Scarred (Never After #2)(54)

Now it’s me who moves into him, walking us backward until he slams against the opposite wall, his hands flying up in surrender.

“Should I end your life here?” I ask, running my hand down the front of his person, disgust and rage mixing until I’m gagging from the taste. I bypass the waistline of his pants and grip his testicles in my palm, twisting through the fabric until he cries out.

“After all,” I continue, bringing my lips close to his ear. “You’re practically begging for it.”

I squeeze tighter, my wrist rotating so his skin stretches even more, and I can feel his Adam’s apple bob beneath my knife, my hand jostling with the movement.

A thin cut appears when I push the edge of the blade in farther, blood trickling down the front of his esophagus and over his bow tie until it stains the crisp white of his shirt.

It would be so easy to slit his throat, and my body vibrates with the need. I grit my teeth, forcing the blade deeper, his labored breathing stinging my nostrils with its stench.

There’s a loud clack of shoes echoing from down the hall, and I step back, hiding the blade behind my back, not wanting anyone to see that I have one or that I know how to use it.

Both of us stand, stunned and in silence, Claudius swaying in his spot.

Eventually, the footsteps disappear.

My body flies forward as I’m jostled from his stocky frame shoving by me, running down the hall until he too disappears from my view.

I consider chasing him for a few moments, but the adrenaline has already worn off, being replaced by a heavy sick feeling that weighs me down from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Sinking against the stone wall, I raise my hand to my mouth, muffling the sob that breaks free. My eyes slam shut, trying to stem the tears, afraid to let them fall; not wanting to give that pathetic excuse of a man any more power than he’s already had.

But a few escape, anyway.

They’re hot as they trail down my cheeks, and they feel a lot like failure.

You’re okay. You stopped him. You’re strong.

I stand back up on shaky legs, making my way into the washroom, my body jumping with every single creak of noise; my nerves nothing but frayed edges unraveling at the seam.

He didn’t get far, yet somehow, I still feel like he stripped something of mine away.

My dagger trembles in my hand as I reach out and turn on the faucet, running the blade beneath the water to wash away the small drops of blood, hoping that maybe by doing so, it will also cleanse the scratches he’s caused on my soul.

Because while he didn’t take my innocence, he took something far worse.

My dignity.

And I’m not sure how to gain it back.





CHAPTER 31





Tristan





I follow them.

Of course I follow. How could I not?

But by the time I find them, it’s already too late, and I’m greeted with the sight of Claudius’s filthy hands ripping at her dress, and his disgusting hips pressing into hers. My logic flies out the window, chest tightening until my lungs shrivel; charred from the blaze of fury racing through my insides.

I can’t move.

I can’t hear.

I can’t speak.

I can only think one thing.

Mine.

The word shakes through me like an earthquake, cracking my foundation and all the defenses I’ve built up with it, creating a chasm so deep there’s no way to dig myself out.

Lady Beatreaux—Sara—is mine.

I see our future laid out before us clear as day; me sitting on the throne and her at my side. Because why not? Why shouldn’t she be at my side?

“Fucking dress.”

Claudius’s mumble snaps me out of my frozen state, and I move forward, my sole focus on reaching him and murdering him; bathing in his blood while I stake my claim on her body and soul.

My limbs tremble from the violence brimming inside me, its talons scratching beneath the surface of my skin until it cracks and bleeds.

How dare he touch something that belongs to me.

She shifts then, and the energy changes as she holds a blade to Claudius’s throat, and my heart stutters, my cock growing stiff when passionate words pass her pretty little lips, threatening to kill a man where he stands.

I make it two steps before I freeze again, watching this fierce, incredible woman who can twist and turn into whatever she needs to survive, take care of the threat herself. A sudden shot of arousal mixes in with the anger, creating a sensation I’ve never felt.

It’s not an unwelcome feeling. Not anymore.

With acceptance comes clarity.

My little doe is no doe at all.

She’s a hunter, pretending that she’s prey.

I lean against the wall, my hand coming to rest over my heart, pressing firmly to keep it from bursting through my rib cage and exploding on the floor.

She’s a fucking vision. The kind that should hang in galleries and be revered by the masses.

The perfect type of art.

Mine.

Footsteps sound from the distance and I move quickly to avoid being seen, not stopping until I’m standing at the end of the hallway, next to the portrait of my great-grandfather.

Eventually they fade, and then only thick silence surrounds me. I strain my ears, but don’t hear a peep. I wonder if she killed him. Disappointment settles in my chest, wishing I could have seen her do it; that I could have gone along for the ride.