Scarred(Never After #2)(27)

I grin back at him, although it feels as though an elephant is sitting on my chest. My fingers wrap around his elbow as I rise, stomach tightening in anticipation.

Timothy goes first, holding open the door for us, and we make our way outside, the guards moving to flank our sides. Murmurs race through the people on the sidewalk, and there’s a man in a tweed suit ahead, a large tripod with a camera sitting on top placed next to him. He bows when we approach. “Your Majesty. Milady.”

Michael stares down his nose at the man, his jaw ticcing. I glance between the two of them, irritation grating my nerves, annoyed he isn’t even acknowledging him.

“Are you the reporter?” I ask.

He looks at me, a small grin gracing his lips. “I am, ma’am.”

“Very well,” Michael cuts in. He turns to me, winking as if he’s about to pull a prank, before he reaches in his pocket and takes my hand in his. “Lady Beatreaux, it would be my greatest honor if you would accept my hand in marriage.”

I stare up at him, my neck craning to meet his eyes from under the brim of my hat. He clears his throat, his eyes hardening more with every passing second.

His grip on my hand tightens. I jolt out of my daze, realizing this was his grand proposal. No bended knee, no heartfelt speech. Just a few rushed words and expectation. I’m not sure why I was standing here like a fool, waiting for anything else. I’m surprised he did it in public at all—I had waited the first couple days to see if he would extend a formal proposal, and when it never happened, I figured it was just assumed.

Adopting a surprised expression, I lift my free hand to my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I say, staring at the massive diamond cushioned by a pearl on each side. “It would be my greatest honor to be your wife.”

He takes the ring from its ornate box and slips it on my finger. “This was my mother’s. I hope you appreciate the sentiment.”

I keep the smile pasted on my face as he pulls me into his side, even though the thought of wearing anything that belonged to the dowager queen makes bile rise to the back of my throat. Michael turns us, adopting a beaming grin for the camera. Cheers go up from the people behind the barricades, words of congratulations soaring through the air.

But it’s all muddled behind the sudden whooshing in my ears as my eyes lock on a tall, cloaked figure across the street, leaning against one of those shiny black lamp posts.

My heart skips.

I can’t see his face, but somehow, I just know it’s him.

Tristan.

Michael turns us to wave at the people behind the barricades, before leading us toward the automobile. I follow, the smile plastered on my face like paper-mache, my heart pounding in my chest, although I’m not sure why it’s racing.

The guards crowd around us as we head toward the automobile, hiding everything from view, and it isn’t until I’m in the back seat that I’m able to search again.

But he’s already gone.





I’ve attended Sunday service my entire life.

When I was young, the pews were always full. But as time wore on and resources dwindled, attendance grew sparse. Turns out, people lose their faith when faced with never-ending adversity.

The church itself was plain; small wooden benches and beige walls that had browned due to lack of funds and lack of willpower. That’s what happens when your source of livelihood is ripped out from the roots. When the men who are put in positions of power decide to withhold funds and forget that you’re part of what makes them whole.

And as I sit in the beautiful cathedral attached to the Saxum castle, I can’t help but feel bitter for all the ways the people here have everything, while all of mine have gone without.

We’re the same country, yet we’re worlds apart.

The cathedral itself is beautiful. Dark woods and gray stone archways carved with intricate designs, laced in gold detail. Soaring ceilings are covered with colorful art; the type I’m sure took decades to complete, and the only light other than the flame of candles, is from the muted sun bleeding through stained-glass windows, splashing on the beige and brownstone tile in kaleidoscopes of color.

The service has ended, and while everyone else has disappeared, including my betrothed, I’m still here, having told them I wanted some time to pray.

Truthfully, I’m waiting on Xander.

I fidget in my spot, the wood bench numbing my legs. When I glance around and ensure no one else is here, I stand, moving to the walkway between the pews. My pale-pink dress kisses the floor, my hands—covered in matching gloves—run down my sleeves first and then the front of my skirt, smoothing away the wrinkles. My steps clack on the tile, echoing off the walls as I make my way toward the altar.

The crucifix is front and center, and something pulls in my chest as I stare at the sculpture, a hollow type of sadness spinning webs through my heart.

I’ve never questioned my duty to my family, or the justice that we seek. It’s all I’ve ever known, even before my father’s death; all they have conditioned me to want. But for the first time, I’m empathetic toward the plight of Jesus, although I’d never dare to speak it out loud.

How unfair that he had to sacrifice himself in order to cleanse our sins.

Finally, I tear my eyes away and move toward the shadows, realizing there’s a large oil painting hanging on display near the darkened hallway at the front of the room.