Scarred (Never After #2)(19)

Irritation clamps down on my middle. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Does it bother you that I’m here?”

“You bother me, in general,” I reply.

He sighs. “My brother requests your presence. I’m simply the pony brought here to carry you back.”

I laugh. “I find it hard to believe you’d ever allow yourself to be ridden like a horse.”

His eyes flash, and embarrassment bleeds through me, realizing what I just said and how it sounded. His mouth opens, but I throw my hand in the air. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

“Tristan! You can’t leave!” Simon squeals, pushing past me so fast I’m jerked to the side. For the third time today, I’m surprised, as this small child throws himself around Tristan’s legs in a tight hug, and my irritation melts away as Tristan kneels until he’s level with the little boy’s face, brushing the smudge of dirt from his cheek.

“Have you been in the tunnels all day?” he asks.

Simon nods. “Yeah, don’t be mad. I just…” He leans in and lowers his voice. “When the other kids see me, they laugh. They’re mean.”

My heart twists violently as Simon’s knuckles blanch where he grips his toy sword. Moving my gaze from him, they land on Paul, whose expression mirrors the feelings swimming inside me—although when he sees me looking, he wipes the emotion from his face, spinning around to face the stove.

Tristan leans back, his nostrils flaring, his veiny hands and ringed fingers gripping the boy’s shoulders tight. “You’re a lion. Aren’t you?”

“Ye-yeah.” He sniffles.

“That’s right. And those kids? They’re sheep. We never allow ourselves to care about the sheep, little lion. Do you understand?”

Simon nods.

“You’re better than they’ll ever be,” Tristan murmurs, tapping his chin with his fingers.

A knot lodges in my throat, something heavy and warm settling in my chest and swirling outward, like smoke unfurling through my veins and heating every part of me.

Tristan stands, smoothing his hand over the top of Simon’s head before looking over at me.

“Come on, little doe. Wouldn’t want to keep your new husband waiting.”





CHAPTER 11





Tristan





“So, what does your brother want?”

I glance at Lady Beatreaux from my peripheral as we walk down the long corridor. It’s an unusually bright day in Saxum, the clouds breaking just enough to send small rays of sunshine through the stained-glass windows and splay across her skin. My fingers flex, wanting to grab my pencils and sketch out the vision.

“He’s the king. He doesn’t have to want anything to get it.”

She smirks. “You sound bitter.”

“Do I?”

“A little.” Her shoulders lift. “Are you?”

My chest twists as I slip a joint from behind my ear and place it in my mouth, my tongue flicking the edge as it rolls across my lips. My private tutors called it an oral fixation, right before they’d try to lash it out of me, saying it was uncouth for a prince to be seen with things in his mouth. I tried to explain it kept me calm; kept away the obsessive thoughts and the anxiety churning like a stew in my gut. But they didn’t care how it made me feel, only what it made me look like.

“Are we friends now, little doe?” I ask.

“Stop calling me that.”

She cuts me a glare and my heart pounds, excited to be riling her up. “You’re very demanding. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“And you’re rude,” she retorts.

“It’s not an outstanding quality for a queen consort,” I continue. “You may want to work on that before your etiquette courses start and they beat it out of you.”

Her footsteps falter and she stops, spinning to face me.

“Beat it out…” Her voice trails off as she watches me, and I sense the tension in the air growing thick even before her gaze snags on my scar. It tightens around me until my lungs compress, but I revel in the discomfort.

“Don’t worry.” My finger taps against the raised flesh on my brow. “This isn’t a result of bad manners. Not mine anyway.”

She nods but doesn’t avert her eyes. “Thanks for the tip.”

I move to walk again, but she reaches out, her fingers wrapping around my wrist to keep me in place. My gaze drops to where we’re connected, heat flooding through my veins.

“Tell me about the rebels,” she demands.

My gut jolts and I spin to face her, allowing her touch to linger on my skin. I trail my eyes along her form, starting at the tip of her black-as-night curls, over her deep-chocolate eyes, before sliding down to the cleavage peeking from the top of her bloodred dress.

My cock grows stiff as I imagine ripping the fabric from her chest and sliding my length between the swell of her breasts until I’m crazy with the need to come.

She drops my wrist and backs up a space, her chin lifting like it always does right before she becomes defiant. The move showcases the expanse of her neck, and my fingers twitch to leave prints on her like paint on a canvas.

Slowly, I take the unlit joint from my mouth, placing it behind my ear as I bring my eyes back to hers. “What would you like to know?”