When Michael and I were children, my father was often too busy to spend time with us, and my mother didn’t care. Even if she had, that’s not how it works in the monarchy. Queens aren’t meant to raise their offspring; they’re only meant to birth them.
As a result—and as was expected—nannies were the ones who brought us up. The other kids who roamed the halls were families of the servants, ones who we either weren’t allowed to play with, or they weren’t allowed to play with us. But Michael somehow always had his group of friends, and they would never miss an opportunity to come find me and rain down terror.
I was easy prey. I had no interest in being the center of attention, and much preferred staying on the sidelines with my sketchbook, watching how everyone else interacted.
You can learn a lot about human nature when you observe from the outside looking in.
For some reason, my brother didn’t enjoy that about me. He’s enjoyed nothing about me, nor I him. We’re connected only by blood, and even as a child, I would imagine chaining him up by his limbs and draining him of every drop, if only to sever our connection.
Back then, of course, I didn’t have the wherewithal.
And it only takes so many times of being thrown in the dirt and told you’re a freak for you to believe it. That because you’re a little different, you’re somehow less than.
It was beat into me by angry fists and brushed off as “kids will be kids.” And the fact that when it came down to family, I was unseen and unimportant, compounded the feeling. Being the second-born son gave me freedom, yet they forced me to live it in Michael’s shadow.
But at least for a time, my father cared.
He would take me to the cliff’s edge, showing me the constellations and how even in the darkest of nights, they light the way home. I treasured the quiet evenings with him because it was the only time I felt like I belonged. He saw me, and he loved me.
But as I aged, the late-night meetings grew further and further apart, his time for me replaced with preparing Michael to be king.
Just like with everyone else, eventually, I was forgotten.
And the stars don’t shine as brightly when you stare at them alone.
Michael was the crowned prince, and I was just… me. So, I never understood why, when he had everything, he always made sure I had less than nothing, too.
I thought maybe as we grew older, things would get better, but the opposite turned out to be true. The shoves turned to prolonged torture, and bruised ribs turned into fractured bones. I slunk away into the secret tunnels of the castle just to get away.
It was then I realized they led through the mountains and into the middle of the forest. And it was also there I first decided to stop being Michael’s victim, spending hours visualizing the day I would take everything from him, and everyone else who wronged me, or stood by silently and watched.
That’s the thing about resentment. It grows and wraps around every piece of you like ivy, feeding off the anger until it’s so enmeshed that it becomes you. A living, breathing, pulsating incarnation of hatred.
And for me, the boy who was tossed to the side like garbage, I had nothing but time to pour water on the weeds. Let it fester and grow until it blotted out everything else.
Michael has always been stronger physically.
But I’m vastly more intelligent.
And he doesn’t deserve to sit on the throne.
The scar on my face twinges, and I shake it off, gritting my teeth as I focus back on the dark wood of the chest that I keep beneath my bed. My insides dance as I close the metal lock on the front and place it back in its hideaway spot, before grabbing a lit candle and making my way out of my room and into the hallway.
I move through the corridors until I make it into the tunnels. It’s the only way I can get to my brother’s office without being detected, and since it’s the middle of the night, no one will be around. The tunnels are dark and narrow, the chill from the stone seeping through the walls and settling in my bones. I pick up my pace, unadulterated joy trickling through my veins as I imagine his face when he sees what I’ve left for him.
Something makes a noise from around the corner, and I slow my footsteps, cocking my head to listen for it again.
Who would be in the tunnels at this time of night?
Few people even know of them.
A deep sigh reverberates off the walls, and as soon as I hear it, I relax, grabbing the rolled joint from behind my ear and leaning against the cold stone, bringing the candle to my lips to light it.
I blow a cloud of smoke into the air, one foot crossing over the other as I wait, sparks biting at the lining of my gut. Suddenly the footsteps stop, and besides the choppy sound of breathing, silence presses in around me.
“Very brave for a little doe to sneak into the tunnels at night.”
She doesn’t reply, and the sound of her exhales disappear, like she’s trying to keep herself a secret.
As if she can hide from me.
“If you don’t come out, I’ll assume you wish for me to chase you. And between the two of us, you’re at a severe disadvantage.” I wait a few more moments before dropping the hash to the ground and stomping it out with the corner of my boot. “Very well.”
“Wait!”
My stomach jumps as she appears from around the corner, a small oil lamp in front of her face, making her look almost ethereal in the dark.
I take my time soaking her in, my gaze traveling from the tips of her boots, over her black trousers and dark cloak, up to her hair that’s pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.
A slow grin creeps along my face. “You look like you’re up to absolutely no good.”
She cocks a brow. “One could say the same about you.”
“Who ever said I was good?”
She fidgets, biting her lower lip. The movement is a straight shot to my groin, aching to feel her flesh between my teeth instead, wondering what it would taste like to have her blood on my tongue.
