Scarred (Never After #2)(26)
“Is it always this empty?” I ask, pushing my dessert plate away.
Michael smirks, his slicked-back brown hair gleaming under the lights. “Couldn’t have the commoners interrupting when I’m trying to woo you.”
My chest pinches as I peer out the front windows where half a dozen people line up around barricades, trying to glance inside to see their king.
“Do you come here often?”
He shrugs. “Not since I was a child. My father used to bring Tristan and me here once in a blue moon.”
My blood heats when he mentions his brother, but I ignore it. I will not let him affect me when he’s not even around.
Still, I can’t help imagining Tristan and Michael as children, eating all the chocolates and candies with their father looking on. Everything I’ve heard of King Michael II’s legacy is in all the ways he failed his country. It’s difficult for me to picture him as a man who cared for his family, and curiosity brims inside of me, wanting to learn more.
“That’s very sweet,” I say.
Michael scoffs, his eyes moving past mine before coming back. He smiles, but I see the flash of pain that haunts his features. “Sara Beatreaux, you are a bleeding heart, aren’t you?”
I sit up straighter. “Isn’t that something you should want in your queen?”
He tilts his head. “And you’re so sure you’ll be my queen?”
Blowing out a breath, I stare down at my lap before peeking at him from beneath my lashes. “I’m sure that I was bred specifically for you, Your Majesty. I think you’d be doing yourself a great disservice to not keep me at your side.”
He hums, his fingers coming up to rub at his jaw. “Bred for me?”
I nod, reaching out to grasp my cup of tea and taking a sip before placing it back on the table. “My uncle turned many suitors down hoping one day, I would belong to you.”
It’s a gamble telling him this, and it’s a gross exaggeration, but I’m banking on the fact Michael loves having his ego stroked and is possessive over his toys. I was told this long before coming here, and it’s noticeable in the way he preens whenever he’s paid a compliment and sulks when something isn’t going his way.
Hopefully, learning I was meant for him all along will entice him to snatch me up and collect me like a treasure.
He leans across the table, his brows rising. “And what of you, Sara? I’ll be honest, I’m not very interested in what your uncle wants.”
My eyes lock on his, the weight of responsibility dropping into my gut and pushing the words from my mouth. “After meeting you? I want nothing more.”
A slow smile creeps along his face and he settles back into his chair, a satisfied look coasting across his features.
“Sire,” Xander interrupts, coming to stand next to the table. “There’s a journalist set up outside, ready to take your photos, and then we need to head back to the castle for a meeting with the Privy Council.”
Michael nods, glancing out the front windows. His face pinches, nose scrunching up in obvious disgust. “So many people outside.”
“They’re behind the barricades, sire, they won’t get near you,” Xander reassures.
Michael stands, placing a top hat on his head and holding out an arm to me. “Showtime, Sara Beatreaux. You want this? Make it look good.”
I grin back at him, although it feels as though an elephant is sitting on my chest. My fingers wrap around his elbow as I rise, stomach tightening in anticipation.
Timothy goes first, holding open the door for us, and we make our way outside, the guards moving to flank our sides. Murmurs race through the people on the sidewalk, and there’s a man in a tweed suit ahead, a large tripod with a camera sitting on top placed next to him. He bows when we approach. “Your Majesty. Milady.”
Michael stares down his nose at the man, his jaw ticcing. I glance between the two of them, irritation grating my nerves, annoyed he isn’t even acknowledging him.
“Are you the reporter?” I ask.
He looks at me, a small grin gracing his lips. “I am, ma’am.”
“Very well,” Michael cuts in. He turns to me, winking as if he’s about to pull a prank, before he reaches in his pocket and takes my hand in his. “Lady Beatreaux, it would be my greatest honor if you would accept my hand in marriage.”
I stare up at him, my neck craning to meet his eyes from under the brim of my hat. He clears his throat, his eyes hardening more with every passing second.
His grip on my hand tightens. I jolt out of my daze, realizing this was his grand proposal. No bended knee, no heartfelt speech. Just a few rushed words and expectation. I’m not sure why I was standing here like a fool, waiting for anything else. I’m surprised he did it in public at all—I had waited the first couple days to see if he would extend a formal proposal, and when it never happened, I figured it was just assumed.
Adopting a surprised expression, I lift my free hand to my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I say, staring at the massive diamond cushioned by a pearl on each side. “It would be my greatest honor to be your wife.”
He takes the ring from its ornate box and slips it on my finger. “This was my mother’s. I hope you appreciate the sentiment.”
I keep the smile pasted on my face as he pulls me into his side, even though the thought of wearing anything that belonged to the dowager queen makes bile rise to the back of my throat. Michael turns us, adopting a beaming grin for the camera. Cheers go up from the people behind the barricades, words of congratulations soaring through the air.