Scarred (Never After #2)(16)

He’s distracted, and the knife would cut through his skin, sinking into his veins in seconds.

But I didn’t come this far to be messy, and I won’t allow something as silly as emotion to cloud my judgment.

A blunt stab of pain hits my shin, causing my legs to buckle. Tristan’s grip is firm as he catches my fall, his hand pressing down. Bitterness rages through me as my kneecaps smack against the shiny tiled floor, causing me to wince from the impact, and the dagger clatters to the ground beside me.

His eyes snap to the weapon, and he cocks his head. “Interesting.”

My chest burns, teeth grinding as I glare at him.

“I prefer you this way,” he coos from above me. “On your knees, chest heaving, and face flushed while you stare up at your betters.”

He reaches down, his fingers cupping my chin and jerking until the muscles in my neck strain. “Let this be a lesson, little doe. Don’t forget your place.”

“And where is that?” I force out through the tightness in my throat, my body shaking from the anger that’s pouring through my veins.

He grins, and the sight of it is so sinister it makes dread crawl through my insides like a thousand spiders.

“Trembling at my feet.”





CHAPTER 9





Tristan





Smoke curls in the air, a rolled joint perched between my two fingers as I sit, staring at my brother’s oversized desk.

Xander and Michael are talking of Sir Reginald’s funeral; or more so, whether there should even be one. And as much as these two imbeciles make my stomach turn with their ramblings, being here and hearing what they’re planning is better than staying in the dark.

I wonder how they would react if they knew it was my hand that severed Reginald’s flesh from bone. That it was me who he begged; pleading for salvation as if I were a god capable of granting mercy. I wish I could tell them that dear old Reginald wasn’t so brave when there wasn’t a table of men surrounding him, and that he pissed himself on the dirty cement floor while I lit match after match and burned pretty scars into his skin.

“Sire, we need to re-shift the focus,” Xander implores.

Michael groans, slamming his fist down on top of his desk. “I don’t want to shift the focus, Xander. I want to find the filthy whore who dared to come into my castle, drop a man’s head on the ground, spit at my feet, and then somehow disappear from the dungeons.”

Amusement trickles through my insides as I watch the fury rise to Michael’s cheeks. My mind wanders to Lady Beatreaux, and I wonder how much fire it would take to see the heat beneath her flesh.

“If we continue to bring up the disturbance,” Xander continues. “The people will become uneasy. We need to shift the narrative. Find a distraction.”

A chuckle rolls out of me, my leg crossing over my opposite knee.

Michael spins to face me, running a hand through his hair. “Something funny, brother?”

I shrug, flicking the ash of my cigarette onto the expensive rug beneath my feet. A lazy grin pulls at the corners of my mouth, and I lean back in my chair, allowing the cushions to mold to my muscles. I wave my hand through the air. “Far be it from me to interrupt.”

“You’re already interrupting,” Michael snaps. “What are you even doing here? Suddenly caring about the state of the monarchy?”

His tone is sarcastic, and I smile, biting back the urge to prove him wrong. To show him that all I’ve ever cared about is the monarchy.

“Just providing moral support after what was no doubt a tumultuous past few evenings for you. Are you doing alright, brother? You look a little pale.” I sit forward, my brows hiking into my hairline. “That woman didn’t scare you, did she?”

Xander bristles in my peripheral. “Get to the point, Tristan, if you have one.”

I spin the ring on my finger, the lion’s diamond eyes glinting with every turn. “Like I said, I’m just here for support.”

“Tristan.”

“Xander,” I reply, elongating the vowels as they roll off my tongue.

“While I can appreciate your sudden need to be in the conversation, it’s a little late to play the part of dutiful prince.” His eyes trail down my form as if the mere sight of me is offensive.

Maybe it is.

My grin drops, something heavy twisting my stomach. “There is no part to play. I am His Royal Highness Tristan Faasa, second son to the late King Michael II, whether you want to admit that or not.”

Standing up, I move across the room until I’m in front of him, my body towering over his short and gangly frame. He glares up at me with his ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, and I stare down at him, bringing the joint to my mouth and inhaling, taking in each uncomfortable tic of his features and every pebble of sweat that beads on his brow. I exhale, blowing out the smoke so it coats his face, making him sputter.

“I know you’re a very important man, Alexander,” I whisper. “Standing here, having the ear of the new king and the one before him, thinking you’re beyond reproach.”

My hand grasps his shoulder, allowing the burning tip of the rolled paper to rest close to his neck. The urge to stick it on his skin and listen to it sizzle is strong, but I hold myself back. “But I want you to remember two things. One: that my blood runs truer than yours, even if it is hidden beneath ‘ghastly’ ink and a blackened soul.”