Scarred(Never After #2)(7)
King Michael whispers something in my ear, and I hum in agreement, although I couldn’t tell you what he said. I’m too busy being sucked into this stranger’s stare, knowing I should look away, but unable to force myself to follow through. There’s a challenge in his gaze that keeps me glued in place. One that stiffens my spine and irritates my nerves, wishing he would be the first to surrender. He doesn’t, of course. He simply smirks as he leans against the trunk of the tree, running his hand through the messy locks of his jet-black hair, pushing the wayward strands from his forehead.
My breathing grows unsteady as I track along the harsh lines of his pale face, his fingers adorned in silver as they brush against his chiseled jaw, and his forearms dark with ink. And then my heart stutters when I notice the scar running through his browbone and ending just above his cheek, barely visible from this distance, and dull compared to the piercing jade green of his eyes.
My middle clamps down tight as I realize who he is.
Even if I hadn’t spent years studying the Faasa family, his reputation precedes him; rumors of his temper and tales of his extracurricular activities reaching even the farthest corners of Gloria Terra.
They say he’s as dangerous as he is unhinged, and I’ve been firmly instructed to keep my distance.
Tristan Faasa.
The younger brother of the king.
The scarred prince.
CHAPTER 4
Tristan
“What’s she like?”
My gaze cuts to Edward, whom most people would think of as my closest friend, my only friend. The truth is that I have no friends, because friendships are fickle and often a waste of time. However, he is my closest confidant and the only one I trust enough to be at my side. That he’s a general in the king’s military is a bonus because it allows him access to whatever I may need without drawing attention to the fact that I’m the one who needs it.
His lean frame lounges in the chair across the room, his blond hair falling over his brows. I glance down at the heavy wooden table, my touch smoothing along the rice paper in my hands, making sure the contents are wrapped nice and tight before I apply the gum edges.
“She was…” I pause, rubbing my fingers together to remove the sticky residue of the ganja, small bits of green buds still lingering on my skin. “Mediocre.”
I sit back, grasping a match and striking it against the rough edge of the tan Lucifer box, my gaze soaking in the bright orange glow of the flame. It transfixes my mind as I watch it burn down the wood stick, the heat becoming intense as it licks against my skin. I move the fire to the end of the cigarette, inhaling before allowing the light to extinguish.
“Michael Faasa’s bride is ‘mediocre’?” Edward laughs.
I hum, my mind picturing the girl who came through the castle gates earlier today, wide eyed and wild-haired, looking so eager to please. She irritated me with her sweet smile and the way she batted her lashes Michael’s way.
But it wasn’t my brother who stained her cheeks pink.
“The word in court is she’s quite the beauty,” Edward continues.
“My standards are much higher than that of the court,” I reply.
Lifting my legs, I prop my feet up, my black boots chunking down on the table as I cross my ankles. “She’s pleasing to stare at, but as useless as the rest of them.”
“What more do you need than beauty?” Edward shrugs. “Studious conversation?”
My chair tilts on its back legs until I’m staring at the textured ceiling, feeling cold even though there’s a fire roaring in the room’s corner. Or maybe that’s just my insides—where my heart used to be—now empty and lacking, a hollow ache that craves chaos just to see it burn.
Moving the joint to my lips, I inhale, the smoke pouring down my throat and into my lungs, providing a calm my nerves never feel without it. “Edward, it’s extremely unsettling to me you underestimate the wiles of a woman. They’re snakes in sheep’s clothing. Remember that, always.”
He purses his lips, his brows lifting and spine straightening, almost as if I’ve offended him. “You’ve always been dramatic.”
I blow a plume in the air. “I’ve always been right.”
Irritation sours my stomach at his loose tongue but reprimanding him will take energy that I don’t have, so I’ll file it away and remind him of it later when the mood strikes. Right now, I’d rather make him leave.
I’ve never been one to crave the company of others. Perhaps that’s because when I was a child, everyone could tell that I was just a little different, no matter how badly I tried to fit in.
And even if they couldn’t tell, my brother made sure they knew.
I snap my chair forward, the impact of the legs hitting the floor vibrating through my body. “Leave me.”
Suddenly I’m craving retribution; needing to rid myself of the memories from when I was powerless and at the mercy of Michael and his pack.
There’s an unofficial gathering to welcome Lady Beatreaux to court.
Unofficial because I’m not required to be in attendance.
Although, even if I were, I’m not known for adhering to the rules of nobility, and I doubt they’d expect me to show up. Which is exactly why I’ve come.