Scarred(Never After #2)(8)

The “who’s who” of the kingdom are all here. High-ranking officials, Dukes and Viscounts from nearby areas, and all the ladies and gentlemen of the court. Laughter and small chatter echo off the high ceilings and stone columns of the great hall, crystal glasses clutched in bejeweled fingers and rosy cheeks that belay the truth of their intoxication levels.

My brother sits at the front on a raised dais, two empty chairs on either side of him, sipping wine and gazing at his people.

He’s always been this way, even when we were children; always needing to be above it all, flashy and glamorized, admired by everyone regardless of who he has to push down to do it.

The disgust rolls through my stomach, clawing up my throat as he flirts with a servant girl who fills his flute with more to drink.

I stick to the shadows, making sure to not draw attention to myself, wanting to see little doe-eyed Lady Beatreaux when she makes her way into the lion’s den. And I don’t need to wait long, because the double oak doors creak open and in she walks, her head held high and dark-black hair pinned back, perfect ringlets framing her face.

Her dress shimmers as she moves, the green complementing the pale cream of her skin, and it would be a lie for me to pretend she doesn’t steal the show. She draws every single person, like moths to a flame, as she makes her way through the crowd and toward my brother.

Behind her is that same wisp of a girl with sandy-blonde hair she showed up with. Suddenly, the girl stumbles, her foot sticking in the hem of my new sister-in-law’s dress, making them both falter in their steps.

Lady Beatreaux’s face twists as she cuts her a quick glare.

It’s quick—the slip in her mask—before she smooths the irritation and replaces it once again with a soft, appealing look, but awareness tingles down my spine, and my interest piques.

That interest grows when she stops in front of my brother and curtsies low before taking the spot next to him, his eyes sparkling and lips curving upward as he takes her in.

He likes her.

Straightening off the darkened wall, I move into the light, the crowd parting for me just as it did for her, only this time, it’s accompanied by stuttered breaths and whispers.

People give me a wide berth because they worry about what will happen if they don’t.

Rumors about the scarred prince run rampant around the kingdom and while most are fabrication, some start with at least a hint of truth, and I’ve found the more they fear me, the less they look.

And at least for the moment, that’s the way I like it.

When I near the dais, my brother’s face draws down, and I know with every fiber of my being it’s because he didn’t expect me to be here. Because even though people warily gaze my way, it’s still my way instead of his.

I sit down in the high-back velvet chair next to him, sinking into the seat and crossing my ankle on my knee, adopting an air of boredom.

“Tristan, I didn’t expect to see you here. Come to meet your future queen?” Michael says, gesturing toward Lady Beatreaux on his opposite side.

I glance over, something tightening in my gut when I lock eyes with her. Reaching across the lap of my brother, I hold out my palm, the left side of my mouth curling up. It’s improper to lean across the lap of the king to hold conversation, and part of me is surprised Michael doesn’t put a stop to it. But of course, that would draw the wrong attention his way. Can’t have outbursts in public. That wouldn’t mesh well with his charisma.

She stares at my outstretched hand for long moments before placing her fingers in mine. A twinge of surprise flickers in my chest as I bring her palm to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back. “Hello, dear sister.”

Michael scoffs. “Don’t scare the girl off before she’s even been here for a fortnight.”

“Sara,” she whispers, ignoring my brother’s words.

I quirk a brow.

“Call me Sara. We’re about to be family, after all.” A pleasant smile breaks across her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and it does nothing except heighten my curiosity.

“Don’t waste your breath on being cordial with Tristan, sweetheart,” Michael says. “He’ll disappear into whatever gutter he likes to play in soon enough and won’t even remember he’s met you.”

My jaw clenches, anger bubbling as it spreads through my blood and singes my veins.

Sara leans in, the upper half of her body almost entirely in Michael’s lap now as her muddy brown gaze sears into mine. “You’re hurting me.”

Glancing down, I realize I’m still holding her hand, my fingers having tightened around hers until my knuckles are blanching white. I drop her palm.

“Am I?” I smirk. “So easily?”

Her eyes narrow.

“That’s enough,” Michael hisses.

I chuckle, leaning back in my chair and turning my attention to the soiree. Resting my elbow on the arm of my seat, I rub my jaw with my fingers, the days-old stubble rough against my skin.

Lady Beatreaux starts a conversation with my brother, droning on about the most boring of subjects; the weather in Silva compared to here, how she enjoyed riding in an automobile, and if she plans to attend mass on Sunday morning on his arm or come with her ladies.

I’m only half paying attention, and my heart kicks in my chest when I spot a dark figure in the back corner of the hall.