Scarred(Never After #2)(48)

Deep browns of wood accent the red and cream wallpaper, and a fire crackles in the center of the room. There are two burgundy couches facing each other, and at the head are two brown leather chairs surrounding a small round table, already set with a tray of tea and white china with blue birds and gold trim.

None of that, however, is what catches my attention. Because from the second I walked into the room, I could feel him. A hum that weaves through the air and dances on my skin, wrapping around my middle like rope.

I try to resist glancing his way, I do, but I give in, acknowledging—perhaps for the first time—that my self-control with the prince is severely lacking.

My father’s pendant weighs heavily around my neck.

Our eyes lock. Tristan’s gaze peers like I’m an animal at a circus, and even though he’s across the room, it feels as though I’m on display just for him. My already shallow breathing stutters as he flicks his stare down to my decolletage, my thighs tensing to stem the ache flaring between them.

Timothy clears his throat, his hand grazing my elbow, and it’s only then that I snap out of it, tearing my eyes away and focusing on the woman I’m here to see.

Queen Gertrude Faasa: the woman who stood by while her son killed my father, watching him hang for daring to question the crown.

Rage burns bright in my gut.

I step forward, dropping into a curtsy, the pale-pink hem of my dress fluttering on the ground at my feet. “Your Majesty.”

“Come here, girl,” she snaps. “Stand up straight and let me get a good look at you.”

Her words slice through the air like a knife, demanding and almost cruel in their tone. I move forward and when I come to a stop before her—her eyes squinting and jaw setting as she catalogs every piece of me—I’ve never wanted to revolt more.

“So you’re the girl here to marry my son.” Her eyes trail up my form. “Do none of your ladies know how to tame those wild curls?”

My back stiffens at her shallow insult, but my confidence surges, realizing that she’s resorting to petty remarks instead of bone-deep jabs.

I let out a small laugh. “Curls like mine are difficult to tame, ma’am. My ladies do what they can with what God gave me.” I tilt my head. “Perhaps you could do my hair one day and show them how it’s done.”

Her lips purse. “And what makes you worthy to wear a crown, Miss Beatreaux?” She smiles and I move without waiting for her invitation, sitting down on the couch next to her.

“Please, make yourself at home,” she quips.

I smile so wide my cheeks ache. “Thank you.”

“Tell me.” She nods toward one of her ladies. “Do you come from nobility?”

“My father was a duke.”

The same girl who opened the door steps forward, pouring tea into the fine china before moving back to her place against the far wall.

“And what does he do now?” the Queen Mother continues.

The pit in my stomach gapes wider. “Rots in the ground, unfortunately.”

A sharp laugh from behind us catches my attention, the sound making my stomach flutter. I twist my head, glancing at Tristan who’s leaning against the door, his black boots crossed at the ankle. I’m not sure why he’s still here, but oddly, I find his presence comforting. Almost as if he’s standing at my back instead of hers.

“So, he’s dead then?” she asks. I turn my attention to her, the butterflies in my belly dissipating as soon as she speaks.

“He is, ma’am,” I confirm, although the conversation is sending a wave of anger through my veins.

She doesn’t remember him. She knows my name, knows where I’m from, but doesn’t even remember.

There have been many moments where life has smacked me upside the face and opened my eyes to the realities that drain your innocence away, but this is the first time that I realize how one experience can be so vastly different for two people.

To me, my father’s murder was life altering. But to her, it was just another day.

I vow right here to never take death for granted; that even if people’s lives end, I’ll pray for them and the families of those who loved them. Everyone deserves to be remembered, even if it’s to imagine their soul burning in the pits of hell.

“Hmm, pity.” She picks up her tea, swirling a spoon through the liquid for long moments before tapping it against the side of the cup, the clinking sound sharp.

“Both of my boys lost their father too.” She shakes her head. “But of course, you’d have known about that already.”

I nod, tangling my fingers together on my lap. “It was a momentous day indeed to learn of King Michael’s passing.”

“We still mourn,” she sighs.

“Yes,” Tristan cuts in. “Tragic. If you’d like to fixate on your husband again, mother, by all means, let’s continue our earlier conversation.”

My heart skips at the sound of his voice, and curiosity winds its way through my heart as I glance back and forth between them. He speaks to her as if he can’t stand the sight of her, which is so different from everything I’ve learned of them over the years.

I’ve always thought the Faasa family was a cohesive unit, loyal to only each other until the bitter end. And even though I realized that the king and his brother don’t get along, I never imagined that would extend out to the dowager queen as well.