Scarred (Never After #2)(47)

“That’s not fair,” she huffs. There’s a tense pause in the air, and just when I’ve decided she’s actually going to shut up and allow me silence, she speaks again. “I know you’re sad about your father. We all grieve and if anyone understands, it’s me. But it’s been two years, it’s time to move on, and—”

I stand from the couch and move toward her, my jaw clenching so tight my teeth crack. “Do not pretend to know about my grief.”

Crouching down once I’m in front of her chair, I flick the ash from the end of my joint and rest my hands on her knees, staring up at her. “Where were you the night of his death?”

She lifts her chin. “That’s none of your concern.”

Bile burns the back of my throat, my anger so palpable I can taste it in the air. “You surely weren’t sharing his bed, since that’s where he was found—his skin tinged blue and all alone.”

Her spine straightens just as a knock sounds.

One of her ladies moves into the room and walks toward the door before opening it. Timothy walks in, clearing his throat and bowing deep. “Your Majesty, may I present Lady Beatreaux. She’s here for tea.”

My chest pulls tight at her name, and there’s a sudden urge to stay, if only to protect her from my mother’s sharp tongue and claws. Ridiculous, considering I was just fanning the flames, wanting to create the destruction myself.

My mother pats my hands. “Tristan, darling, I’ll speak with you later.”

I grab her palm and kiss the back. “We’ll continue this conversation later, mother.”

Spinning around, I meet the eyes of Lady Beatreaux, looking beautiful as always and strong-willed as ever.

Good.

She’ll need it.





CHAPTER 26





Sara B.





I hadn’t expected to meet with the dowager queen in private, but she sent for me as if I was a pathetic servant just waiting for her to come and call. Truth be told, I don’t wish to see her, but my uncle urged me to go, stating how important it is to stay in her good graces until I’m in a position of power.

So, I strapped my blades to my thigh, dressed in the most expensive day gown I have, allowed Sheina to cinch up my corset extra tight, and here I am, taking in shallow sips of breath while I follow Timothy down the hall.

“Do you know the Queen Mother?” I ask him.

“I do,” he replies.

“And?”

He quirks a brow. “And what?”

“Well, what am I walking into here, Timothy? Is she the rose or is she thorns?”

“Milady, she’s no rose.” He chuckles as we approach her door, turning to face me. “But neither are you. I think you’ll handle yourself just fine.”

Maybe I should be offended by his words, but instead, there’s a comfort that spreads through my chest—because he’s right—I am no rose, and I like that he sees me enough to know that.

The door swings open, a young lady in a simple pale-blue dress smiling and stepping to the side, allowing us to move into the room. My hands are clammy, making my pink-lace gloves stick to my palms, but I breathe in as deep as my corset allows and straighten my shoulders to fake the confidence I’m not feeling inside. We’re in her personal quarters; a place I’ve never been, and I’m struck at how similar to mine the sitting room is.

Deep browns of wood accent the red and cream wallpaper, and a fire crackles in the center of the room. There are two burgundy couches facing each other, and at the head are two brown leather chairs surrounding a small round table, already set with a tray of tea and white china with blue birds and gold trim.

None of that, however, is what catches my attention. Because from the second I walked into the room, I could feel him. A hum that weaves through the air and dances on my skin, wrapping around my middle like rope.

I try to resist glancing his way, I do, but I give in, acknowledging—perhaps for the first time—that my self-control with the prince is severely lacking.

My father’s pendant weighs heavily around my neck.

Our eyes lock. Tristan’s gaze peers like I’m an animal at a circus, and even though he’s across the room, it feels as though I’m on display just for him. My already shallow breathing stutters as he flicks his stare down to my decolletage, my thighs tensing to stem the ache flaring between them.

Timothy clears his throat, his hand grazing my elbow, and it’s only then that I snap out of it, tearing my eyes away and focusing on the woman I’m here to see.

Queen Gertrude Faasa: the woman who stood by while her son killed my father, watching him hang for daring to question the crown.

Rage burns bright in my gut.

I step forward, dropping into a curtsy, the pale-pink hem of my dress fluttering on the ground at my feet. “Your Majesty.”

“Come here, girl,” she snaps. “Stand up straight and let me get a good look at you.”

Her words slice through the air like a knife, demanding and almost cruel in their tone. I move forward and when I come to a stop before her—her eyes squinting and jaw setting as she catalogs every piece of me—I’ve never wanted to revolt more.

“So you’re the girl here to marry my son.” Her eyes trail up my form. “Do none of your ladies know how to tame those wild curls?”