Scarred(Never After #2)(22)

Excitement winds its way through my middle at his obvious unease.

He glances back at me, and I force a grin, nodding toward the last cell as I walk past him and over to the far wall with the large skeleton keys that open the iron doors.

“Last one here,” I say as I make my way to the final one on the left and insert the key, feeling the click as the lock unlatches. It creaks as I open it and let him go in first.

The guard cocks his head. “I’m not a carpenter, I think that’s who—”

I move to where he stands, the metal key pressing into my palm as I shove at his shoulders, prodding him forward like cattle being led to slaughter. And it’s only once he’s within the cell that I drop all pretense, spinning around and closing the door behind us.

The slam echoes off the bare concrete walls and the guard tries to go back toward the door. “Your Highness? I—”

Reaching up to my ear, I slip the joint from behind it, pulling the matches from my pocket, my stomach tightening as I strike the flame and bring it to my lips.

“Antony.” I snuff out the fire and puff on the hash, my gaze taking him in from the tips of his toes up to the top of his blond head. He looks every part a commander, the black and gold of his uniform striking, and the lion in the center of his chest showcasing Gloria Terra’s coat of arms. “Antony,” I repeat. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to confuse a carpenter with a member of the king’s army?”

His lips turn down. “No, I just—”

“You will refer to me properly. Your Highness. Master.” I pause. “Or my lord, if you feel so inclined.”

His body stills, no doubt sensing the malice that has dropped into my tone. “M-my lord?” he questions.

“You don’t think it’s fitting?” I cock my head, blowing out a plume of smoke as I walk toward him. “I know it’s usually reserved for lower-class nobility, however in this case, its sentiment lends to more of a ‘savior’ type of title.”

I step in close now, forcing him back, his hand flying to his hip. He draws his weapon, but his movements are clunky and sharp, and before he can even point the gun, I wrap my fingers around his wrist, twisting his hand in directions not meant for bone. He screams, the pistol clanking as it drops to the concrete floor, and I keep applying pressure until the resistance snaps away and his fingers grow limp, his hand flopping like a useless slab of meat.

“As I was saying, I’ve realized most people pray to find their savior right before they die,” I continue, lowering my voice to a murmur. “I’m willing to be that for you.”

The lighting is dull in the dungeons, but the small lamps resting outside of the cell filter through the iron-barred window of the door, the dull glow glistening off the tears tracking down his face.

“P-please, Your H-h-highness,” he stutters.

“Ah-ah-ah,” I tsk.

Placing pressure on his wrist again, he groans in obvious pain. “Bow before me, Antony, commander of the king’s army.”

He drops like a sack of potatoes, his shoulders rising and falling with his whimpers.

I take him in as he cowers at my feet, bringing the hash to my mouth and inhaling again, enjoying the way it makes my head buzz. My foot kicks his weapon farther away, and I walk around his trembling frame. “Rather weak for a commander, aren’t you?” I question. “You know, if you tell me what you saw in the hallway, I’ll set you free.”

“Nothing,” he forces out between gritted teeth. “I saw nothing.”

I chuckle, pausing at his back. “I don’t believe you. Somebody always sees something.”

“I swear it, I-I…”

“There’s an abandoned cabin deep within our forests, and when I was a boy, I used to sneak away to it often. Did you know that?”

The guard’s breathing becomes choppier, but he grows silent.

I grip the back of his sandy blond head, ripping it upward until his face is exposed to the ceiling, the smoke from my cigarette curling between my fingers and wrapping around his skull. “Answer me.”

His jaw clenches. “No...”

“Of course you didn’t,” I snap. “No one does. No one cared enough about little Prince Tristan to give a damn what I did with my time.”

I toss him to the ground, so he’s forced to catch his body with his broken wrist. He collapses, groaning as he brings the limp fingers to his chest.

“Our tunnels lead right to it, isn’t that something?”

Cocking my head, I wait for his reply, but other than his whimpers, he stays silent. Irritation coils around my muscles, squeezing them tight. My voice lowers. “I thought we had already gone over how I expect an answer to my questions, Antony.”

“Yes! It’s something.” His voice cracks, and the obvious fear weaving through the tone makes me smile.

“The point is, I spent hours there. Usually taking my sketchbook and drawing until my fingers went numb. It was the only place I could go where the people who hurt me wouldn’t follow.”

I crouch, my hands sliding around his shoulders, pulling him upright into a sitting position. “And everyone let me disappear, even though they all saw what went on. Perhaps they never cared.” I shrug. “Or maybe they thought alone time would help my ‘fragile mental state.’”