Chapter 4

Alistair seemed quite pleased with the outcome. He raised his cup and took a leisurely sip. Then he addressed Kevin, who was still kneeling on the floor. "Bradford, I am in a pleasant mood today. I will overlook this. Get out."

Kevin looked as though he had been granted a royal pardon. He scrambled back to his seat on all fours, no longer daring to meet my eyes. Alistair had handled the entire affair as if it were nothing. With barely a word, he had brushed it aside.

He was asserting his authority. Making it known to everyone, loud and clear. I was his. No one could touch me. Anyone who tried would answer to him.

The mood in the hall grew heavier still. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. No one dared raise their voice. Everyone wore strained smiles and spoke in hushed tones.

Alistair sat there as if nothing fazed him. Utterly unbothered by the drama. He kept one arm wrapped around my waist. Every so often, he would pick up a pastry and offer it to me. "Try this."

I had no choice but to open my mouth and accept. His fingertips lingered on my lips. Whether deliberate or not, I could not say. His touch was cool against my skin.

I could tell Grant was about to lose control. His fury was barely contained. His hand on the table was clenched so tight the veins stood out. He looked ready to flip the table. But I knew he would not dare.

Before Alistair, all his authority meant nothing. His helpless rage was almost laughable.

At last, the banquet ended. The officials fled, desperate to get away.

Grant was the last to leave, and he paused at the door and glanced back at me with eyes that held anger, defiance, disappointment, and something else I could not quite decipher.

I turned away. I had no wish to look at him any longer. Whatever bond of father and daughter had once existed was long dead.

Soon, only Alistair and I remained in the hall. His two guards stood behind him, tall and solid.

I rose from his lap and knelt on the floor. "Thank you, Your Grace, for what you've done for me tonight."

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. "Rise."

I stood, hands folded respectfully at my sides.

"I do not like people kneeling to me." He rose and walked toward me.

He was so tall that I had to tilt my head back just to see his face clearly. The candlelight softened his features somewhat. But the sharpness remained.

He studied me for what felt like an eternity. So long that I thought he might see straight through me. Then, without warning, he asked, "What is your name?"

I paused. He had spoken my name only moments ago. "I am Charlotte Quinn," I replied.

"Charlotte Quinn." He repeated it slowly, as if savoring the sound. "A fine name." Then he asked another question. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"How long have you been at the Pleasure House?"

"Three months."

He asked each question slowly, deliberately, like an interrogation. As though I were a suspect in the hot seat. I answered each one truthfully since lying to him would be the height of foolishness.

When his questions ended, he fell silent once more.

I had no idea what he was planning. All I could do was stand there and wait.

After a long silence, he spoke again, "Do you hate Grant?"

My heart dropped like a stone. That question cut deep and was even dangerous. How was I supposed to answer?

If I said yes, would I seem petty and vengeful? If I said no, it would be a lie. And he would see right through it.

I lifted my eyes and met his gaze. "Your Grace, I am nothing but a courtesan. What does it matter whether I hate him or not?"

I had sidestepped the question and tossed it back at him. A careful move. I had shown my stance without revealing my true feelings.

A flicker of admiration crossed Alistair's eyes. "You are sharp. Sharper than most women I have known."

He reached out and gently brushed my cheek. His hand was rough, callused from years of wielding weapons. The touch made my skin prickle.

"A shame fate placed you in the wrong circumstances." He sighed. There was something almost like regret in his voice.

Then he picked up a cup of wine from the table. The one I had poured for him earlier. He held it out to me. "Drink."

I stared at the cup. Alarm bells rang in my head. What did this mean? Poison? Something else? I did not move.

Alistair smiled. "What is wrong? Afraid I have poisoned it?" He took the cup back, drank from it himself, then offered it to me once more. "Satisfied?"

I looked at him. Then at the cup. I had no choice. I took it from his hand and drained it in one swallow. This time, the liquor did not burn as fiercely. Instead, it left a faint sweetness on my tongue.

Alistair watched me finish. He nodded. "Good. You are mine now. You will leave the Pleasure House and come live in my manor."

I was stunned. The happiness came so suddenly that it barely felt real. I could scarcely believe my ears. To leave the Pleasure House behind and to move into his manor? It was everything I had dreamed of.

This was the first step of my revenge and the most crucial one.

I swallowed my joy and knelt in gratitude. "Thank you, Your Grace."

He helped me to my feet. "I told you. I do not like people kneeling to me." He looked at me, and his gaze softened just a fraction. "This is no sudden impulse. We have crossed paths before."

I was stunned once more. I searched my memory but could not recall ever meeting him. A man like him? If I had met him, I would never forget.

He saw the confusion on my face and merely smiled. "Three years ago. Northgate. A heavy snowstorm. A boy in rags, nearly starved to death. A little girl handed him a bun."

His words hit me hard. Three years ago, on Northgate that winter, Grant had been sent to inspect the troops. My mother and I had accompanied him.

My mother had always been frail. The harsh climate of Northgate worsened her condition. That night, the snow fell thick and fast. I slipped out of the estate alone, hoping to pray for my mother's recovery at the church.

Along the way, I saw a boy. He was huddled in a corner, battered and bruised. His lips were blue from the cold. He did not look much older than me.

I could not help but pity him. I took the bun I had saved for myself and gave it to him.

He looked up at me. His eyes were those of a wounded wolf, cold and fierce.

I was so frightened that I thrust the bun at him and fled.