CHAPTER 58: CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

The shout, "Stop! You there with the cloak!" was like a spear in Ashlyn’s back.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, she froze, her body rigid, her mind went blank with terror. They’ve seen me. It’s over.

The guard’s heavy, hobnailed boots echoed on the cobblestones, impossibly loud, pounding with the rhythm of her own frantic heart. He was getting closer.

She did not turn. She did not obey. She ran.

Her soft shoes, designed for carpeted halls, slipped and skidded on the uneven, grimy stones. The heavy wool cloak she had used for concealment was now a deadly liability, a thick, tangling weight that caught the wind and tangled around her legs. She could hear the man chasing her, his breathing a low, steady grunt, his footsteps getting closer.

Thud. thud. thud thud.

She was a noblewoman. She was not meant to run but she had to.

Her lungs burned. A stitch of sharp pain lanced her side. She saw an opening just ahead, a splash of weak, yellow light, a sound of raucous, drunken music. A tavern.

It was a low, filthy place, but it was also a place of chaos. And chaos was the only thing that could save her now.

She didn’t hesitate. She burst through the flimsy wooden door, a gust of cold night air following her. The tavern went silent. The tinny, out-of-tune piano music stopped.

Every eye in the room—dozens of them, from drunk laborers,merchants gossiping, gaudily painted women, and a few rough-looking, scarred men—snapped to her. They saw a noblewoman, her hair coming undone, her face pale with terror, her chest heaving.

She did not pause to think. With a violent, tearing motion, she ripped the heavy, identifying cloak from her shoulders and threw it onto the sawdust-covered floor.

She was a target in that cloak. Without it, she was just another woman. She reached up, her fingers trembling, and yanked the remaining pins from her hair, letting the long, dark locks tumble down around her shoulders, a new, better disguise.

" Get out my way you fool." She shoved past a stunned barmaid who was holding a tray of foaming tankards, her only thought to find another way out. The back door. There was always a back door, for emptying slop pails and husbands escaping their angry wives.

She found it, a flimsy, grimy door behind a curtain of fly-covered beads. She slammed through it, bursting out into a narrow, lightless alley that smelled of rot and damp stone.

Behind her, she heard the tavern door burst open again. "Block all the entrances!" a man’s voice, the guard, shouted. "She’s in here! Search the entire place!"

They thought she was still inside. She had bought herself a few, precious minutes.

Ashlyn leaned against the damp brick wall, her breath coming in raw, painful gasps, her entire body trembling. Her heart felt as if it would beat its way out of her chest. Where do I hide? Where can I go? The streets were crawling with Derek’s men. They were at the gates. They were in the city. They were everywhere.

She heard laughter. It was not the boisterous, drunken laughter of the tavern. It was a slurred, arrogant, male sound, coming from the far end of the alley, which opened onto a more lavish, well-lit street. The pleasure district.

She needed a way out, and any port in a storm would do. She crept forward, pressing herself into the shadows, and peeked around the corner.

Her blood ran cold.

She saw him. Carlos. Her husband.

He was not just drunk; he was sloppy, disgustingly so. He was stumbling out of a high-class pleasure house. Two women, their faces painted in bright, mask-like colors, their thin silk gowns clinging to their bodies, were clinging to his arms, propping him up, their voices high-pitched and fake.

So, Ashlyn thought, a wave of disgust washing over her, this is where you go. This is why you come home so late at night, stinking of wine. This was her "kind, gentle" husband, the "safe" choice. He was a liar, just like all the rest.

"Oh, my lord," one of the women cooed, her voice a high, false whine as she guided his hand. "You are leaving so soon? It saddens me to see you go. Since you’re drunk, can’t you stay a little longer?"

Carlos laughed, a wet, slurred sound, and patted her cheek, his fingers clumsy. "Ladies, ladies, I’m not... I’m not drunk," he insisted, proving that he was. "I just... I can’t stay much longer. I didn’t bring enough money with me tonight." He leaned in, his voice a whisper. "But I will see you again tomorrow. I enjoyed myself today, thanks to you two."

The woman who was leading him pouted, her painted red lips forming an absurd shape. "I will miss you so much, my lord."

Carlos grinned, a sloppy, cruel expression that twisted his handsome features into something ugly. He reached out, his hand moving with a sudden, drunken speed. He grabbed her, and in a single, rough motion, he spanked her, hard, the sound a sharp, stinging smack in the quiet street. Then, his hand lingered, squeezing her backside possessively.

The woman didn’t even flinch. She just giggled, as if this were a normal, expected part of the transaction. "Farewell, my lord."

"Always be a good girl," he slurred, finally releasing her.

He stumbled towards his carriage, which was waiting a few yards away, its lantern light a pale, familiar beacon.

Ashlyn watched, her disgust so profound it made her stomach churn. She thought of the whip. She thought of this public, lewd, despicable act. And then, she saw the carriage.

It was her only way out. It was his carriage. A carriage belonging to the Duke’s brother. Ian’s men were hunting for a suspicious, cloaked woman on foot. They would never stop and search the carriage of Lord Carlos.

Her disgust was instantly, coldly, replaced by desperate calculation. She had to get inside it.