Scarred (Never After #2)(12)

His family crest.

My stomach flips when my gaze comes back to his, and the air grows thick, wrapping around us both with an unspoken challenge.

A loud slam echoes off the walls, making my gut fall to the floor.

Quick as a flash, Tristan’s large hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me fully into the room, my fingers grabbing for his chest so I don’t topple over from the sudden movement. His arm winds around my waist to steady me, pulling me flush against him.

“What are you—”

His other palm smacks against my mouth, his rings cutting into my lips.

“Quiet,” he demands. “Unless you think being caught alone in a dark hallway with your betrothed’s brother is good for your reputation.”

That shuts me up.

He doesn’t remove his hand, and my stomach squeezes tight, my heart pumping blood so hard it whooshes through my ears. Glancing down at me, his fingers tighten around my waist. My body heats in response.

His jaw muscles tighten, and he releases me, shoving until I stumble, my hand reaching behind to catch myself from falling.

“Don’t let me find you down here again or I won’t be so kind.”

I huff. “Don’t presume to tell me what to do, and think I’ll listen like your little servant girls.”

His eyes narrow and he moves forward, pressing into me until my back hits the cold stone of the wall. “Jealous?”

“Hardly,” I bite out.

“Careful, little doe. Keep running into places you don’t belong and someone may mistake you for prey.”

“I’m not afraid of being prey.”

“No?” He quirks a brow, leaning in until his nose skims along the side of my face. “You should be.”

And then as fast as he came, he’s gone, spinning around and striding out of the door, as if he was never here.





CHAPTER 7





Tristan





Lady Beatreaux is not who she seems to be.

When you live your life having to look over your shoulder, you learn to sense shifts in the air long before you ever see the change. And I felt her outside the door the moment she arrived, although I didn’t know it was her until she stood in front of me.

My fingers flex as I remember the way her curly strands of hair spun around my finger, her eyes like ice picks as she glared at me in her simple gown and pinned-back hair. She looked nothing like the regal lady who sat next to my brother.

I prefer her this way.

Leaning back against the observatory tower at the castle gates, I pull a matchbox from my pocket and strike a flame, allowing the orange heat to tease my skin as I reflect on her intrusion.

Is she spying for my brother? Is he watching me?

Possible, but improbable. Although I don’t put it past her to do his bidding; I do put it past him to think that highly of her. He’s not known for his respect for women.

Still, she’s different than I expected. More sinister, perhaps.

If it wasn’t me she was spying on, I’d be able to find admiration in her falsities. But since it is, it does nothing but leave a bitter tang in the back of my throat; one I choose to let linger, so I’m always reminded of the taste.

That’s the difference between me and other people. They run away from the bad things, and I become them.

Reaching up, I pluck the rolled blunt from behind my ear and place it in my mouth, waiting until the fire has almost completely engulfed the match before lighting the end; the smell of hash curling up in the air, making my tightened insides unravel into a buzzing sort of calm.

My boot kicks against the wall, my head leaning against the cool stone as I gaze out over the streets of Saxum. The castle sits on a cliff, an easy vantage point to see everything even beyond the dense trees.

When I was a young boy, my father would bring me here, whispering words of grandeur, and teaching me the ways of the land.

“This is my legacy. And one day it will be yours.”

“You mean Michael’s,” I correct, glancing up at my father.

His dark hair blows in the nighttime breeze as he looks over at me. “You and your brother need to set aside your differences. Faasa blood runs through your veins as surely as it does his. Together we rule, divided we fall. Remember that.”

I scoff, rubbing my swollen wrist, remembering how just a few hours earlier Michael shoved me into the dirt and called me a freak. “Tell him that.”

He chuckles. “Michael is still trying to find his place in this world.”

“And I’m not?” I ask, my voice rising in defense.

“From the moment you were born, you’ve been different.” He reaches out, tapping the center of my chest. “In here.”

Different.

My chest twists. I don’t want to be different. I just want to be left alone.

“You learned to talk faster,” he continues. “Walked sooner. And you were drawing as soon as you could hold charcoal in your little hands.”

I glance down at my fingers, flexing them in my lap, hissing as sharp pain shoots through the tendons of my throbbing wrist. Anger at Michael and his friends bubbles like a simmering pot in the pit of my stomach.

“It’s an admirable trait—to be so sure of yourself in a world without answers. An enviable one.”