I’ve been here for a week, but this is the first time I’ve ventured outside of the castle walls into the actual town of Saxum. A clock tower sits in the center of the square, and businesses line both sides of the cobblestone streets, brand-new, shiny lampposts accenting the sidewalks. I’ve never seen a streetlight in person before, and my insides churn as I realize just how prosperous the main area of Saxum is while Silva struggles without.
Michael and I have been sitting inside The Chocolate Gorge; a patisserie that’s known for making the best sweets in the region. Timothy, Xander, and my ladies perch at a table across the room from us, and a few royal guards line the entrance, but other than that, there’s no one here.
“Is it always this empty?” I ask, pushing my dessert plate away.
Michael smirks, his slicked-back brown hair gleaming under the lights. “Couldn’t have the commoners interrupting when I’m trying to woo you.”
My chest pinches as I peer out the front windows where half a dozen people line up around barricades, trying to glance inside to see their king.
“Do you come here often?”
He shrugs. “Not since I was a child. My father used to bring Tristan and me here once in a blue moon.”
My blood heats when he mentions his brother, but I ignore it. I will not let him affect me when he’s not even around.
Still, I can’t help imagining Tristan and Michael as children, eating all the chocolates and candies with their father looking on. Everything I’ve heard of King Michael II’s legacy is in all the ways he failed his country. It’s difficult for me to picture him as a man who cared for his family, and curiosity brims inside of me, wanting to learn more.
“That’s very sweet,” I say.
Michael scoffs, his eyes moving past mine before coming back. He smiles, but I see the flash of pain that haunts his features. “Sara Beatreaux, you are a bleeding heart, aren’t you?”
I sit up straighter. “Isn’t that something you should want in your queen?”
He tilts his head. “And you’re so sure you’ll be my queen?”
Blowing out a breath, I stare down at my lap before peeking at him from beneath my lashes. “I’m sure that I was bred specifically for you, Your Majesty. I think you’d be doing yourself a great disservice to not keep me at your side.”
He hums, his fingers coming up to rub at his jaw. “Bred for me?”
I nod, reaching out to grasp my cup of tea and taking a sip before placing it back on the table. “My uncle turned many suitors down hoping one day, I would belong to you.”
It’s a gamble telling him this, and it’s a gross exaggeration, but I’m banking on the fact Michael loves having his ego stroked and is possessive over his toys. I was told this long before coming here, and it’s noticeable in the way he preens whenever he’s paid a compliment and sulks when something isn’t going his way.
Hopefully, learning I was meant for him all along will entice him to snatch me up and collect me like a treasure.
He leans across the table, his brows rising. “And what of you, Sara? I’ll be honest, I’m not very interested in what your uncle wants.”
My eyes lock on his, the weight of responsibility dropping into my gut and pushing the words from my mouth. “After meeting you? I want nothing more.”
A slow smile creeps along his face and he settles back into his chair, a satisfied look coasting across his features.
“Sire,” Xander interrupts, coming to stand next to the table. “There’s a journalist set up outside, ready to take your photos, and then we need to head back to the castle for a meeting with the Privy Council.”
Michael nods, glancing out the front windows. His face pinches, nose scrunching up in obvious disgust. “So many people outside.”
“They’re behind the barricades, sire, they won’t get near you,” Xander reassures.
Michael stands, placing a top hat on his head and holding out an arm to me. “Showtime, Sara Beatreaux. You want this? Make it look good.”
I grin back at him, although it feels as though an elephant is sitting on my chest. My fingers wrap around his elbow as I rise, stomach tightening in anticipation.
Timothy goes first, holding open the door for us, and we make our way outside, the guards moving to flank our sides. Murmurs race through the people on the sidewalk, and there’s a man in a tweed suit ahead, a large tripod with a camera sitting on top placed next to him. He bows when we approach. “Your Majesty. Milady.”
Michael stares down his nose at the man, his jaw ticcing. I glance between the two of them, irritation grating my nerves, annoyed he isn’t even acknowledging him.
“Are you the reporter?” I ask.
He looks at me, a small grin gracing his lips. “I am, ma’am.”
