Scarred(Never After #2)(30)

And now we’re here, outside of Michael’s private quarters, in the middle of the night.

Xander rushed through the door, not even bothering to close it fully. But his mistake is my good fortune.

I lean against the jamb, straining my ears to hear.

“Would you like some dreamless sleep potion?” Xander asks.

“No,” Michael scoffs. “That stuff makes my mind fuzzy for hours.”

Xander sighs. “That’s the opium, sire. If it would help keep the nightmares away...”

“Don’t speak to me like a child,” Michael snaps. “If you want to help, figure out how to talk to spirits and make my dead father stay dead instead of tormenting me.”

My stomach flips. Michael has nightmares of our father?

The resounding silence is thick.

“What?” Michael hisses. “I see that pathetic look in your eyes, Xander. Either say something useful or get the fuck out of my room.”

There’s a vile undercurrent to his tone, one I’ve heard whispered in my ear since I was born.

In public, Michael has a charming—if not overbearing—personality. But it’s in these private moments that the snake sheds his skin and comes out to play.

Perhaps Lady Beatreaux and he are better suited than I thought.

My chest twists at the realization.

“Have you…”

“Spit it out,” Michael snaps.

“Have you seen him again while you were awake?”

The resounding silence is thick. Shock punches through my middle, my mouth dropping open as I eavesdrop.

“Have you given any more thought to what I’ve suggested? To speaking with someone?”

“I’m speaking to you.”

“Yes, but… I mean someone more equipped to help you with them. To figure out the root cause.”

Another long pause, so heavy with tension that it bleeds through the walls.

“They would call me mad,” Michael whispers.

A grin sneaks its way on my face, satisfaction bubbling in my chest as I straighten off the wall and make my way toward the tunnels.

My brother isn’t as infallible as he would have everyone believe.

And the people deserve to know when they’re being ruled by a mad king.





CHAPTER 17





Sara B.





News of Michael’s proposal has spread, and things are happening in the castle. Almost everyone in the king’s inner circle already knew why I was here, but now, their heads bow a little deeper, their spines notch a little straighter. Respect that I have done nothing to earn is handed to me on a silver platter, simply because a man with the “right” blood in his veins asked for my hand.

Marisol came barging in at the crack of dawn, whipping open curtains and laying out color swatches, droning on about the engagement ball and how it was my duty to plan it.

She knows nothing of duty.

Her blonde hair is coiffed and her gray eyes spear through me as she shows me the thirtieth shade of purple and asks me to compare it to the last twenty-nine, as if I’ve been paying attention.

“Marisol, I hate the color purple.”

“What?” She half chuckles. “It’s the color of royalty, my lady.”

“Great. Pick your favorite and we’ll go with that.” I groan, standing up from my place on the couch. “I need some air.”

Marisol’s eyes narrow as she stares at the two fabric swatches in her hands, but my words make her look my way. “How come?”

My chest burns at her question. “Do I need to have a reason other than it’s something I wish?”

Pursing her lips, she shakes her head. “You have a very busy schedule coming up. You won’t always be able to run off and do as you wish. Especially once you’re queen.”

The bite in her tone doesn’t go unnoticed, and my nerves bristle. “More of a reason to take advantage now, then. Besides…” I pull my lips back into a thin smile. “I have every faith that you and Ophelia can handle the rest of the ball arrangements. Am I mistaken?”

Marisol’s shoulders draw back. “Of course not, milady. It would be our pleasure.”

“Fantastic.” I stretch my neck to the side, the resounding crack unraveling all my pent-up tension. “Have you seen Sheina?”

Marisol averts her eyes. “I haven’t.”

My stomach twists. We’ve been here for days and ever since my new ladies showed up, it seems like she’s disappeared completely. I’m curious to know what she’s doing, but more than that, I miss my friend.

“I think I’ll go try to find her.” I move toward the door.

“Wait!” Marisol screeches. “You can’t just go running around the castle on your own.”

Tension knots up my spine and I turn, taking calculated steps until I’m standing in front of her. We lock eyes and she sucks in a breath, holding my stare, but I don’t say a word.

Her fingers clench the swatches she’s still holding, and she drops her gaze.

I lean in close, my voice quiet and sharp. “I wasn’t asking permission, Marisol. You are not my keeper, and I will do as I please.”

“I—apologies, milady.”