Scarred (Never After #2)(67)

“What’s your name?” I try again.

The boy’s gaze shifts behind me. “A royal guard,” he whispers.

A grin pulls at his face, stretching from ear to ear, and it makes every single hair stand on end, a shiver racing through me.

And then he runs.

“Wait!” I yell, standing up.

“Sara!” Timothy’s voice is loud, and the sound of it is so jarring—so different from what I’m used to—that I stop in place, my palm shooting to my chest as I spin around to meet his stare.

“I’m fine, Timothy. Everything is—” A blast sounds, and my ears ring with a high-pitched noise, dulling everything around me. I curl in on myself, bending over as my hands fly to cover my ears.

I glance up. Timothy’s eyes are wide, his mouth dropped open as he stares at me, less than two feet away, his hand cupping his chest.

All three of my ladies stand shell-shocked behind him, many people running outside to line the streets.

Timothy falls to his knees.

“No!” I cry out, my chest seizing as I rush forward, feet stumbling as tears burst from my eyes and streak down my face. “No,” I plead again, dropping to the ground in front of him.

His eyes are frantic as they watch me break apart, my heart shattering, the sharp edges splicing through my middle until my insides spill onto the ground.

My hands fly to his chest, my jaw tensing as I push down with my body, applying as much pressure as possible, digging my fingertips into the wound to try and plug the bleeding.

But it’s too much.

It’s too fast.

His palm wraps around my wrist loosely, and it’s enough to give me hope. Random curls fall from my updo, sticking to the wet trail of tears that stain my cheeks, and I whip my head around, looking at the dozens of people who stand by—their hands covering their mouths in horror—and do nothing.

Dozens.

“Do something!” I scream, all of them gawking as if they don’t have feet and hands to help. “Don’t just stand there!” My voice breaks, my breathing coming in small pants until I feel as though I’ll suffocate from the lack of air.

“Hold on, Timothy.” I focus on him, but his gaze is growing milky and I can feel his presence slipping away. “You are not allowed to die,” I demand, my teeth gritting. “Do you hear me? We’re supposed to become best friends.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, his blinks growing further apart.

“Long talks by the fire, you know?” I hiccup, trying to ignore the way my fingers are slipping from all the blood. “Your favorite thing to do.”

His hand falls from my wrist, splashing as it lands on the puddle growing beneath him.

“Please,” I murmur, my mind screaming and my chest caving in. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But it’s too late, and no one hears my pleas.

I feel the moment his soul leaves his body. A giant exhale, and then he’s just gone.

Sobs rack through me until my entire body shakes, and I collapse on top of him, my arms stained red, and my fingers drenched. I drop my head in my hands, anyway.

“I tried to tell you,” Marisol whispers, wiping a tear from her cheek. “It was you they were after.”

My stomach rolls, an icy chill skating through me until my entire body feels numb. I snap my face up and meet her gaze. “Then I will make sure they pay.”





CHAPTER 38





Sara B.





The silk sheets are soft against my skin, the blanket heavy as it warms my body, but I’m numb to the comfort.

I am sick.

Timothy’s blood has long since been washed away, yet somehow, I feel as though I’ll never be clean again. The sins of my decisions have always been heavy, but tonight, they’re crushing me beneath their weight.

If only I had listened.

If only I hadn’t been so stuck in my ways. Then maybe Timothy would still be here.

He’d be living. Breathing. Existing.

My eyes are puffy and swollen, the corners of my lids tender, but my tears dried long ago, drummed out by the pulsing beat of anger.

The rebel king sent his people to kill me.

But they missed, and now I will make him wish for death.

No one has spoken to me since we arrived back through the castle gates. No additional guard has been sent to stand outside of my bedroom. No consoling touches or reassuring words.

Not that I deserve them.

My heart squeezes tight. I had thought maybe my uncle would show, but he’s been a ghost along with everyone else.

A low rumbling sound vibrates across the walls, but I don’t turn to see. Not even when footsteps creep behind me and the mattress dips beneath a person’s weight.

I’m too drained to move, too broken to care.

“Ma petite menteuse. What am I going to do with you?” Tristan’s voice caresses my body like a kiss, creating a chasm in the center of my chest. I glance down when his tattooed arm encases my waist, pulling me flush against the hard planes of his body and hugging me tight.

It’s a simple act, but it pricks at the wound in my heart; the one I’ve bandaged and tried to pretend isn’t there.

A tear drips down my cheek, hot and salty, as it cascades over my lips and seeps into my mouth. My simple white cloth nightgown is the only barrier between us, and his fingers stroke over my stomach, petting me—comforting me—as if I deserve consoling.