Scarred (Never After #2)(37)

But at least for a time, my father cared.

He would take me to the cliff’s edge, showing me the constellations and how even in the darkest of nights, they light the way home. I treasured the quiet evenings with him because it was the only time I felt like I belonged. He saw me, and he loved me.

But as I aged, the late-night meetings grew further and further apart, his time for me replaced with preparing Michael to be king.

Just like with everyone else, eventually, I was forgotten.

And the stars don’t shine as brightly when you stare at them alone.

Michael was the crowned prince, and I was just… me. So, I never understood why, when he had everything, he always made sure I had less than nothing, too.

I thought maybe as we grew older, things would get better, but the opposite turned out to be true. The shoves turned to prolonged torture, and bruised ribs turned into fractured bones. I slunk away into the secret tunnels of the castle just to get away.

It was then I realized they led through the mountains and into the middle of the forest. And it was also there I first decided to stop being Michael’s victim, spending hours visualizing the day I would take everything from him, and everyone else who wronged me, or stood by silently and watched.

That’s the thing about resentment. It grows and wraps around every piece of you like ivy, feeding off the anger until it’s so enmeshed that it becomes you. A living, breathing, pulsating incarnation of hatred.

And for me, the boy who was tossed to the side like garbage, I had nothing but time to pour water on the weeds. Let it fester and grow until it blotted out everything else.

Michael has always been stronger physically.

But I’m vastly more intelligent.

And he doesn’t deserve to sit on the throne.

The scar on my face twinges, and I shake it off, gritting my teeth as I focus back on the dark wood of the chest that I keep beneath my bed. My insides dance as I close the metal lock on the front and place it back in its hideaway spot, before grabbing a lit candle and making my way out of my room and into the hallway.

I move through the corridors until I make it into the tunnels. It’s the only way I can get to my brother’s office without being detected, and since it’s the middle of the night, no one will be around. The tunnels are dark and narrow, the chill from the stone seeping through the walls and settling in my bones. I pick up my pace, unadulterated joy trickling through my veins as I imagine his face when he sees what I’ve left for him.

Something makes a noise from around the corner, and I slow my footsteps, cocking my head to listen for it again.

Who would be in the tunnels at this time of night?

Few people even know of them.

A deep sigh reverberates off the walls, and as soon as I hear it, I relax, grabbing the rolled joint from behind my ear and leaning against the cold stone, bringing the candle to my lips to light it.

I blow a cloud of smoke into the air, one foot crossing over the other as I wait, sparks biting at the lining of my gut. Suddenly the footsteps stop, and besides the choppy sound of breathing, silence presses in around me.

“Very brave for a little doe to sneak into the tunnels at night.”

She doesn’t reply, and the sound of her exhales disappear, like she’s trying to keep herself a secret.

As if she can hide from me.

“If you don’t come out, I’ll assume you wish for me to chase you. And between the two of us, you’re at a severe disadvantage.” I wait a few more moments before dropping the hash to the ground and stomping it out with the corner of my boot. “Very well.”

“Wait!”

My stomach jumps as she appears from around the corner, a small oil lamp in front of her face, making her look almost ethereal in the dark.

I take my time soaking her in, my gaze traveling from the tips of her boots, over her black trousers and dark cloak, up to her hair that’s pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

A slow grin creeps along my face. “You look like you’re up to absolutely no good.”

She cocks a brow. “One could say the same about you.”

“Who ever said I was good?”

She fidgets, biting her lower lip. The movement is a straight shot to my groin, aching to feel her flesh between my teeth instead, wondering what it would taste like to have her blood on my tongue.

She sighs, running a hand over her face. “You won’t… you won’t tell anyone I was here, will you?”

“That depends.” I move closer. “What’s in it for me?”

Her mouth pops open. “I… what do you want?”

I take another step, and then another, until the tips of my boots touch hers. I’m so close I see the muscles in her neck work as she swallows, and my fingers tense against the urge to reach out and feel her pulse, just to see how quickly I can make it beat.

“Tell me a secret, ma petite menteuse,” I whisper.

The flame of my candle flashes in her eyes, and she cranes her neck to meet my stare. “I don’t have any secrets.”

I chuckle. “We all have secrets.”

“So what’s one of yours?” Her head tilts.

“Mine are a burden I wouldn’t wish on anyone, even you.”

She scoffs. “So tell me what you’re calling me then.”

I lift a brow.

“The French,” she presses. “What is it?”