Scarred (Never After #2)(73)

“What?” My hand flies to my chest. “They have to, they… he’s a royal guard.”

Water lines his lower lids, and my chest cracks as I step closer, grabbing his hands in mine and squeezing. “Paul,” Emotion clogs my throat. “I’m so sorry, it was my fault, and I—”

“No worries, milady.” He breaks one of his hands away and tips my chin. “He died doing what he wanted to do.”

I huff out a disbelieving breath, rolling my eyes to stem the tears. “What, being a martyr?”

He smiles. “Protecting you.”

My stomach cramps and I inhale, my face scrunching from how heavy those words hit.

“You know,” he whispers, his grip tightening on my fingers. “I’m not sure who’s worse, the people who killed him, or the ones who won’t honor his memory.”

He hesitates, dropping my other hand to wipe away a stray tear that drips down his cheek. “At least the rebels take care of their own.”

My nerve endings stand to attention, and I tilt my head. “How do you know that?”

Paul jerks back, running a hand through his auburn hair, avoiding my eyes.

“Sara.” The deep voice cuts through the tension and I glance over to see Uncle Raf standing in the hallway, one hand in his pocket as he leans on his cane.

I smile. “Uncle, I was just on my way to see you.”

“Milady,” Paul mutters, rushing down the hall. He doesn’t turn and give proper notice to my uncle and the slight doesn’t go missed, Raf glaring at Paul’s back as he retreats down the hall.

“Were you planning on keeping the king waiting all night?” he asks.

My insides roll with disgust, but I push on, knowing that now more than ever, it’s important I tread carefully. If he knew what I was doing last night, I’m not sure how he would react.

At best, he’d call me a traitor and disown me from the family.

At worst? I’m not even sure.

Anxiety swirls in my gut as I make my way over to him, afraid that when I get too close, he’ll smell Tristan on my skin. Notice the difference in my walk, or the new cadence of my heart, screaming that a Faasa prince owns me, body and soul.

I ache to find him, even now, and the guilt from that notches its way up my throat until it swells.

When I reach him, I wait… although for what, I’m not sure. Maybe realization that someone tried to end my life just the day before. Maybe acknowledgment that I’m not okay.

It never comes.

And when we walk into the dining hall, and he escorts me all the way down the long table with no less than twenty seats, ornate crystal chandeliers sparkling from above us, I just feel hollow.

Michael sits at the head of the table, dressed in expensive evening wear and a smile on his face, and disgust rolls through my center; the strongest it’s ever been.

“Lady Beatreaux, you’re looking lovely,” Michael says as a servant pulls out my chair, allowing me to sit.

I glance back and smile, thanking them, and Michael grimaces at the action.

“Your Majesty, it’s good to see you looking so well.”

Uncle Raf starts in on him almost immediately about calling a meeting with the Privy Council, and as I sit and listen, taking small sips of water from my glass, I realize that he’s stepped into the role his son had, advising the king. Which means he doesn’t plan on going back home soon. I wonder how my mother fares all alone; although I doubt she’s spared me a second thought since I left.

The first course is brought to the table, and my gut grumbles, unable to stomach eating when my insides feel so torn and tossed. I fidget in my chair, so the ache between my legs will spear through me and remind me that Tristan was there. That he cares, even when it feels as though no one else does. It’s odd how just the memory of him is enough to bring me comfort, but I welcome it, wanting something to keep me from breaking down and ruining everything I came to Saxum to accomplish.

I clear my throat. “Is it true you aren’t having a proper service for Timothy?”

The words fly from my mouth before I can bite them back, and my uncle shoots me a sharp glare, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

Michael, who was taking a drink from his glass, places it back on the table and looks at my uncle and then back to me. “That’s correct. We don’t think it would be best.”

Anger sludges through my veins like mud. “He deserves to be honored for his service.”

“The rebels would see it as a victory,” my uncle cuts in. “We cannot give them that satisfaction.”

I huff out a breath, my spine straightening. “They already have a victory. They’ve murdered someone who was doing his job in protecting me.”

“Sara, that’s enough,” my uncle says.

I lean forward until my ribs bump against the edge of the table. “When he was lying on the dirty ground, grasping my wrists and struggling for air, it was me who had their hands elbow deep in his chest, trying to keep his heart beating. It was me who prayed to God that he would spare him, begging him to take it back—” My voice cracks, and my fist slams on the table. “To take me instead.”

“He was not even supposed to speak with you,” Michael says.

I turn toward him, my jaw clenching. “No worries, Your Majesty. Now he never will again.”