Page 50 of Heirs of the Cursed

Its lands were far more extensive than the commander had given it credit for. Despite his lessons in strategy, he’d never set foot on the City of the Sea until now. He’d traveled to Hamleigh to suppress the rebel uprisings that had taken place near Saphir Lake, and had stopped in the quiet city of Dawnfall to spend a night in an inn before heading to the Prison of the Forgotten under the king’s orders. But Bellmare was different; it’dfeltdifferent from the moment he’d set foot into it, as if a force was pulling him toward it.

After he arrived at the brothel with five other soldiers, the mistress greeted them warmly. She didn’t object when Ward informed her that he wanted to question her hetairas, but asked them to wait, as there was one insubordinate hetaira who was due for punishment.

The commander only understood the reason for Madame Dimond’s anger when he swept his eyes over the young women in the parlor and noticed that Ausra was missing.

A nagging fear settled in his chest.

For the madam’s favorite hetaira was her.

Among the shadows of the room, Ward stood still, hearing Madame Dimond expose her real name for the soldiers to churn the last piece of hers that remained untouched and safe from all manner of judgment.

Naithea.

He memorized her name, tasting its sweet temptation in his lips.

The first whip that knocked her to the ground caught him off guard. But Ward, trained from a young age, didn’t move. He felt the phantom hand of his father on his shoulder, digging his boots into the floor and reminding him of his place. Through punishments of his own, he’d trained him to fight only for the kingdom, and turned him into a monster with a shallow heart.

His hands clenched as the belt strikes rained down on Naithea’s body, a silent battle against the rising tide of his temper.

A primal instinct flared in Ward’s chest; an alteration to his very nature. He hadn’t been consumed by his emotions in a long time, not since Maliya’s death, his Anam Cara. His partner in every way, his equal, the other half of his soul. He’d loved her with every broken piece of his heart and so had she. But he’d lost her before they could enjoy the rest of their eternity together.

Any rational thought slipped from his grasp as he noticed the belt covered in blood rise, this time to strike Naithea’s exposed back. The dim lights of the oil lamps revealed tanned skin adorned with old scars. Long and short, old and new . . .

The belt rose higher, over Madame Dimond’s head, ready to descend upon her.

Ward lunged forward, closing the distance with five swift strides—faster than he had ever been. Faster than when he’d learned that his Anam Cara’s life was in danger.

Before it could strike her, the Commander of Death caught the brothel owner’s wrist with controlled force. Yet his eyes, dark as the night sky, concealed a depth of darkness that his victims feared. A war of stares broke between him and the madam, and Ward didn’t step back until he quelled the flames in his chest and was certain he wouldn’t rip her apart.

He got rid of the belt in a single maneuver, which slid across the floor due to the blood that drenched it. Away from Naithea and the rest of the hetairas. Madame Dimond’s eyes widened in surprise, but it was her grudging disapproval that hardened her features.

“That’s enough,” was all Ward said.

“Has the dreaded commander of the Royal Army fallen for the charms of a used woman?”

Ward couldn’t ignore her words.

His father had warned him of the hetairas that prowled the kingdom and how he should never take a corrupted and unclean woman to his bed.

Used whores are not worthy of a man of power’s time, his father had lectured him for years.

“Miss Ausra will do a better job satisfying my men if she is in one piece,” he lied.

“A lesson had to be taught,” Madame Dimond snarled. “She has stolen from me!”

“And you have made your point.” The commander released her hand but didn’t move, still suspecting that the madam would attack Naithea again. “Banefort, give Madame Dimond thirty gold vramnias.”

The soldier blinked in confusion, not knowing if Ward was being serious or if it was some kind of code word to finish the woman off.

“Commander . . .”

“Now.”

He nodded obediently and took a bag of coins from his belt, before handing it to the brothel owner. The vramnias within the cloth shook and sang, eliciting a devilish smile of satisfaction that tugged at the madam’s lips.

“If I didn’t know the rumors about the Commander of Death were true, I would doubt the magic that has darkened his heart,” Madame Dimond dared to say without a hint of fear in her voice. She turned her head to look at the hetaira, still lying on the floor in pain. “Tell me, Commander, do you want to taste my favored one?”

The commander lowered his gaze to Naithea. Blood stained the torn fabric of her dress, which she held against herself to cover her naked breasts.

---