She sighs, running a hand over her face. “You won’t… you won’t tell anyone I was here, will you?”
“That depends.” I move closer. “What’s in it for me?”
Her mouth pops open. “I… what do you want?”
I take another step, and then another, until the tips of my boots touch hers. I’m so close I see the muscles in her neck work as she swallows, and my fingers tense against the urge to reach out and feel her pulse, just to see how quickly I can make it beat.
“Tell me a secret, ma petite menteuse,” I whisper.
The flame of my candle flashes in her eyes, and she cranes her neck to meet my stare. “I don’t have any secrets.”
I chuckle. “We all have secrets.”
“So what’s one of yours?” Her head tilts.
“Mine are a burden I wouldn’t wish on anyone, even you.”
She scoffs. “So tell me what you’re calling me then.”
I lift a brow.
“The French,” she presses. “What is it?”
Tsking, I shake my head. “Always so many questions.”
“And never any answers,” she bites back. “At least tell me what you’re doing here at three in the morning.”
Now, I do lift my hand, unable to stifle the urge, resting my fingers around the side of her throat until I feel the steady rhythm of her heart. She sucks in a breath, and it races under my touch.
“Maybe I’m following you.”
“Are you?”
“Would you like me to?”
She groans. “Do you answer everything with another question? It’s infuriating.”
Something warm expands in my chest, and it hits me that here in the tunnels, we’re completely alone.
I could take her, and fuck her, and break her, and no one would be the wiser.
The temptation is so strong, my fingers twitch, my cock jerking wildly as I imagine her naked and flush against the cold stone of the wall, her body shivering as I thrust inside her until she screams. I press my body to hers, wanting her to feel what she’s done.
Her eyes widen at my movement, her fingers gripping the small lamp tighter.
“Do you react this way to him?” I ask, my stomach churning at the thought.
“What?”
“When my brother touches you.” I skim my hand from her neck up to her jaw, coasting across the sharp angles until I’m tracing the lines of her face. “Does your breathing grow shallow, and your skin blush pink?”
“That’s none of your business,” she breathes.
I bring my fingertips down the front of her throat in a soft caress, grazing against the pebbled goose bumps of her skin. “Does your sweet cunt drip from just the thought of him, the way I know it does for me?”
“I don’t—” She jerks and gasps, her lamp clattering onto the ground and her hand grabbing at my shirt. “Oh.”
Glancing down, I realize my candle has dripped, falling onto the skin above her collarbone. My thumb moves to press against the cooling wax, desire shooting through me until my legs threaten to buckle when I notice it tingeing her flesh red.
I want to pour it on the rest of her and tear it off piece by piece.
Her mouth parts, tongue sweeping out across her bottom lip, and damn if I don’t wish to lean down and steal her breath for my own.
There are a few seconds of silence; tension wringing the air tight as we gaze into each other’s eyes, not knowing—or maybe unwilling—to admit there’s something more than animosity between us.
I bring the candle higher, the flame dancing as I tilt it, my cock leaking when a drop of wax falls to the creamy expanse of her throat and pools in the juncture of her neck, gliding down her exposed skin, creating a path I wish my fingers could follow.
Her eyes flutter and she tilts her head, giving me more access.
My hand moves to the front of her torso, pushing her as I walk us back into the stone wall.
“Tristan,” she murmurs.
My stomach flips, an inferno of lust raging through my middle and scorching up my throat.
“Say it again.”
“Say what?” she asks.
“My name, little doe,” I rasp. “Say my name.”
She blows out a heavy breath and I suck it in, desperate to taste her on my tongue.
“Tristan.” Her fingers tangle in the strands of my hair.
I lean my forehead against hers, lust ripping through me until I can’t see straight from how badly I want to strip her bare and fuck her raw. “I should kill you for making me feel this way.”
“So kill me, then,” she whispers, rising on her tiptoes and tugging on my roots, her nose grazing against mine.
“Death would be a gift.” My hips press into hers. “I’d rather see you suffer.”
Bending down, I breathe in her scent, biting back the groan that begs to escape. My lips graze over the top of the hardened wax on her neck, my body coiling tight with the need to latch on to her skin and mark her for myself, so that even if she isn’t mine, she’s ruined for anyone else.
But I won’t allow it.
I hate her for making me feel like this; for making me covet yet another thing that my brother gets. She bewitches me, and I would rather rid her from the face of the earth than exist in a world where she tempts me but leaves me with empty arms.
Wrenching myself away, I back up to the opposite side of the narrow tunnel, the resentment that’s had twenty-six years to marinate against my brother overflowing until it pours through my veins.
“So you’re a witch on top of being my brother’s whore?” I spit.
Her features drop, her gaze narrowing into slits. “I—”
But before she can finish, I spin around and walk away, refusing to acknowledge the way my chest twists when she doesn’t choose to follow.
