Scarred (Never After #2)(59)

Her hand moves from her lap, rising until she’s dusting her fingertips along the edge of my face.

My nerves sizzle beneath her touch.

“How did you get your scar?”

The question snaps me out of the haze as quick as lightning, and I straighten, my mind getting lost in the memory.

“What’s that?” Michael’s voice creeps along the back of my neck like a spider.

I stiffen in my spot next to the fireplace, my fingers tightening around my charcoal as I work on the finishing touches to my latest piece. It’s of my father and I, his arm around my shoulders as we stand at the cliff’s edge. Shifting, I hunch my shoulders, turning my body as I smudge the edges on one of the trees, trying to ignore my brother’s presence.

The paper slices against my skin as the book is ripped from my hands. Anger pummels through my chest and I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring. “Give it back,” I whisper.

He looks down at the drawing, his brows morphing into sharp angles as he narrows his gaze, and when he raises his eyes, there’s a hatred swimming through them so potent it wraps around my neck like a noose.

“How cute,” he mocks, his knuckles turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the drawing.

My stomach churns. “Give it back, Michael.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Is this what it was like? Back when he used to pay you attention?”

“Michael,” I start, standing up, my stomach tensing into knots. “I’m not kidding. Give. It. Back.”

“What are you gonna do, little lion?” He singsongs the nickname, elongating the vowels. “Father isn’t here to save you. He’s busy preparing for a luncheon; one that I will attend at his side.”

My fists clench, his words slicing through me like a knife, nicking my bruised, abandoned heart.

“Why are you even still here?” he continues, stepping closer, a haughty look coasting across his face.

I stumble as I move away, the heat of the flames licking across my back as I press against the fireplace mantle.

“You’re worthless. A waste of space, Tristan. The sooner you realize that and disappear, the better.” He taps his chin. “Maybe you should run away. Go rut with hyenas in the shadowed lands or die from starvation in the plains of Campestria.” He shrugs. “See how much our father really loves you when you’re wishing for him to hunt you down and bring you back home.”

My chest aches, every insult hitting their mark. Because the truth is, my father hasn’t spent time with me in months. Not since Michael turned fifteen and started showing an interest in his title.

“The only reason father even talks to you is because you were born first,” I hiss. “At least when he gave me attention, it was because he enjoyed my company.”

Michael’s face turns to stone, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Tell yourself whatever you need, brother. But I’ve heard him say he wishes you’d never been born.”

My heart falters. “You lie.”

“We all wish for it.” He moves closer again. “You’re a stain on our name, Tristan. That’s why no one cares when you disappear for days. We all hope you’ll stay gone, but for some reason you don’t get the hint, and you keep. Coming. Back.”

I swallow around the thick knot in my throat, breaking eye contact as I try to shove down the gaping wound that’s being torn through the center of my chest. “Give me back my drawings, Michael,” I whisper, my voice breaking on his name.

“You know what?” He clicks his tongue. “Why don’t you go… catch it.”

He tosses the sketchbook into the fire.

“No!” I surge forward, reaching out, but the flames shoot higher, crackling as they eat the paper like fuel.

Something snaps inside of me, and I spin, all of my pent-up rage propelling my limbs as I charge at him. I’m three years younger and far less capable when it comes to physical strength, but I still knock him off his feet, both of us tumbling to the ground.

“I’m going to kill you,” I seethe, my hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing. Black fury races through every piece of me. Envy from him getting my father’s time mixes with the sorrow of him destroying the only other thing that matters. My sketches.

They’re all I had to keep me company. My only friends.

He overpowers me, throwing me across the room, my back smacking against the wood floor. Groaning, I roll over, squeezing my eyes shut at the sting in my spine. And then, a sharp pain slices up the side of my face, agony spearing through me, making a scream scratch my throat raw as it pours from my mouth.

Liquid gushes into my eye as I try to blink, my vision going red and dark, before gushing down my cheek and slipping through my lips, a metallic flavor settling on my tongue and making me retch.

My head grows dizzy; woozy from the pain, and I throw my hand over my face, my fingers becoming slippery as they’re coated in blood.

The blurry form of Michael hovers over me, a fire poker gripped in his hand. “Now you don’t even look like him,” he sneers, spitting on my broken body. “See how much he loves you when you’re nothing but a disfigured freak.”

He walks away and I curl into a ball, consciousness weaving in and out while I wish for someone to come and find me. To hold me. Heal me. Love me.