Scarred(Never After #2)(73)

Her eyes shutter and she glances away. “Of course.”

My chest twists, the smile dropping from my face at her lack of enthusiasm. “If you’re busy…”

“For you, milady? Never.” She grins, squeezing my arm. “Your bath is probably ready.”

Unease sifts through the air and settles on me like a blanket as I watch her move to my bed and strip the sheets, and the feeling stays through the rest of the morning; as my corset is cinched tight, my hair scrunched and pinned, and fresh rouge put on my cheeks.

The only thing that distracts me is when we’re actually on our way to the dining hall, and we run into Paul.

My heart stutters at the sight of him.

“Paul.” I stumble to a stop in the middle of the dimly lit hall, Marisol—who decided it was her responsibility to escort me here—jerks to a halt behind me.

“Milady,” she says. “We don’t have—”

I spin on her, my eyes narrowing and jaw clenching. “Marisol, the dining room is right there.” I point to the doors at the end of the hall. “You’ve been an excellent guard dog, and I appreciate you leading me here. But you’re dismissed.”

A slight grin tips the corner of Paul’s face, although it’s easy to see the sorrow that fills his eyes.

“Now,” I hiss, when she doesn’t move.

She huffs. “You can’t be alone with a man in the hallway, milady. It’s untoward.”

“Let me worry about that.”

I step into her, and she stiffens her shoulders. “I’m tired of you always putting up a fight. I can tell that being in charge is important to you, and while I respect that, I’m kindly reminding you that you will never be in charge of me.”

Her lips thin, but she bends into a curtsy before traipsing down the hall, most likely to tattle on me like I’m a child. I spin back around to give Paul my attention, my chest pulling tight when I take in the deep frown lines marring his face.

“Paul, there’s—”

He shakes his head, nose scrunching as he glances down. “They’re not even going to have a proper burial for him.” He grits his teeth, his eyes flashing. “Can you believe that?”

“What?” My hand flies to my chest. “They have to, they… he’s a royal guard.”

Water lines his lower lids, and my chest cracks as I step closer, grabbing his hands in mine and squeezing. “Paul,” Emotion clogs my throat. “I’m so sorry, it was my fault, and I—”

“No worries, milady.” He breaks one of his hands away and tips my chin. “He died doing what he wanted to do.”

I huff out a disbelieving breath, rolling my eyes to stem the tears. “What, being a martyr?”

He smiles. “Protecting you.”

My stomach cramps and I inhale, my face scrunching from how heavy those words hit.

“You know,” he whispers, his grip tightening on my fingers. “I’m not sure who’s worse, the people who killed him, or the ones who won’t honor his memory.”

He hesitates, dropping my other hand to wipe away a stray tear that drips down his cheek. “At least the rebels take care of their own.”

My nerve endings stand to attention, and I tilt my head. “How do you know that?”

Paul jerks back, running a hand through his auburn hair, avoiding my eyes.

“Sara.” The deep voice cuts through the tension and I glance over to see Uncle Raf standing in the hallway, one hand in his pocket as he leans on his cane.

I smile. “Uncle, I was just on my way to see you.”

“Milady,” Paul mutters, rushing down the hall. He doesn’t turn and give proper notice to my uncle and the slight doesn’t go missed, Raf glaring at Paul’s back as he retreats down the hall.

“Were you planning on keeping the king waiting all night?” he asks.

My insides roll with disgust, but I push on, knowing that now more than ever, it’s important I tread carefully. If he knew what I was doing last night, I’m not sure how he would react.

At best, he’d call me a traitor and disown me from the family.

At worst? I’m not even sure.

Anxiety swirls in my gut as I make my way over to him, afraid that when I get too close, he’ll smell Tristan on my skin. Notice the difference in my walk, or the new cadence of my heart, screaming that a Faasa prince owns me, body and soul.

I ache to find him, even now, and the guilt from that notches its way up my throat until it swells.

When I reach him, I wait… although for what, I’m not sure. Maybe realization that someone tried to end my life just the day before. Maybe acknowledgment that I’m not okay.

It never comes.

And when we walk into the dining hall, and he escorts me all the way down the long table with no less than twenty seats, ornate crystal chandeliers sparkling from above us, I just feel hollow.

Michael sits at the head of the table, dressed in expensive evening wear and a smile on his face, and disgust rolls through my center; the strongest it’s ever been.

“Lady Beatreaux, you’re looking lovely,” Michael says as a servant pulls out my chair, allowing me to sit.

I glance back and smile, thanking them, and Michael grimaces at the action.

“Your Majesty, it’s good to see you looking so well.”