Scarred(Never After #2)(19)

A smile tips the corners of his lips as he reaches out, taking the sword back from my hands. “Who are you?” he asks. “I’ve never seen you before, and my mama knows all the people who work here.”

“This is Lady Beatreaux,” Tristan says from behind me. “Milady, this is Simon.”

Simon’s head cocks, his eyes trailing up and down my form as if he’s judging whether I’ll get to live or die.

“Do we like her?” he asks.

Tristan chuckles, and the sound sends confusion tinkling through my insides, twisting up the narrative of him I’ve had painted in my head. He seems genuine with this child, as if he cares for him.

His stare burns through me as he places his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “We do.”

My breath catches, butterflies erupting until my stomach soars.

Simon scrunches his nose as he looks at me. “You’re still a girl though, so I can’t like you too much.”

I laugh, standing upright and running my palms down the front of my dress, trying to shake off the unsettled feeling brewing inside of me. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty, but there’s not much I can do to help that.”

“Yeah. I guess not.” His eyes glance over at me once more before turning to Paul. “I’m hungry. Got any grub?”

Twisting toward the prince, I place my hands on my hips, keeping my voice low. “Why are you always showing up everywhere I am? I was told you were a ghost in this castle, yet here you are. All the time.”

“Have you been asking about me?” He grins.

Irritation clamps down on my middle. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Does it bother you that I’m here?”

“You bother me, in general,” I reply.

He sighs. “My brother requests your presence. I’m simply the pony brought here to carry you back.”

I laugh. “I find it hard to believe you’d ever allow yourself to be ridden like a horse.”

His eyes flash, and embarrassment bleeds through me, realizing what I just said and how it sounded. His mouth opens, but I throw my hand in the air. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

“Tristan! You can’t leave!” Simon squeals, pushing past me so fast I’m jerked to the side. For the third time today, I’m surprised, as this small child throws himself around Tristan’s legs in a tight hug, and my irritation melts away as Tristan kneels until he’s level with the little boy’s face, brushing the smudge of dirt from his cheek.

“Have you been in the tunnels all day?” he asks.

Simon nods. “Yeah, don’t be mad. I just…” He leans in and lowers his voice. “When the other kids see me, they laugh. They’re mean.”

My heart twists violently as Simon’s knuckles blanch where he grips his toy sword. Moving my gaze from him, they land on Paul, whose expression mirrors the feelings swimming inside me—although when he sees me looking, he wipes the emotion from his face, spinning around to face the stove.

Tristan leans back, his nostrils flaring, his veiny hands and ringed fingers gripping the boy’s shoulders tight. “You’re a lion. Aren’t you?”

“Ye-yeah.” He sniffles.

“That’s right. And those kids? They’re sheep. We never allow ourselves to care about the sheep, little lion. Do you understand?”

Simon nods.

“You’re better than they’ll ever be,” Tristan murmurs, tapping his chin with his fingers.

A knot lodges in my throat, something heavy and warm settling in my chest and swirling outward, like smoke unfurling through my veins and heating every part of me.

Tristan stands, smoothing his hand over the top of Simon’s head before looking over at me.

“Come on, little doe. Wouldn’t want to keep your new husband waiting.”





CHAPTER 11





Tristan





“So, what does your brother want?”

I glance at Lady Beatreaux from my peripheral as we walk down the long corridor. It’s an unusually bright day in Saxum, the clouds breaking just enough to send small rays of sunshine through the stained-glass windows and splay across her skin. My fingers flex, wanting to grab my pencils and sketch out the vision.

“He’s the king. He doesn’t have to want anything to get it.”

She smirks. “You sound bitter.”

“Do I?”

“A little.” Her shoulders lift. “Are you?”

My chest twists as I slip a joint from behind my ear and place it in my mouth, my tongue flicking the edge as it rolls across my lips. My private tutors called it an oral fixation, right before they’d try to lash it out of me, saying it was uncouth for a prince to be seen with things in his mouth. I tried to explain it kept me calm; kept away the obsessive thoughts and the anxiety churning like a stew in my gut. But they didn’t care how it made me feel, only what it made me look like.

“Are we friends now, little doe?” I ask.

“Stop calling me that.”

She cuts me a glare and my heart pounds, excited to be riling her up. “You’re very demanding. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“And you’re rude,” she retorts.