Smoke curls in the air, a rolled joint perched between my two fingers as I sit, staring at my brother’s oversized desk.
Xander and Michael are talking of Sir Reginald’s funeral; or more so, whether there should even be one. And as much as these two imbeciles make my stomach turn with their ramblings, being here and hearing what they’re planning is better than staying in the dark.
I wonder how they would react if they knew it was my hand that severed Reginald’s flesh from bone. That it was me who he begged; pleading for salvation as if I were a god capable of granting mercy. I wish I could tell them that dear old Reginald wasn’t so brave when there wasn’t a table of men surrounding him, and that he pissed himself on the dirty cement floor while I lit match after match and burned pretty scars into his skin.
“Sire, we need to re-shift the focus,” Xander implores.
Michael groans, slamming his fist down on top of his desk. “I don’t want to shift the focus, Xander. I want to find the filthy whore who dared to come into my castle, drop a man’s head on the ground, spit at my feet, and then somehow disappear from the dungeons.”
Amusement trickles through my insides as I watch the fury rise to Michael’s cheeks. My mind wanders to Lady Beatreaux, and I wonder how much fire it would take to see the heat beneath her flesh.
“If we continue to bring up the disturbance,” Xander continues. “The people will become uneasy. We need to shift the narrative. Find a distraction.”
A chuckle rolls out of me, my leg crossing over my opposite knee.
Michael spins to face me, running a hand through his hair. “Something funny, brother?”
I shrug, flicking the ash of my cigarette onto the expensive rug beneath my feet. A lazy grin pulls at the corners of my mouth, and I lean back in my chair, allowing the cushions to mold to my muscles. I wave my hand through the air. “Far be it from me to interrupt.”
“You’re already interrupting,” Michael snaps. “What are you even doing here? Suddenly caring about the state of the monarchy?”
His tone is sarcastic, and I smile, biting back the urge to prove him wrong. To show him that all I’ve ever cared about is the monarchy.
“Just providing moral support after what was no doubt a tumultuous past few evenings for you. Are you doing alright, brother? You look a little pale.” I sit forward, my brows hiking into my hairline. “That woman didn’t scare you, did she?”
Xander bristles in my peripheral. “Get to the point, Tristan, if you have one.”
I spin the ring on my finger, the lion’s diamond eyes glinting with every turn. “Like I said, I’m just here for support.”
“Tristan.”
“Xander,” I reply, elongating the vowels as they roll off my tongue.
“While I can appreciate your sudden need to be in the conversation, it’s a little late to play the part of dutiful prince.” His eyes trail down my form as if the mere sight of me is offensive.
Maybe it is.
My grin drops, something heavy twisting my stomach. “There is no part to play. I am His Royal Highness Tristan Faasa, second son to the late King Michael II, whether you want to admit that or not.”
Standing up, I move across the room until I’m in front of him, my body towering over his short and gangly frame. He glares up at me with his ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, and I stare down at him, bringing the joint to my mouth and inhaling, taking in each uncomfortable tic of his features and every pebble of sweat that beads on his brow. I exhale, blowing out the smoke so it coats his face, making him sputter.
“I know you’re a very important man, Alexander,” I whisper. “Standing here, having the ear of the new king and the one before him, thinking you’re beyond reproach.”
My hand grasps his shoulder, allowing the burning tip of the rolled paper to rest close to his neck. The urge to stick it on his skin and listen to it sizzle is strong, but I hold myself back. “But I want you to remember two things. One: that my blood runs truer than yours, even if it is hidden beneath ‘ghastly’ ink and a blackened soul.”
I pause, enjoying the way he fidgets under my stare.
“And the second?” he asks, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“The second is that I know what you did to my father. And I’ll never forget those who left him alone to die.” The burning edge of my cigarette grazes against his jugular, my stomach somersaulting in delight as he jerks in my grasp.
“Oops.” I smile. “Did that hurt?”
“You know much less about your father than you think,” Xander hisses through clenched teeth.
Huffing out a laugh, I glance at the ground before meeting his gaze again. “And you don’t know me.”
“What about Sara?” Michael cuts in. “Let’s announce our betrothal, officially. That should be enough to shift the narrative.”
I turn my attention to my brother. “Already on a first name basis? My, you move fast.”
Michael’s eyes narrow. “She’s my wife.”
“Not yet,” I reply, my stomach souring.
Grabbing Xander’s hand, I wrench it toward me, laying the still-lit joint in his palm and closing his fingers around it. His face scrunches in obvious disgust.
“You’ll get rid of this for me, won’t you, Xander?”
“Leaving so soon?” Michael asks, sticking out his bottom lip. “Pity.”
I lift a shoulder. “You two are dreadfully boring.”
“Talking about important things isn’t supposed to be entertaining. Although,” he rubs his chin, chuckling. “You’ve never been one to care about anything important.”
The hole in my chest twists, making my teeth grind. “Yes, well… if we all cared about importance, brother, who would care for you?”
His smile drops. “Go fetch Lady Beatreaux before you run off to whatever whorehouse you’re planning to waste your night in.”
I click my tongue and nod, spinning on my heel as I head for the door.
If I were to turn around and look back, I’m sure I would see their faces painted in surprise at how easily I agreed. I’m not known for how well I take orders. But surprisingly, I want to find her.
Arousal surges through my insides, pouring down my middle and pooling in my groin as I remember the way she looked last night; on her knees, chest heaving, and hair mussed as she stared up at me like she wanted to knife me where I stood. Most likely with the one she was hiding behind her back.
No one else has treated me the way she does—with anger brimming so potently that it tries to bleed through their gaze and strike me down. It makes me want to shove my cock down her throat and see if she’d try to bite it off, just so I could punish her for using teeth.
So, I’ll go find my little doe.
If only to get off on her hate before I toss her to her king.
