Scarred (Never After #2)(62)

“Do you deserve it?” he asks.

“I will kill you,” I snap, frustration overflowing like a bubbling pot.

He chuckles, drifting his fingers in and out, a torturous pace that’s keeping me riding the edge, so close to exploding yet never enough to make me burst.

“Tell me you’re mine, ma petite menteuse. That no other man has had you.”

The anger explodes like a gunshot inside of me, irritated he thinks he can control me the way he is. Annoyed that it seems to be working. Snapping my eyes open, I meet his stare. “But then I’d be a liar.”

His entire frame stiffens, his movements freezing. “Who?”

“None of your business.”

“Tell me his name,” he croons. “So I can hunt him down and cut him to pieces.”

I arch my back until my chest grazes against his torso. “No.”

He grins, letting out a controlled breath as he releases me so fast I drop to the ground. “Then you don’t deserve to come.”

“You’re disturbed, Tristan!” I yell after him. But he’s already walking away, leaving me a panting, infuriated mess.





CHAPTER 35





Sara B.





“I do not care for this, let me speak to my brother!”

Michael’s voice is high pitched and strained, so loud that I shrink back against the wall. My uncle stands on the other side of his desk, his body rigid as he leans on his dark wood cane. He glances to me, his icy eyes dark and raging as if this is somehow my fault.

I’m not even sure what’s going on. I woke up to Ophelia throwing open my door, saying the king demanded to see me. I barely had time to let her dress me, and as a result, I’m nowhere near being presentable. My hair is still in its natural curly, frizzy state, brushing against the middle of my back, and I only had time to grab a simple day dress—sans the corset. I feel naked and like I’ve walked into a room with a loaded gun.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

My uncle turns to glare at me. Again, I’m taken aback by his obvious anger. I’ve seen it several times; especially when he’s passionately speaking about vengeance for my father, but this is the first it’s ever been directed at me.

My stomach drops to the floor, my face heating as if a thousand suns have exploded inside of it.

Did they find out about last night?

Impossible. I’d be thrown in the dungeons, not standing here without shackles and chains.

“What’s happened,” my uncle starts. “Is that your cousin—my son—has been kidnapped.”

My lungs collapse. “What?”

“Stop… stop… stop!” Michael screeches, his hands coming up to tug on his hair. My eyes widen as I stare at him, noticing the pallid skin and deep bluish-purple bags welting under his eyes.

He looks ill.

“They know,” he mutters to himself. “He must be telling them.”

I step forward, my insides churning with his ramblings. I’m not sure what has him so out of sorts, but something tells me to tread carefully. “Your Majesty, who knows?”

His eyes snap to mine and he shoves forward a square wooden box with dusted black metal hinges and an image carved into the wood on top. As I move closer, I realize it’s a hyena standing on a dead lion—its teeth bared and its black eyes reflecting flames.

The detail is immaculate and before I can think twice, my fingers are smoothing over the indents, mesmerized by the intricate design.

“Open it,” Michael whispers.

I do, and my stomach revolts at the sight, nausea whipping through my middle and up into my throat. It’s a hand; severed at the wrist with dried blood caked on every inch of skin until it looks as though it’s been gnawed on. And right beside it is a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Is that…?” I ask, my eyes flicking from Michael to my uncle.

Raf nods, his nostrils flaring as he slams the base of his cane on the floor.

“There’s a note,” Michael whispers, his voice cracking.

He slides a piece of paper to me, but before I can see what it says, the door swings open and Tristan waltzes inside as if he owns the room and everyone in it. His piercing jade eyes land on me, his gaze flicking up and down my frame, flaring as they coast over my unpinned hair.

“Tristan, finally.” Michael blows out a breath.

“You rang, brother?” Tristan smiles, walking farther into the room. “You look dreadful, bad sleep?”

“This is no time to be joking,” Uncle Raf cuts in. “I demand we call a meeting with the Privy Council.”

Confusion drops through me like a falling piece of paper. My uncle hates the Privy Council and everything they stand for. They’re partly why my father had to beg for aid in the first place; filled with selfish men who forgot about our country and became about greed.

“Uncle, honestly, what do you think the Privy Council could do?”

Again, he slams his cane on the ground. “Silence, girl. We don’t have time for stupid questions.”

His words smack across my face as surely as if it were his hand.

Tristan’s head snaps to him, his gaze narrowing.

Michael’s fist beats down on his desk, the strands of his usually slicked-back hair falling on his forehead. “You do not make demands of me, Rafael. I am the king, and you are no one.”