Scarred (Never After #2)(98)

And when Tristan speaks, people listen. They believe.

Not that they’d have a choice. The throne defaults to him either way, now that Michael is dead.

None of them need to know it was him who started the flames.

Now, we’re at the edge of town, ash still covering the streets, while Tristan holds on to my hand and weaves whispered words of promise to our people.

I look out over the crowd as he speaks and see a flash of red from the corner of my eye. Tilting my head, I squint, realizing there’s a young girl standing in the back, a hood over her face, and bright red hair peeking from the edges.

Ophelia.

Breaking away from Tristan, I make my way to the back, feeling his eyes on me the entire way, even as he continues to preach to the people. I follow her down a back alley and to the edge of the Fiki River. It runs along the border of Saxum, and is used for fishing and leisurely swims, although right now it’s infested with soot, a black layer floating on top of the normal crystal-clear surface.

“Ophelia,” I say.

I search for my anger when she turns to face me, but I find only sadness. Sorrow that this young girl wasn’t who I assumed, and empathy for the way her face looks drawn and pale. “Are you alright?”

Tears burst over the lid of her eyes, streaming down her face, her fingers gripping a large boulder to her chest. “I was pregnant,” she whispers.

Shock flows through me. “With Michael’s child?”

She nods, hiccuping as she covers her mouth with her hand. “But he made me cut it out, sai-said one bastard child was enough.”

Simon. My heart aches, and I take a step toward her.

She glances up at me. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

And then she throws herself over the ledge and into the water, her body sinking to the bottom.

My heart jumps into my throat, and for just a moment, I think of trying to save her life. But then I remember all I went through because of her and I peer over the ledge, watching to make sure she drowns instead.

Eventually, the bubbles stop popping on the surface.

Spinning around, I jump when I run into Tristan’s broad chest.

“Everything alright?” he asks, wrapping me in his arms.

I smile up at him. “Everything’s perfect.”

He leans down and kisses me before moving his lips to my ear. “Is she dead?”

Nodding against him, he thrusts his erection into me, and I scoff, shoving him in the chest.

He chuckles, his hand smoothing from my waist down until he grips my ass. “Such a bad girl, watching a woman drown while I’m steps away promising the people their future.” He presses his lips to mine again, and I moan into his mouth, happiness suffusing through my every pore.

Through it all, we survived. Even though we’ve suffered substantial loss, and even though our souls are stained in black, Tristan somehow makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

And I guess, in a way, I am.

Because my heart belongs to the scarred prince.

The rebels’ savior.

The crowned king of Gloria Terra.

And he made me queen of the ashes.





Epilogue





SEVEN YEARS LATER





“Tristan,” Sara moans. “The people are waiting.”

“So let them wait,” I whisper in her ear.

She’s pushed up against the hallway wall, her skirt around her waist, my cock bobbing free as it slides between her creamy, pale thighs, making me crazy with the need to sink inside of her. And I do, I drive myself deep into her warm, wet hole and start thrusting, desperate to fuck her harder.

Arousal spreads through my nerves until I can’t see straight, love and lust exploding through my pores as my dick spears between her legs, glistening with her every time I pull out.

“Your pussy is a thirsty girl, isn’t she?” I rasp against her, my hand wrapping around her throat and squeezing. “When I don’t have to rule this place anymore, I’m going to spend every single second of the day buried deep inside her, feeding her what she craves.”

Sara moans again, her hands falling to the wall as she pushes back against me, grinding herself on my shaft, as she works to get herself off.

“That’s right, filthy girl.” My hand cracks against her ass cheek, the sound reverberating off the high archways of the hall. “Work that pussy on my dick until you come.”

Her walls flutter around my length, milking my every ridge until my orgasm tears through me, shooting deep inside her, and she—the wretched witch that she is—spins around midway through, my cock pulsing into the air as I groan at the loss of heat. But then she drops to her knees, her perfect little mouth opening wide, and her warm hand wrapping around my thickness, stroking until she drains every drop onto the flat of her tongue.

She smiles and swallows, stuffing me back into my pants and righting her skirts.

Winking, she stands up, running her hand over the jeweled tiara on her head. “Come on, we’re late. Marisol’s going to murder you if my outfit is a mess.”

She moves to walk in front of me, but I reach out, gripping her by her hair and pulling her back until her body slams into mine. I dive down, claiming her mouth, our tongues swirling together and my hands grabbing any part of her they can reach.