom will want to behold their beautiful enemy queen as I march her through the streets.
The very one who didn’t even bother to negotiate peace before continuing the killing of her forefathers.
They will beg to see who took their fathers, husbands, and brothers away, butchered in your latest battle assault, under your rule. ”
“I didn’t—”
“With you placed on my steed and bound by ropes as my war prize, everyone will know we are victorious.”
My head spins as I realize I’m someone’s property and prize again.
I stare into the darkness. There is no more to say. Begging accomplishes nothing. Being hateful only serves to worsen his treatment. The only thing left for me is silence.
He orders someone waiting in the corner, “Return her to the tower. Draw her a bath.” Turning to me, he says, “Never forget. The circlet belongs to me. You belong to me. Ready yourself. I’m coming for both.”
Revulsion sets every piece of me on fire. My lips go numb. I stop blinking. I refuse to dignify him with a response.
Twisting the knife, he murmurs with cruel amusement, “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my eyes welling with tears.
A round-faced maid dressed in a brown service dress and white cap shuffles over to me. She helps me onto my wobbling legs.
The Witch-King stands. “Wait.”
But I’m already facing the opposite end of the dark hall. The too-tight laces of my gown, digging into the flesh of my back, are on full display. I detest that he’s watching.
“One more thing,” he adds.
Releasing the maid’s arm, I turn to face him.
“If you use even a drop of magic against my people, if you harm anyone in my kingdom ever again… I’ll run my sword through you myself, and that’s a promise, my lady.”
I give a curt nod of acceptance.
“Good. Now go. You stink.”
He collapses onto his throne, shoulders slumping, silver eyes reflecting.