Scarred (Never After #2)(8)
He likes her.
Straightening off the darkened wall, I move into the light, the crowd parting for me just as it did for her, only this time, it’s accompanied by stuttered breaths and whispers.
People give me a wide berth because they worry about what will happen if they don’t.
Rumors about the scarred prince run rampant around the kingdom and while most are fabrication, some start with at least a hint of truth, and I’ve found the more they fear me, the less they look.
And at least for the moment, that’s the way I like it.
When I near the dais, my brother’s face draws down, and I know with every fiber of my being it’s because he didn’t expect me to be here. Because even though people warily gaze my way, it’s still my way instead of his.
I sit down in the high-back velvet chair next to him, sinking into the seat and crossing my ankle on my knee, adopting an air of boredom.
“Tristan, I didn’t expect to see you here. Come to meet your future queen?” Michael says, gesturing toward Lady Beatreaux on his opposite side.
I glance over, something tightening in my gut when I lock eyes with her. Reaching across the lap of my brother, I hold out my palm, the left side of my mouth curling up. It’s improper to lean across the lap of the king to hold conversation, and part of me is surprised Michael doesn’t put a stop to it. But of course, that would draw the wrong attention his way. Can’t have outbursts in public. That wouldn’t mesh well with his charisma.
She stares at my outstretched hand for long moments before placing her fingers in mine. A twinge of surprise flickers in my chest as I bring her palm to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back. “Hello, dear sister.”
Michael scoffs. “Don’t scare the girl off before she’s even been here for a fortnight.”
“Sara,” she whispers, ignoring my brother’s words.
I quirk a brow.
“Call me Sara. We’re about to be family, after all.” A pleasant smile breaks across her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and it does nothing except heighten my curiosity.
“Don’t waste your breath on being cordial with Tristan, sweetheart,” Michael says. “He’ll disappear into whatever gutter he likes to play in soon enough and won’t even remember he’s met you.”
My jaw clenches, anger bubbling as it spreads through my blood and singes my veins.
Sara leans in, the upper half of her body almost entirely in Michael’s lap now as her muddy brown gaze sears into mine. “You’re hurting me.”
Glancing down, I realize I’m still holding her hand, my fingers having tightened around hers until my knuckles are blanching white. I drop her palm.
“Am I?” I smirk. “So easily?”
Her eyes narrow.
“That’s enough,” Michael hisses.
I chuckle, leaning back in my chair and turning my attention to the soiree. Resting my elbow on the arm of my seat, I rub my jaw with my fingers, the days-old stubble rough against my skin.
Lady Beatreaux starts a conversation with my brother, droning on about the most boring of subjects; the weather in Silva compared to here, how she enjoyed riding in an automobile, and if she plans to attend mass on Sunday morning on his arm or come with her ladies.
I’m only half paying attention, and my heart kicks in my chest when I spot a dark figure in the back corner of the hall.
Edward stands proud a few meters away, his hand on his belt, his attire decked in the black and gold of our country, a gold-woven rope decorating his left shoulder, and my family crest roaring on his chest.
Our eyes meet, and I nod toward the shadowed stranger.
He follows the movement before understanding dawns on his face, and he makes his way toward them. And then, suddenly, there’s a piercing scream that wails through the air, so curdling it makes the ends of my hair rise.
“By God!” someone else yells.
Edward rushes through the crowd then, all pretense having disappeared, tackling the figure and wrestling them to the ground. The stranger drops to their knees, and the hood of their cloak falls with them; long, dirty hair spilling down the intruder’s shoulders.
It’s a woman.
Something heavy thuds, and it’s followed by shocked gasps and squeals. People jump backward, looks of horror overcoming their features.
As if in slow motion, the object rolls toward the dais and comes to a stop almost perfectly in front of Michael’s throne.
He shoots up from the seat, his gaze widening as he stares down at Lord Reginald’s severed head, his gaping eyes and lolling tongue blue; severed neck tendons dangling, having left a trail of blood behind it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Michael demands.
Edward jerks the woman to stand, wrenching her bony wrists behind her back with one hand, and gripping her hair in the other, forcing her to meet Michael’s gaze.
My heart rate speeds up, fingers steepling as I watch the scene unfold.
She smiles wickedly, her eyes glazed and crazy. “This is your warning, Michael Faasa III.”
“Warning from who?” Michael booms.
Her grin widens.
Michael’s fists clench, his jaw muscles working back and forth. My eyes move from him to his bride-to-be, expecting her to stare in terror, and selfishly wanting to revel in her fear; to soak it in like sunshine and let it fuel me through the night.