CHAPTER 59: CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

Ashlyn watched as a footman opened the carriage door for Carlos, helping the drunken lord. As they were both occupied, Ashlyn moved. She kept to the absolute blackness of the alley’s shadow, circling around to the other side of the carriage, the side facing the street, away from the footman. Her heart was in her throat. She was exposed for just a second. But the street was empty.

With a speed she didn’t know she possessed, she yanked the heavy carriage door open, scrambled inside, and pulled it shut without a sound.

The carriage was dark, smelling of old leather and, now, faintly of wine and cheap perfume. She pressed herself into the far corner, pulling her knees to her chest, trying to vanish into the shadows, her breath held so tightly it burned her lungs.

A moment later, the other door opened. Carlos practically fell inside, a heavy, grunting weight that made the entire carriage lurch on its springs. The door slammed shut. He was muttering to himself, something about "good girls" and "tomorrow." He stank.

He settled into the plush seat, his head lolling back. And then he saw her. He saw a shadow in the corner. A shape that shouldn’t be there.

His drunken, slow brain tried to process it. A woman? One of the girls? Had one followed him? He squinted. And then his eyes went wide.

He almost screamed. It was a high-pitched, startled, half-drunken sound, a yelp of shock.

Ashlyn moved like a striking snake. She launched herself across the small space, falling on his body, clamping her hand hard over his mouth, stifling the sound. "Shh! My love, be quiet!" she hissed, her voice a desperate, false whisper. "It’s me. It’s me, Ashlyn."

She released her hand. Carlos was blinking, his eyes wide, his mind a complete, drunken fog. "Ashlyn?" he stammered. He looked at her, truly looked at her. Her hair was a wild, undone mess. Her dress was rumpled. "What... what are you doing out at this time? In my carriage? Dressed like... like that? Were you... were you meeting a man in secret?"

Even drunk, his mind went to the most cynical, accusatory place.

Before she could invent a lie, a voice from outside, loud, clear, and terrifyingly close, cut through the night.

"Station yourselves strategically in each street. Block the intersections. The Duke wants her found. Leave no stone unturned."

It was Ian.

Carlos’s drunkenness evaporated in a single, cold flash of fear. He scrambled to the window, pulling the heavy curtain aside just a crack. He saw him. Ian, not ten yards away, his hand on his sword, directing the Duke’s guards as they fanned out, their torches casting a menacing, bobbing light.

"A suspicious person entered this side of the street," Ian commanded. "Search thoroughly."

Carlos let the curtain drop. He turned to Ashlyn, his eyes wide, no longer drunk, but sharp and terrified. He connected the dots: her disheveled state, her secret presence, the Duke’s entire guard hunting.

"Ashlyn," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Are they... are they looking for you?"

She didn’t answer. She just stared at him, her own fear a mirror of his. That was answer enough.

"What have you done?" he hissed, his fear turning to anger as he grabbed her arm.

This was her moment. She dropped all pretense, all pride. Her life depended on this man, this hypocrite, this brute. She grabbed his hand with both of hers, her grip desperate. "Please, Carlos, my love, please," she begged, her voice a low, terrified sob. "It’s a long story. It’s all a terrible misunderstanding. Help me. Just help me get home. I will explain everything in detail, I promise. I’ll do anything."

A sharp rap on the driver’s box made them both jump. Then, Ian’s voice, right outside the carriage window. "Driver. Has Lord Carlos entered the carriage or he’s still busy?"

He didn’t wait for a response. Ashlyn saw his shadow as he walked to the window. His hand reached up, his fingers brushing the curtain, about to pull it aside and be sure.

Ashlyn stopped breathing.

Carlos looked at her. He saw the terror in her eyes. He saw her begging. He saw her now completely and utterly at his mercy.

And in that moment, all his fear vanished. It was replaced by a slow, dawning realization. He had her. She was ruined, she was hunted, and she needed him. He had all the power.

He let the moment stretch. He let her terror build, let her watch Ian’s hand fumbling with the curtain. He relished the feeling of her desperation, her helplessness.

"Fine," he whispered, his voice a low, ugly sound. A cruel, lecherous smile spread across his face. "When we get back, you will have to satisfy me. You will make up for your behavior today. In every way."

Ashlyn’s stomach churned with a disgust so profound it made her want to vomit. She knew what he was talking about. She knew she’s about to satisfy his weird fantasy.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then opened them. She forced a small, desperate, trembling smile onto her face. She nodded. "Yes, Carlos," she whispered. "Anything. Anything you want."

He was satisfied. He leaned back, his power restored, and turned to the window, his voice a perfect imitation of a drunk, annoyed nobleman. "Why isn’t this carriage moving, driver?" he shouted. "Are you asleep out there?"

The driver, hearing his master, immediately called out. "I’m doing so now, my lord!"

Ian, hearing Lord Carlos’s "drunk" and impatient voice, stopped. He let his hand fall from the curtain. It was just the Duke’s brother, drunk as usual, probably with a woman from the pleasure house.

He stepped back, motioning for the carriage to pass. "My apologies, Lord Carlos. Carry on."

The carriage lurched forward. Ashlyn sank back into the velvet seat, her body trembling with a cold, desperate relief. She had escaped. She had just traded one prison for another.