Scarred (Never After Series)
Scarred: Chapter 27

It takes skill and precision to weave magic with your words, and it’s something I discovered at a young age I had a knack for. Even as a child, I could trick people into thinking that my ideas were theirs, so I spent years fine-tuning the craft, until I was able to tell people to go to hell in a way that they enjoyed the trip.

Which is why seeing Lady Beatreaux hold her own against my mother, by using those same tactics, was intoxicating.

She’s strong-willed. She’s fire.

She’s the devil, parading as a snake, convincing people to eat the apple.

Ma petite menteuse… My little liar.

It’s what’s needed in a queen. You can’t have a fresh-faced, innocent girl ruling kingdoms.

But the thought of my brother having her at his side, when it turns out she’s so valuable, makes bile tease the back of my throat. Violence thrums in my veins, urging me to kill him now and steal her for my own.

Within a fortnight’s time, my brother and all who aid him will fall and I will step into place as the rightful heir to the throne. But having a queen was never in my plans.

“Ready?” I ask Edward, glancing at him as we walk to the banquet hall. The murmurs grow louder with every step, bleeding through the walls, and I smile, an excited energy humming beneath my skin.

“Everything will work out in the end.” He smiles.

“Of course it will,” I drawl. “Failure does not run in my blood.”

He smirks. “Technically, your brother has that blood too.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.” I grimace. “I suppose I’ll have to drain him of every drop.”

Edward chuckles as we approach the dark wood doors, the deep-gray metal hinges creaking as he pushes them open and we step inside.

People’s attention coasts across my skin, infusing me with strength as I feed off their energy.

The banquet hall is drenched in black and gold, our family flag flying high above our heads, long tables covered in white linens running next to the walls. The largest of them is perpendicular to the rest on a raised dais, overlooking the room, and my brother sits dead center, flanked by his bride-to-be and our mother; his advisers filling the other seats.

My stomach pulls tight as I glance over the faces of all the people who have stood in my way. People who have never shown me the respect they give Michael, when he’s done nothing to earn it.

Heads turn as I make my way down the stone aisles, my boots clacking on the floor and echoing off the sky-high ceilings.

“The scarred prince,” someone murmurs.

Once upon a time that phrase cut deep, but now, I use it as fuel knowing that soon anyone who dares speak against me will have to beg for repentance at my feet.

My brother hasn’t noticed me yet, deep in conversation with my mother and Xander, but my little doe is a different story. A dangerous heat crawls up my insides, knowing that while it’s her and Michael everyone is celebrating, it’s me who has her eyes.

Edward makes his way to one of the side tables, taking his spot next to other higher-ranking military and immersing himself in conversation. It’s important to have plenty of eyewitnesses to attest that we were here.

I stop walking when I reach the platform, rocking back on my heels, my gaze never leaving Lady Beatreaux’s. Her head tilts, brows furrowing, and I smirk, my tongue swiping across my bottom lip.

She fidgets in her seat.

“Tristan,” Michael says, the deep bass of his voice bouncing off the walls. “What a lovely surprise.”

Slowly, I move my eyes from his betrothed’s to him. “Did you think I wouldn’t show, brother?”

“One can never be sure with you,” he chuckles, waving his arm at a servant. “Bring him a seat.”

“Lady Beatreaux.” I let her name slide off my tongue, my attention falling back on her. “You look devastating. My brother is a lucky man.”

A few gasps sound from behind me, no doubt surprised that I would be so bold. Excitement flutters in my stomach, wondering how she’ll react—how my brother will react.

She smiles, tipping her head, but I see the flash of irritation swirling through the deep brown of her irises. “Thank you, Your Highness. That’s very kind.”

“I know your manners are rusty,” Michael cuts in, his eyes blazing. “But be careful how you speak of my soon-to-be wife.”

His hand reaches out and grabs hers, and she turns toward him, her features softening as she tangles their fingers together on top of the table.

