Scarred (Never After #2)(11)

It’s difficult to see who it is at first, but the longer I stare, the more my vision clears.

Prince Tristan.

My heart jumps to my throat. What is he doing down here in the servant’s quarters?

“Do you understand?”

My stomach twists at his voice, just like it did the first time I heard it; velvet words while his hand was wrapped around mine, and his brother was between us.

His tone is deep. As if it was made in hell then woven through silk. A gentle caress that singes your senses.

Although it’s too dark to make out heavy detail, I can see the person at his feet is a woman.

Is Prince Tristan with a servant?

Her head drops, the subservience bleeding from her pores. “M—”

Tristan’s spine stiffens, his head cocking to the side. “That’s quite enough,” he cuts her off. “Leave.”

She moves to stand and nods. My insides seize, worried she’ll come my way, but she twists the opposite direction, her hand pressing against the wall until the small bookshelf spins in place, revealing a small opening that she slips into.

My eyes grow wide as she disappears.

The prince stands in the center of the room, completely still, like a lion hunting prey, waiting to attack. I bite my lip, afraid to even breathe with how silent the air becomes.

My hands grow clammy, fingers gripping the chipping wood of the doorframe until it splinters. I should have waited until I learned the lay of the land. As it is, I’m lucky this is all I’ve run into, instead of a soldier or worse. Gossip spreads like wildfire and the wrong eyes and lips can have disastrous consequences.

I won’t make the same mistake again.

“Are you planning to come into the room?”

My stomach somersaults, my eyes scanning the area to look for another person. There is none.

Quick as lightning, he turns, his gaze locking on me. “Or we can continue to pretend you’re not here if you’d like?” His boots clap on the floor as he makes his way toward me, his stride long and sure.

My heart throws itself into my ribs, panic welling like a flooding dam about to burst, but there’s nowhere for me to run. Nowhere to hide.

So instead, I straighten from where I’m crouched, my legs screaming in relief from the change in position, and I smooth my hands down the front of my skirt. Weakness is never a strong suit, and no matter how much I may feel it trying to wrap around my middle and break apart my shield, I’ll never let it show.

Reaching out, I push open the door before he can, coming face-to-face with him for the third time in less than twenty-four hours.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” I smile.

His green eyes are calculating, as they move from the top of my head down to the hem of my thin skirt and back, every millisecond pumping more blood through my veins, my heart working overtime as I try to control my reaction.

“Lost?” he asks.

I lift a shoulder. “Taking a leisurely stroll.”

“Hmm.” He nods. “Is that something you do often?”

“What, walking?” I reply, holding his stare, even though it makes my chest pull tight.

He steps in closer. He’s dressed down, dark pants with suspenders hanging off his waist, and a light tunic rolled up to his elbows, the black ink that’s etched into his skin on full display.

I swallow around the sudden dryness in my mouth. I’ve never seen a tattoo in person, but he’s covered. Intricate designs weave their way from his forearms and disappear beneath the fabric of his clothes. I’ve heard the whispers, even in Silva, of the scarred prince having drawings on his flesh, but I had thought they were only rumors.

It surprises me how much I like them.

His brother, King Michael, is attractive. But Prince Tristan is hauntingly beautiful.

He tsks. “I meant eavesdropping, little doe.”

“I’m no doe.”

“No?” His head tilts. “Then what are you?”

My chin lifts as I hold his gaze.

He’s so close now I can see the jagged flesh clearly on his face, and I bite back the urge to reach out and touch it; to ask him what the true story is of how he got his scars. It doesn’t disfigure him the way you’d expect. Instead, it makes him even more striking, adding to his already intimidating stature.

But I don’t falter. I don’t retreat.

My nostrils flare as I move in even closer until I can taste his breath as if it were my own.

“I’m your future queen,” I whisper. “Maybe you should show some respect.”

His eyes spark at this, his hand reaching out and touching one of the spiral curls that’s fallen from my hairpin. He winds it around his finger, the corner of his mouth lifting into a mocking grin. “Well then, I’ll be sure to work on my curtsy.”

Anxiety stomps through my center like a stampede of wildebeests, but I keep my face neutral, so he doesn’t realize how strongly he’s affecting me.

“Do you think you’ve earned it? Respect.” His voice is soft as it slices against my skin.

I keep my breathing shallow, not wanting to suck in the lungfuls of air my body is craving, afraid that if I do, my chest will brush against his torso.

My teeth grind together, my mind whirling with a warning to tread carefully.

“I do,” I reply.

His brows lift, and he steps back a space, the strands of my hair bouncing as he releases the curl. His fingers rub across the front of his mouth. My eyes catch on the glint of diamonds in one of his silver rings, realizing they’re the eyes of a lion, mouth wide as if in the middle of a roar.