“Very well,” Michael cuts in. He turns to me, winking as if he’s about to pull a prank, before he reaches in his pocket and takes my hand in his. “Lady Beatreaux, it would be my greatest honor if you would accept my hand in marriage.”
I stare up at him, my neck craning to meet his eyes from under the brim of my hat. He clears his throat, his eyes hardening more with every passing second.
His grip on my hand tightens. I jolt out of my daze, realizing this was his grand proposal. No bended knee, no heartfelt speech. Just a few rushed words and expectation. I’m not sure why I was standing here like a fool, waiting for anything else. I’m surprised he did it in public at all—I had waited the first couple days to see if he would extend a formal proposal, and when it never happened, I figured it was just assumed.
Adopting a surprised expression, I lift my free hand to my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I say, staring at the massive diamond cushioned by a pearl on each side. “It would be my greatest honor to be your wife.”
He takes the ring from its ornate box and slips it on my finger. “This was my mother’s. I hope you appreciate the sentiment.”
I keep the smile pasted on my face as he pulls me into his side, even though the thought of wearing anything that belonged to the dowager queen makes bile rise to the back of my throat. Michael turns us, adopting a beaming grin for the camera. Cheers go up from the people behind the barricades, words of congratulations soaring through the air.
But it’s all muddled behind the sudden whooshing in my ears as my eyes lock on a tall, cloaked figure across the street, leaning against one of those shiny black lamp posts.
My heart skips.
I can’t see his face, but somehow, I just know it’s him.
Tristan.
Michael turns us to wave at the people behind the barricades, before leading us toward the automobile. I follow, the smile plastered on my face like paper-mache, my heart pounding in my chest, although I’m not sure why it’s racing.
The guards crowd around us as we head toward the automobile, hiding everything from view, and it isn’t until I’m in the back seat that I’m able to search again.
But he’s already gone.
I’ve attended Sunday service my entire life.
When I was young, the pews were always full. But as time wore on and resources dwindled, attendance grew sparse. Turns out, people lose their faith when faced with never-ending adversity.
The church itself was plain; small wooden benches and beige walls that had browned due to lack of funds and lack of willpower. That’s what happens when your source of livelihood is ripped out from the roots. When the men who are put in positions of power decide to withhold funds and forget that you’re part of what makes them whole.
And as I sit in the beautiful cathedral attached to the Saxum castle, I can’t help but feel bitter for all the ways the people here have everything, while all of mine have gone without.
We’re the same country, yet we’re worlds apart.
The cathedral itself is beautiful. Dark woods and gray stone archways carved with intricate designs, laced in gold detail. Soaring ceilings are covered with colorful art; the type I’m sure took decades to complete, and the only light other than the flame of candles, is from the muted sun bleeding through stained-glass windows, splashing on the beige and brownstone tile in kaleidoscopes of color.
The service has ended, and while everyone else has disappeared, including my betrothed, I’m still here, having told them I wanted some time to pray.
Truthfully, I’m waiting on Xander.
I fidget in my spot, the wood bench numbing my legs. When I glance around and ensure no one else is here, I stand, moving to the walkway between the pews. My pale-pink dress kisses the floor, my hands—covered in matching gloves—run down my sleeves first and then the front of my skirt, smoothing away the wrinkles. My steps clack on the tile, echoing off the walls as I make my way toward the altar.
The crucifix is front and center, and something pulls in my chest as I stare at the sculpture, a hollow type of sadness spinning webs through my heart.
I’ve never questioned my duty to my family, or the justice that we seek. It’s all I’ve ever known, even before my father’s death; all they have conditioned me to want. But for the first time, I’m empathetic toward the plight of Jesus, although I’d never dare to speak it out loud.
How unfair that he had to sacrifice himself in order to cleanse our sins.
Finally, I tear my eyes away and move toward the shadows, realizing there’s a large oil painting hanging on display near the darkened hallway at the front of the room.
The portrait is of a king.
Black hair peeks from beneath his bejeweled crown, piercing jade-green eyes that come to life through the picture; fierce and harsh. A shiver skates down my spine.
“That’s my father.”
My breath whooshes out of me, stomach jumping to my throat as I spin around, coming face-to-face with Tristan. My hand flies to my chest. “You scared me.”
