Scarred(Never After #2)(78)

I step up next to him, staring down at his beaten and bloodied face. “I tell you what. I’ll be honest with you first. That way, it’s more of a tit for tat.” Blowing out a breath, I crack my neck. “Honestly… you’re going to die today. Phew, it feels good to get that off my chest. Now you go.”

His eyes flare, but he stays silent.

“Alright then.” I raise the gallon above his torso, tilting the bottle until it pours onto his skin, dousing his flesh and pooling into the wood at his sides. He shivers when it hits.

“This isn’t for me, you know,” I say, moving my way around his body, until I cover every single inch of him in the liquid. “This is your chance to confess, and hope that God will grant mercy on your soul.”

He scoffs, but it turns into a cough, the sound wheezy and wet, as if sickness has already taken his lungs. “You’re no priest.”

I lean in close. “But I can be your savior.”

“Are you going to kill her as well?” he asks.

My chest cinches up tight. There’s only one her I imagine he’d be speaking of, and she isn’t someone I have any intention of harming. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

“My cousin.”

I clench my jaw and he doesn’t miss the movement, a slight smirk breaking through his fatigue.

“You don’t hide it well, you know? Your sick fascination with her.” He coughs again. “You’re lucky your brother is a complete imbecile.”

Irritation bleeds through me. “Do not speak of her to me,” I spit.

He laughs. “I brought her here to kill you, fool.”

Something dark settles into my chest at his words, although I don’t doubt that he’s telling the truth. I’ve always known there was something hiding just beneath her surface; nefarious acts by an innocent face. It explains the daggers on her thigh, the fire in her breath, and the eyes that stare through cracked doors and starless nights.

But until last night, I’m certain she hadn’t known I was the rebel king.

I wonder if that makes her want to kill me more or less.

My cock hardens at the thought of her ire.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” I laugh. “Be honest, though, Xander. Who put her up to it?”

Reaching into my pocket, I grab the Lucifer matches, picking one out and holding it above his head. “Tell me quickly, or I will light this fire and burn every inch of your skin. And then I’ll put it out, so we can play this game over and over, until the flames eat your muscle and char your nerves.” I stare at the matchstick. “I hear it’s the most dreadful of ways to go.”

He purses his lips, and I sneer, moving to light the flame. “You’re such a bore.”

“My father!” he yells, his voice sounding hoarse and painful. “She was supposed to rid the world of you and your pathetic excuse of a brother, so the Beatreaux line could finally take their rightful place.”

My head falls back with my laughter. “You would never be next in line for the throne.”

“We have the support of the Privy Council,” he rasps, his eyes swinging to the match in my hand. Now this surprises me, my brows shooting to my hairline.

“A coup d'état then?” I click my tongue. “Color me impressed.”

Sighing, I bring the match to the box, the sound of it striking against the side like music to my ears. “One more confession, Xander.” I lean in, the heat of the flame sending a tendril of excitement through my veins. “Was it you who poured poison down my father’s throat?”

He swallows, resignation settling heavy in his eyes. “No. That was your brother,” he says.

I’m not surprised, but the betrayal stings all the same.

“Your mother and I simply nudged him in the right direction.”

Nodding, I raise my hand above him. “May God have mercy on your soul, Alexander. For I shall give you none.”

The kerosene lights quickly as I drop the match, his skin catching fire and blazing high into the sky. I move back, closing my eyes and relishing in the tortured screams, rage swirling like a hurricane in the center of my gut.





CHAPTER 44





Sara B.





My blades are sharp.

I haven’t changed my clothes since last night when my world flipped inside out.

Instead, I’ve been sitting in front of the fire, my mind replaying everything I know to be true. And the only conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m tired of the waiting game. Of waiting for direction from others who I’m not sure I can trust. I no longer wish to play the perfect part of wanting to be queen. I just want them dead.

It’s the only thing that pulses through my insides, pumping from the space where the beating organ should be; half convinced that my twisted need for vengeance is the only reason it still beats at all.

Can you die of a broken heart?

I do not care for politics or preserving the integrity of the crown—all things my uncle told me were necessary, so the country wouldn’t break apart at the seams when the Faasa dynasty fell. But I’ve had all night to replay his words in my brain, and things just aren’t adding up.

If I wasn’t already crushed into a thousand pieces, maybe I’d feel shame for how easily I’ve been manipulated. As it is, I only feel the emptiness that comes after accepting disappointment.