“What’s she like?”
My gaze cuts to Edward, whom most people would think of as my closest friend, my only friend. The truth is that I have no friends, because friendships are fickle and often a waste of time. However, he is my closest confidant and the only one I trust enough to be at my side. That he’s a general in the king’s military is a bonus because it allows him access to whatever I may need without drawing attention to the fact that I’m the one who needs it.
His lean frame lounges in the chair across the room, his blond hair falling over his brows. I glance down at the heavy wooden table, my touch smoothing along the rice paper in my hands, making sure the contents are wrapped nice and tight before I apply the gum edges.
“She was…” I pause, rubbing my fingers together to remove the sticky residue of the ganja, small bits of green buds still lingering on my skin. “Mediocre.”
I sit back, grasping a match and striking it against the rough edge of the tan Lucifer box, my gaze soaking in the bright orange glow of the flame. It transfixes my mind as I watch it burn down the wood stick, the heat becoming intense as it licks against my skin. I move the fire to the end of the cigarette, inhaling before allowing the light to extinguish.
“Michael Faasa’s bride is ‘mediocre’?” Edward laughs.
I hum, my mind picturing the girl who came through the castle gates earlier today, wide eyed and wild-haired, looking so eager to please. She irritated me with her sweet smile and the way she batted her lashes Michael’s way.
But it wasn’t my brother who stained her cheeks pink.
“The word in court is she’s quite the beauty,” Edward continues.
“My standards are much higher than that of the court,” I reply.
Lifting my legs, I prop my feet up, my black boots chunking down on the table as I cross my ankles. “She’s pleasing to stare at, but as useless as the rest of them.”
“What more do you need than beauty?” Edward shrugs. “Studious conversation?”
My chair tilts on its back legs until I’m staring at the textured ceiling, feeling cold even though there’s a fire roaring in the room’s corner. Or maybe that’s just my insides—where my heart used to be—now empty and lacking, a hollow ache that craves chaos just to see it burn.
Moving the joint to my lips, I inhale, the smoke pouring down my throat and into my lungs, providing a calm my nerves never feel without it. “Edward, it’s extremely unsettling to me you underestimate the wiles of a woman. They’re snakes in sheep’s clothing. Remember that, always.”
He purses his lips, his brows lifting and spine straightening, almost as if I’ve offended him. “You’ve always been dramatic.”
I blow a plume in the air. “I’ve always been right.”
Irritation sours my stomach at his loose tongue but reprimanding him will take energy that I don’t have, so I’ll file it away and remind him of it later when the mood strikes. Right now, I’d rather make him leave.
I’ve never been one to crave the company of others. Perhaps that’s because when I was a child, everyone could tell that I was just a little different, no matter how badly I tried to fit in.
And even if they couldn’t tell, my brother made sure they knew.
I snap my chair forward, the impact of the legs hitting the floor vibrating through my body. “Leave me.”
Suddenly I’m craving retribution; needing to rid myself of the memories from when I was powerless and at the mercy of Michael and his pack.
There’s an unofficial gathering to welcome Lady Beatreaux to court.
Unofficial because I’m not required to be in attendance.
Although, even if I were, I’m not known for adhering to the rules of nobility, and I doubt they’d expect me to show up. Which is exactly why I’ve come.
The “who’s who” of the kingdom are all here. High-ranking officials, Dukes and Viscounts from nearby areas, and all the ladies and gentlemen of the court. Laughter and small chatter echo off the high ceilings and stone columns of the great hall, crystal glasses clutched in bejeweled fingers and rosy cheeks that belay the truth of their intoxication levels.
My brother sits at the front on a raised dais, two empty chairs on either side of him, sipping wine and gazing at his people.
He’s always been this way, even when we were children; always needing to be above it all, flashy and glamorized, admired by everyone regardless of who he has to push down to do it.
The disgust rolls through my stomach, clawing up my throat as he flirts with a servant girl who fills his flute with more to drink.
I stick to the shadows, making sure to not draw attention to myself, wanting to see little doe-eyed Lady Beatreaux when she makes her way into the lion’s den. And I don’t need to wait long, because the double oak doors creak open and in she walks, her head held high and dark-black hair pinned back, perfect ringlets framing her face.
Her dress shimmers as she moves, the green complementing the pale cream of her skin, and it would be a lie for me to pretend she doesn’t steal the show. She draws every single person, like moths to a flame, as she makes her way through the crowd and toward my brother.
Behind her is that same wisp of a girl with sandy-blonde hair she showed up with. Suddenly, the girl stumbles, her foot sticking in the hem of my new sister-in-law’s dress, making them both falter in their steps.
Lady Beatreaux’s face twists as she cuts her a quick glare.
It’s quick—the slip in her mask—before she smooths the irritation and replaces it once again with a soft, appealing look, but awareness tingles down my spine, and my interest piques.
That interest grows when she stops in front of my brother and curtsies low before taking the spot next to him, his eyes sparkling and lips curving upward as he takes her in.
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.
But she sits in silence instead, her head tilted, a curious sheen coasting across her eyes. She’s perfectly poised and seems unaffected.
Interesting.
“I am your king,” Michael snaps.
The woman bends at the waist, a high-pitched cackle pouring from her mouth and bleeding into the tense and silent air. Edward pulls her upright, tightening his grip on her skull.
She spits on the ground. “You are no king of mine.”
Xander appears out of the crowd, storming his way to stand in front of the maniacal woman. “Who did this to Lord Reginald? Was it you?”
She grins, her head tilting so far to the side, her neck looks as though it may snap in half. “I’d do anything to please His Majesty.”
Xander’s palm is quick as it whips through the air, the crack reverberating off the walls as the woman’s face is thrown to the side.
“That’s enough. Let her speak.” Michael’s hand flies up, his gaze falling on her. “You’ve already committed treason. Surely you know death awaits you. So finish your message, filth, and then rot in the dungeons.”
“He’s coming for you,” she singsongs, her body seeming to vibrate in place.
“Who?” Michael demands.
She stills. Her head lowers the tiniest amount, and her mouth breaks into a smile so wide, you can see every single rotten tooth.
“The rebel king.”