The corner of his lips tilt as he steps up next to me, his hands in his pockets as he glances at the portrait.
I side-eye him, wondering what his relationship was with his father. Michael piqued my curiosity, and while I don’t expect Tristan to open up, I can’t help the question from flowing off my tongue. “Do you miss him?”
Something dark coasts over his face, his jaw tensing. “Yes.”
My mouth pops open, turning my head to study him. “I miss my father too.”
It’s all I can think of to say. “I’m happy he’s dead and I hope he rots in hell” seems like it wouldn’t be an appropriate response.
He stares up at the painting, and so I follow suit, taking in the angles of King Michael II’s face and how similar they are to Tristan’s.
“He looks like you,” I note, glancing at him again from the corner of my eye.
His brow rises. “You mean unbearably attractive?”
I smile. “Terrifyingly so.”
“Hmm.” He nods, twisting toward me. “And are you one who runs from your fears, Sara Beatreaux? Or do you face them?”
My heart kicks against my ribs, and my mouth goes dry. “I don’t believe in running.”
“No? You might change your mind living here.”
My stomach drops, the good feeling disappearing. “Is that a threat?”
“A warning,” he replies.
“I saw you yesterday,” I blurt. “In the town square. You were hiding your face like quite the little creeper… is that because you didn’t want to be seen?”
He steps closer until his frame towers over mine, strands of his disheveled black hair falling over his brow. “So many questions for someone who gives nothing in return.”
My legs freeze in place, like I’ve stepped into wet cement and let it dry around my feet. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“That could take a long time.”
“You’re about to marry into the family. We have nothing but time. Unless Michael tires of you before the wedding and chooses one of his other whores instead.” He cocks his head, his eyes calculating as they blaze over my skin. “Or maybe… you have a secret agenda.”
Irritation rushes through my chest, expanding like a heatwave. “I am not a whore.” My fists clench at my sides. “And just because you have no propensity for morals doesn’t mean it extends to others.”
He reaches up and cups my chin, his thumb brushing over my lips. “Such a smart mouth. Pity my brother won’t know how to tame it.”
Fire blazes through my veins so fast my stomach cramps. “I don’t need to be tamed.”
“No?” He smirks.
“I stand on my own.”
“Yet you’ll come here every Sunday, pledging your life to a man in the sky.”
I crane my neck to maintain eye contact as he presses against me, his breath hot as it coasts across my mouth, making tension twist down my spine.
“If you want a god to worship, ma petite menteuse, no need to look so far.”
Scoffing, I reach up to push him away even as arousal floods through my center and pools between my legs. “You’re disgusting.”
He grabs my wrists, pulling me flush to his body until I can feel every hard inch of his cock straining against the fabric of his clothes. “I’d teach you to love begging at my feet.”
My core contracts when his words hit my lips, and I suck them in as if his breath is my air. My fingers clench his shirt, but instead of pushing him away, I drag him closer. “I’m tired of you playing games with me,” I hiss.
“Is that what I’m doing?” he questions.
“Stop.” Anger snaps at my nerves. “Nothing will get in my way of being Michael’s bride. Not even you.”
He leans back, his eyes flaring as his grip tightens around my wrists.
And it’s only then that I realize what I’ve said.
Stupid girl.
“I see.” One of his hands drops from my arm and rises along my side, goose bumps sprouting in every place his fingers touch.
“You thirst for power?” he rasps, his palm ghosting across my collarbone before wrapping around my throat. “I can fill you with it until you scream.”
My stomach jolts so fast my legs tremble.
His stare drops to my mouth.
A loud bang echoes off the cathedral walls, and I jump, icy dread trickling through my insides.
“Leave me alone,” I plead, pushing at his chest.
He brushes his thumb against the underside of my jaw before he releases me. My body grows cold as he backs away, but I don’t drop his gaze, even as my heart slams against my chest when I hear footsteps making their way toward us.
Any second and someone will see.
Tristan keeps his eyes on me for a second longer before spinning around and disappearing down the hall, like one of the ghosts rumored to haunt the corridors.
But his touch has branded itself on my skin.
And when I turn around, Xander stands in front of me, his beady eyes narrowed, and lips turned down.
