Scarred(Never After #2)(47)

Her fingers tighten where they’re wrapped around Edward’s arms. “If Sara knew what you were doing, she would help,” she whispers.

“Do not speak her name to me,” I snap, my chest pulling tight.

“I just—”

“Shh.” Stepping forward, I press my hand against her mouth, smashing her lips until they mold around my fingers. “Do you remember what I told you? About what would happen if you were to betray me?”

Her eyes shutter and she nods.

“Good.” I smile, although nausea burns in the pit of my gut. “Don’t speak of her again in my presence.”

I step back, spinning toward the crowd.





“Have you met her then?” my mother asks, her hands running down the front of her deep-purple gown, her gray hair strung up so tightly it pulls back her face.

The dowager queen never looks anything less than perfect, after all, regardless of the fact she just spent hours traveling here from our country estate.

“I have,” I reply, a cloud of smoke puffing from my mouth and swirling into the air from where I lie on the couch.

“And?” she continues, leaning forward in her chair.

“What would you like me to say, mother?” I sigh, running a hand through my hair and sitting up to meet her gaze. “That she’s everything you’re not? She is.”

She scowls and my insides tingle with glee, happy that I’m wedging a grudge before they’ve even met. I can’t wait to see how my little doe fares against her.

“I wish you’d stop smoking that hashish,” my mother quips. “It’s a disgusting habit. You don’t need anything else to mar your reputation.”

A chuckle works its way through my throat, the scabbed-up wounds from when I was a child and still yearning for my mother’s love throbbing as if they’re new.

“I’m having a hard time caring about your wishes, mother, considering you never took the time to care for mine.”

“That’s not fair,” she huffs. There’s a tense pause in the air, and just when I’ve decided she’s actually going to shut up and allow me silence, she speaks again. “I know you’re sad about your father. We all grieve and if anyone understands, it’s me. But it’s been two years, it’s time to move on, and—”

I stand from the couch and move toward her, my jaw clenching so tight my teeth crack. “Do not pretend to know about my grief.”

Crouching down once I’m in front of her chair, I flick the ash from the end of my joint and rest my hands on her knees, staring up at her. “Where were you the night of his death?”

She lifts her chin. “That’s none of your concern.”

Bile burns the back of my throat, my anger so palpable I can taste it in the air. “You surely weren’t sharing his bed, since that’s where he was found—his skin tinged blue and all alone.”

Her spine straightens just as a knock sounds.

One of her ladies moves into the room and walks toward the door before opening it. Timothy walks in, clearing his throat and bowing deep. “Your Majesty, may I present Lady Beatreaux. She’s here for tea.”

My chest pulls tight at her name, and there’s a sudden urge to stay, if only to protect her from my mother’s sharp tongue and claws. Ridiculous, considering I was just fanning the flames, wanting to create the destruction myself.

My mother pats my hands. “Tristan, darling, I’ll speak with you later.”

I grab her palm and kiss the back. “We’ll continue this conversation later, mother.”

Spinning around, I meet the eyes of Lady Beatreaux, looking beautiful as always and strong-willed as ever.

Good.

She’ll need it.





CHAPTER 26





Sara B.





I hadn’t expected to meet with the dowager queen in private, but she sent for me as if I was a pathetic servant just waiting for her to come and call. Truth be told, I don’t wish to see her, but my uncle urged me to go, stating how important it is to stay in her good graces until I’m in a position of power.

So, I strapped my blades to my thigh, dressed in the most expensive day gown I have, allowed Sheina to cinch up my corset extra tight, and here I am, taking in shallow sips of breath while I follow Timothy down the hall.

“Do you know the Queen Mother?” I ask him.

“I do,” he replies.

“And?”

He quirks a brow. “And what?”

“Well, what am I walking into here, Timothy? Is she the rose or is she thorns?”

“Milady, she’s no rose.” He chuckles as we approach her door, turning to face me. “But neither are you. I think you’ll handle yourself just fine.”

Maybe I should be offended by his words, but instead, there’s a comfort that spreads through my chest—because he’s right—I am no rose, and I like that he sees me enough to know that.

The door swings open, a young lady in a simple pale-blue dress smiling and stepping to the side, allowing us to move into the room. My hands are clammy, making my pink-lace gloves stick to my palms, but I breathe in as deep as my corset allows and straighten my shoulders to fake the confidence I’m not feeling inside. We’re in her personal quarters; a place I’ve never been, and I’m struck at how similar to mine the sitting room is.