Scarred (Never After #2)(87)

But it’s devotion that makes me slip the laudanum in the small pocket sewn into the hem of my skirt, and its devotion that has me batting my eyelashes and whispering soft words into Michael’s ear, asking if we can go somewhere private.

Tristan has proven time and time again that if I fall, he will catch me. That if I break, he will hold the pieces until I’m ready to stitch them back again. So, I’ll do the same for him, and stand by his side, helping him claim the throne. Helping him seek his vengeance.

I ache with every move like he’s still perched between my thighs, taste him on my lips as though he’s resting on my tongue, feel him in my veins as if he’s fed me all his blood.

We are intrinsic. Fated. Destined.

Or maybe we’re simply mad.

But I’ll gladly live insane, if in the end, it gives me him.

“How was dinner?” Michael asks, as he sits next to me on the couch in his private quarters. The fireplace crackles in front of us, and the sheepskin rug is soft beneath the pads of my feet. It’s untoward for me to be here before the wedding, but Xander isn’t here anymore to speak sense into the king, and Michael thinks with his cock and not with his head when it comes to females.

It was just as easy as I thought it would be.

I smile, lowering my lids to half-mast as I stare at him through my lashes. “It was delicious.”

He smirks, his hand landing heavy on my thigh and rubbing over Tristan’s mark.

“I hope you still have room for dessert?” he asks.

My stomach is in my throat as I continue, knowing that after this, there’s no turning back. “Actually, I’d love some more wine.”

“Of course.” He twists around to grab the bottle on the table to his side and I take my chance, uncorking the laudanum and trickling it in his glass before he turns around, sweat beading on my brow and my heart slamming so fast against my ribs that I feel as though I may have a coronary.

He twists back, pouring the wine into my glass until it’s almost full. I watch it swirl around, splashing against the bottom of the crystal, imagining that it must be similar to how my insides look as they flip and churn, threatening to spill over with anxiety.

He sets down the bottle, and I lean forward, grabbing both glasses, handing his over before taking mine. “Thank you, sire.”

He sits back, staring at me for long moments, his eyes intense, and for the first time all evening, a trickle of unease swims through my veins. Michael has never looked at me this way before.

“I tire of games,” he says. “Are you here to give yourself to me, Sara?”

The thought alone sends bile surging through my throat, but I grin through the nausea, knowing that Tristan will be here in less than an hour, and he’ll wash all the filthy feelings away.

I run my fingers along my collarbone, tangling in the thin chain of my father’s pendant, while my eyes flick to the wine in his hand—the one that he still hasn’t taken a sip from.

“I just thought we could get to know each other better.” I smile, scooting closer to him on the couch. “We’ll be married soon. Don’t you think it’s time?”

He smirks, setting down the glass, and I curse internally, frustration wrapping tight around my middle, squeezing until it feels as though I’ll burst.

His arm reaches out, wrapping around my waist and dragging me into him. My hands fly out to gain purchase on his chest, and I grip the fabric, my ass practically sitting in his lap. I swallow around the disgust lodging itself in my sternum.

“What is it you’d like to know?” he murmurs, leaning his head down and skimming his lips across my skin.

I play my part—even though, God, it feels as though doing so is the worst type of betrayal—leaning into it, knowing I need to make it convincing. Tristan is depending on me. My hands move to his face, pulling his eyes up to meet mine. I graze my nose against his. “Everything.”

He pulls me flush on top of him now, and my mouth sours with vomit as he grinds his hips into me, his erection digging into my center. He groans as he does it, his fingers tightening from where they’re wrapped around my waist, and I throw my head back, pretending as though what he’s doing is exciting.

Suddenly, he stops, his eyes like two amber pits of fire, and he reaches out to the table, grabbing his glass of wine. Relief trickles through me. But then he pushes the glass against my lips and panic spreads through my chest.

A small sip should be fine. As long as he drinks the rest.

I open my mouth, just a crack, but before I can stop him, he’s gripping my chin and tipping the entire glass of liquid, until it pours down my throat and I choke and sputter, my eyes growing wide and frantic as I attempt to spit it out.

His face drops into a sneer. I move to scramble off his chest, but he grips me by the hair, yanking it until it rips from my head as he stands, dragging me until my knees scrape across the floor, my fingers digging into the skin of his wrist as I flail, trying to break free.

“You stupid woman, did you think I wouldn’t know?”

“I don’t—”

He throws me to the ground, and I tumble, my arm screaming in pain as it slams against the wood. I flip onto my back, pushing myself up with my hands, but I don’t get far, his palm swinging down and cracking across my face until my body flies, skidding across the ground. My hip throbs from the impact.