Green gusts whip through my middle, and my jaw clenches so tight it cracks. I tear my eyes away, worried that if I don’t, I’ll storm the dais and rip his fingers clean off his body, making sure he can never touch her again.

I make my way up onto the raised platform and walk behind the backs of every chair, until I come to stand behind my cousin, Lord Takan, who sits next to my little doe. The treacherous witch.

Bending down, I press a hand on his shoulder, the diamonds of my rings glinting as I squeeze. “Cousin, it’s been a long time.”

His body stiffens, wine goblet freezing halfway to his mouth. “Tristan, what a delightful surprise.”

I lift a brow. “Is it? When was the last time I saw you?” I ask. “At my father’s funeral?”

He clears his throat, placing his cup on the table, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the top. “I believe so.”

“Wow.” I whistle. “Two years. Incredible.” A servant interrupts, a large chair being hoisted between their arms, and amusement dances through my middle when Takan is forced to move out of the way to make room for me.

Once my chair is in place, I sit down, my legs stretching underneath the long white linen tablecloth that covers my lap. I turn my body toward my cousin, but I reach out with my right arm, placing my hand on Lady Beatreaux’s thigh. Her entire body stiffens, her fork clattering when it falls on the plate.

“Are you alright?” Michael asks her.

My palm grips her tighter.

“What?” She laughs. “Oh, I’m just fine. Thought I saw something, is all.”

“Tell me, cousin.” I grin at Takan. “What have you been up to since I saw you last?”

My fingertips create small figure eights against the fabric of her dress, crawling up her leg, pausing when I feel something bulky.

Her muscles tense, and I realize she has what feels like a dagger strapped to her. Smirking, I glance at her from my peripheral.

Such a devious little minx.

The vision I create in my head makes me harden, imagining her bound and naked, nothing touching her skin except the silver of her blade and the heat of my lips. My palm skims upward until I press into the crease of her inner thigh, my knuckles hitting the bottom of her corset, as I force the fabric of her dress to meld to her skin.

I can feel the heat of her cunt, and I bite back a groan, my hand kneading her flesh.

My stomach flips when her fingers slam down on top of mine.

Takan wipes his mouth with a napkin, but his movements are jerky, beads of sweat forming on his brow, his jaw grinding back and forth. “Your brother has made me the viceroy of Campestria.”

“A viceroy.” I raise my brows. “How… quaint.”

I tighten my grip, the tops of my rings pressing against my little doe’s palm. Her hand moves off mine, and I dip my fingers in farther, leaning back in my chair and grabbing the wineglass from the table to bring to my lips.

She skims across my thigh, fingertips brushing against the edge of my erection. A cough whips through me, the wine burning as it races down my throat. My cock throbs, desperate for her touch. I’m half tempted to pick her up and throw her on top of this table, pushing up her dress and planting my tongue in her pussy, just to hear what her moans sound like in the beautiful acoustics of the hall.

I surge forward, my lips parting as she teases the side of my length with the back of her palm, the fabric jostling and creating a friction that has me close to coming without her even fully touching me.

Liquid oozes from my tip and my fingers grip the meat of her thigh so tight, I’m sure I’ll leave a bruise.

“Sara, sweetheart.” Michael’s voice cuts through the fog, and her hand disappears as quickly as it came. “I’d like to have some time with you, alone, before the ball begins.”

She blushes as she gazes at him. I clench the edge of the table, my knuckles lancing white from the harsh grip.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she croons.

She places her palm in his, and they rise, but before they can move, a large crash clatters through the hall.

I turn to my left, shock spiraling through me when I see my cousin collapsed on top of the table, grasping at his neck. His body spasms as if he has no control over his muscles. Red capillaries burst in his eyes, and I’m frozen in place, transfixed at the sight of him.

A scream sounds from somewhere beneath the dais, and someone rushes forward, pushing me out of the way as they aid him. I allow them to move me, a sense of dread winding through my middle, recognizing that my cousin is poisoned, and not by me.