Scarred (Never After #2)(27)
But it’s all muddled behind the sudden whooshing in my ears as my eyes lock on a tall, cloaked figure across the street, leaning against one of those shiny black lamp posts.
My heart skips.
I can’t see his face, but somehow, I just know it’s him.
Tristan.
Michael turns us to wave at the people behind the barricades, before leading us toward the automobile. I follow, the smile plastered on my face like paper-mache, my heart pounding in my chest, although I’m not sure why it’s racing.
The guards crowd around us as we head toward the automobile, hiding everything from view, and it isn’t until I’m in the back seat that I’m able to search again.
But he’s already gone.
I’ve attended Sunday service my entire life.
When I was young, the pews were always full. But as time wore on and resources dwindled, attendance grew sparse. Turns out, people lose their faith when faced with never-ending adversity.
The church itself was plain; small wooden benches and beige walls that had browned due to lack of funds and lack of willpower. That’s what happens when your source of livelihood is ripped out from the roots. When the men who are put in positions of power decide to withhold funds and forget that you’re part of what makes them whole.
And as I sit in the beautiful cathedral attached to the Saxum castle, I can’t help but feel bitter for all the ways the people here have everything, while all of mine have gone without.
We’re the same country, yet we’re worlds apart.
The cathedral itself is beautiful. Dark woods and gray stone archways carved with intricate designs, laced in gold detail. Soaring ceilings are covered with colorful art; the type I’m sure took decades to complete, and the only light other than the flame of candles, is from the muted sun bleeding through stained-glass windows, splashing on the beige and brownstone tile in kaleidoscopes of color.
The service has ended, and while everyone else has disappeared, including my betrothed, I’m still here, having told them I wanted some time to pray.
Truthfully, I’m waiting on Xander.
I fidget in my spot, the wood bench numbing my legs. When I glance around and ensure no one else is here, I stand, moving to the walkway between the pews. My pale-pink dress kisses the floor, my hands—covered in matching gloves—run down my sleeves first and then the front of my skirt, smoothing away the wrinkles. My steps clack on the tile, echoing off the walls as I make my way toward the altar.
The crucifix is front and center, and something pulls in my chest as I stare at the sculpture, a hollow type of sadness spinning webs through my heart.
I’ve never questioned my duty to my family, or the justice that we seek. It’s all I’ve ever known, even before my father’s death; all they have conditioned me to want. But for the first time, I’m empathetic toward the plight of Jesus, although I’d never dare to speak it out loud.
How unfair that he had to sacrifice himself in order to cleanse our sins.
Finally, I tear my eyes away and move toward the shadows, realizing there’s a large oil painting hanging on display near the darkened hallway at the front of the room.
The portrait is of a king.
Black hair peeks from beneath his bejeweled crown, piercing jade-green eyes that come to life through the picture; fierce and harsh. A shiver skates down my spine.
“That’s my father.”
My breath whooshes out of me, stomach jumping to my throat as I spin around, coming face-to-face with Tristan. My hand flies to my chest. “You scared me.”
The corner of his lips tilt as he steps up next to me, his hands in his pockets as he glances at the portrait.
I side-eye him, wondering what his relationship was with his father. Michael piqued my curiosity, and while I don’t expect Tristan to open up, I can’t help the question from flowing off my tongue. “Do you miss him?”
Something dark coasts over his face, his jaw tensing. “Yes.”
My mouth pops open, turning my head to study him. “I miss my father too.”
It’s all I can think of to say. “I’m happy he’s dead and I hope he rots in hell” seems like it wouldn’t be an appropriate response.
He stares up at the painting, and so I follow suit, taking in the angles of King Michael II’s face and how similar they are to Tristan’s.
“He looks like you,” I note, glancing at him again from the corner of my eye.
His brow rises. “You mean unbearably attractive?”
I smile. “Terrifyingly so.”
“Hmm.” He nods, twisting toward me. “And are you one who runs from your fears, Sara Beatreaux? Or do you face them?”
My heart kicks against my ribs, and my mouth goes dry. “I don’t believe in running.”
“No? You might change your mind living here.”
My stomach drops, the good feeling disappearing. “Is that a threat?”
“A warning,” he replies.
“I saw you yesterday,” I blurt. “In the town square. You were hiding your face like quite the little creeper... is that because you didn’t want to be seen?”
He steps closer until his frame towers over mine, strands of his disheveled black hair falling over his brow. “So many questions for someone who gives nothing in return.”
My legs freeze in place, like I’ve stepped into wet cement and let it dry around my feet. “What do you want to know?”