Scarred (Never After #2)(78)

Reaching into my pocket, I grab the Lucifer matches, picking one out and holding it above his head. “Tell me quickly, or I will light this fire and burn every inch of your skin. And then I’ll put it out, so we can play this game over and over, until the flames eat your muscle and char your nerves.” I stare at the matchstick. “I hear it’s the most dreadful of ways to go.”

He purses his lips, and I sneer, moving to light the flame. “You’re such a bore.”

“My father!” he yells, his voice sounding hoarse and painful. “She was supposed to rid the world of you and your pathetic excuse of a brother, so the Beatreaux line could finally take their rightful place.”

My head falls back with my laughter. “You would never be next in line for the throne.”

“We have the support of the Privy Council,” he rasps, his eyes swinging to the match in my hand. Now this surprises me, my brows shooting to my hairline.

“A coup d'état then?” I click my tongue. “Color me impressed.”

Sighing, I bring the match to the box, the sound of it striking against the side like music to my ears. “One more confession, Xander.” I lean in, the heat of the flame sending a tendril of excitement through my veins. “Was it you who poured poison down my father’s throat?”

He swallows, resignation settling heavy in his eyes. “No. That was your brother,” he says.

I’m not surprised, but the betrayal stings all the same.

“Your mother and I simply nudged him in the right direction.”

Nodding, I raise my hand above him. “May God have mercy on your soul, Alexander. For I shall give you none.”

The kerosene lights quickly as I drop the match, his skin catching fire and blazing high into the sky. I move back, closing my eyes and relishing in the tortured screams, rage swirling like a hurricane in the center of my gut.





CHAPTER 44





Sara B.





My blades are sharp.

I haven’t changed my clothes since last night when my world flipped inside out.

Instead, I’ve been sitting in front of the fire, my mind replaying everything I know to be true. And the only conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m tired of the waiting game. Of waiting for direction from others who I’m not sure I can trust. I no longer wish to play the perfect part of wanting to be queen. I just want them dead.

It’s the only thing that pulses through my insides, pumping from the space where the beating organ should be; half convinced that my twisted need for vengeance is the only reason it still beats at all.

Can you die of a broken heart?

I do not care for politics or preserving the integrity of the crown—all things my uncle told me were necessary, so the country wouldn’t break apart at the seams when the Faasa dynasty fell. But I’ve had all night to replay his words in my brain, and things just aren’t adding up.

If I wasn’t already crushed into a thousand pieces, maybe I’d feel shame for how easily I’ve been manipulated. As it is, I only feel the emptiness that comes after accepting disappointment.

A thick fog rolls through the trees and blankets the cold ground, dew drops forming on the blades of grass as I make my way out of the main castle and across the court into the cathedral.

I’m sure today will be my last day on this earth. I have no delusion that it will end in anything other than death. I welcome it with open arms, as long as I take down the others who have wronged me.

Even so, I wish to pray.

Not for absolution; there is no remorse in my soul. But for clarity. Purpose.

My fingers wrap around the cool metal handles to the front of the church, and I wrench open the doors, stepping inside the expansive room, my gaze locking on a lone figure, standing at the front of the altar, his hands in his pockets and his tattoos on full display as he stares up at the sculpture of Jesus on the cross.

Tears spring to my eyes, my chest squeezing so tight it feels like it will snap me in half. I swallow them back down, refusing to let them fall.

As quietly as possible, I slip a blade from the inside of my cloak, pressing it against my trembling palm.

My boots echo off the walls as I make my way down the center of the pews, and there’s no way he doesn’t hear me coming. I expect for him to turn, to say something. Do something.

But he doesn’t.

I grip the dagger as I continue my trek toward him, and my stomach rolls, nausea teasing through my middle and surging up my throat when I stop a few paces behind.

Do it, my mind whispers. Reach out your hand and plunge the blade into his skin.

It would be so easy, letting him bleed on the cold church floor, as I stand over him and watch while the traitorous life leaves his body.

The thought of it makes my insides quake, and I feel weak for struggling with the decision. I raise my hand, swallowing the bile that rises along with it, the cavity in my chest cracking down the center as I bring the knife closer to his back.

“Somehow, I knew you’d find me here.”

My hand freezes, heart shooting to my throat.

He spins around, those stupid, perfect, jade-green irises staring at me as though I’m the only thing he sees, and it sends rage careening through my body, hating that even now, he’s so convincing with his lies.

“One of us is always finding the other,” I say through clenched teeth. “I wonder why that is.”