Scarred (Never After Series)
Scarred: Chapter 33

Jealousy is quite the emotion.

I would be a liar if I said I’ve never had it sear against my insides and singe wicked thoughts into my brain. The first time was when my father missed our evening talk, choosing instead to meet with Michael and go over a Privy Council meeting that was happening the next day. For hours, I sat at the edge of the cliff, trying to convince myself that he would show, while knowing deep down he wouldn’t.

But I worked through the envy years ago, knowing I was destined for greatness; that I would rise and take everything in the end. As for my father… well, things don’t hurt as bad when you learn to numb yourself to the pain.

The scar on my face twinges, and my fingertips graze across the rough edges, trying to come to terms with the fact that once again, the bitter tang of jealousy is carving itself into my psyche, creating emotions I haven’t felt since I was young.

Seeing Sara get manhandled by Claudius sent a rage unfurling within me, disgusted he thought he was worthy of speaking her name, let alone touching her skin.

But seeing her with my brother? The jealousy is a sickness, mutating every cell and infecting every organ, until it coats my insides and settles into the marrow of my bones. It makes me feel, once again, that I’m nothing but a lost little boy, stuck in the shadows and watching him hold everything I wish to have.

But Michael would rather kill her first than allow the embarrassment to his name of letting her go. So, until I give the hyenas their revolution and assume the throne, all I can hope for is stolen moments in the shadowy nights.

The grounds are darker than normal, thick clouds looming over the city and hiding the sky from view. I have no clue if the ball rages on, but now I don’t care. Edward’s already told me we’ve accomplished what we set to do, and out here, in my mother’s garden, no one is around.

Leaves crunch on the ground behind me, and I tilt my head back, blowing rings of smoke in the air.

“Technically, there are no stars out tonight for me to kiss.”

I smile at Sara’s voice. “Maybe they were waiting for you to arrive.”

She scoffs, walking around the bench with her hands on her hips. Gone is the woman in the lace ball gown, and in her place is a simple girl in a black dress with a skirt that stops above the ankle.

Earlier, she was beautiful, but it’s in these moments where she takes my breath away.

Smirking, she walks up to me, her floral scent wafting into my nostrils as she bends down and takes the joint from my mouth, bringing it to her lips and inhaling, her gaze holding mine.

My fingers tense with the need to pull her into my lap.

“So…” She straightens, glancing around. “This is different.”

I quirk a brow. “Is it?”

She sighs, pursing her lips as she stares down at me. “I’ve decided you’re incapable of having an actual conversation. All you do is ask question after question.”

My legs stretch out until they surround her, caging her in. “Do you think so?” I ask, my hands reaching for her hips.

Her eyes widen when I grab her, pulling her forward until her shins kiss the bench, my boots skimming the top of her ankles.

“You’ve forgotten your place,” she gasps.

“No.” Lifting my hand, I pluck the hash back from her mouth, allowing the tips of my fingers to graze against the pout of her lips. “I’ve simply figured out yours.”

Her breathing stutters.

“You asked me once to tell you a secret,” I continue. “Do you still wish for one?”

She moves, sitting down next to me, her head tilting as she watches me with a curious gaze. “This feels like a trick.”

Chuckling, I lean back against the bench.

A crack sounds from the forest and her eyes fly to the sound before she whips her head around from side to side. “I should go,” she says.

I wave my arm toward the door. “So go.”

She doesn’t move, although her eyes scan the perimeter.

“Ma petite menteuse, we both know the risk excites you.” I slide closer to her on the bench. “Doesn’t it?”

She blows out a breath. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That,” she snaps. “You’re infuriating. I’m not sure why I even came here. I’d rather drink a gallon of bleach than listen to you answer everything with a question for the rest of the night.”

My lips tip up in the corners. “So ask me one, instead then, little doe.”

“Stop calling me pet names,” she gripes. “It’s not appropriate.”

I smirk, puffing on the end of my joint.

“Fine.” She leans her upper body in close, and my stomach flips, my eyes dropping to the swell of her breasts and wondering what her nipples look like. How they feel. If they’re dying to be sucked the way I’m desperate to taste them.

Her hand moves from her lap, rising until she’s dusting her fingertips along the edge of my face.

My nerves sizzle beneath her touch.

“How did you get your scar?”

The question snaps me out of the haze as quick as lightning, and I straighten, my mind getting lost in the memory.

“What’s that?” Michael’s voice creeps along the back of my neck like a spider.

I stiffen in my spot next to the fireplace, my fingers tightening around my charcoal as I work on the finishing touches to my latest piece. It’s of my father and I, his arm around my shoulders as we stand at the cliff’s edge. Shifting, I hunch my shoulders, turning my body as I smudge the edges on one of the trees, trying to ignore my brother’s presence.

The paper slices against my skin as the book is ripped from my hands. Anger pummels through my chest and I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring. “Give it back,” I whisper.

He looks down at the drawing, his brows morphing into sharp angles as he narrows his gaze, and when he raises his eyes, there’s a hatred swimming through them so potent it wraps around my neck like a noose.

“How cute,” he mocks, his knuckles turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the drawing.

My stomach churns. “Give it back, Michael.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Is this what it was like? Back when he used to pay you attention?”

“Michael,” I start, standing up, my stomach tensing into knots. “I’m not kidding. Give. It. Back.”

“What are you gonna do, little lion?” He singsongs the nickname, elongating the vowels. “Father isn’t here to save you. He’s busy preparing for a luncheon; one that I will attend at his side.”

My fists clench, his words slicing through me like a knife, nicking my bruised, abandoned heart.

“Why are you even still here?” he continues, stepping closer, a haughty look coasting across his face.

I stumble as I move away, the heat of the flames licking across my back as I press against the fireplace mantle.

“You’re worthless. A waste of space, Tristan. The sooner you realize that and disappear, the better.” He taps his chin. “Maybe you should run away. Go rut with hyenas in the shadowed lands or die from starvation in the plains of Campestria.” He shrugs. “See how much our father really loves you when you’re wishing for him to hunt you down and bring you back home.”

My chest aches, every insult hitting their mark. Because the truth is, my father hasn’t spent time with me in months. Not since Michael turned fifteen and started showing an interest in his title.

“The only reason father even talks to you is because you were born first,” I hiss. “At least when he gave me attention, it was because he enjoyed my company.”

Michael’s face turns to stone, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Tell yourself whatever you need, brother. But I’ve heard him say he wishes you’d never been born.”

My heart falters. “You lie.”

“We all wish for it.” He moves closer again. “You’re a stain on our name, Tristan. That’s why no one cares when you disappear for days. We all hope you’ll stay gone, but for some reason you don’t get the hint, and you keep. Coming. Back.”

I swallow around the thick knot in my throat, breaking eye contact as I try to shove down the gaping wound that’s being torn through the center of my chest. “Give me back my drawings, Michael,” I whisper, my voice breaking on his name.

“You know what?” He clicks his tongue. “Why don’t you go… catch it.”

He tosses the sketchbook into the fire.

“No!” I surge forward, reaching out, but the flames shoot higher, crackling as they eat the paper like fuel.

Something snaps inside of me, and I spin, all of my pent-up rage propelling my limbs as I charge at him. I’m three years younger and far less capable when it comes to physical strength, but I still knock him off his feet, both of us tumbling to the ground.

“I’m going to kill you,” I seethe, my hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing. Black fury races through every piece of me. Envy from him getting my father’s time mixes with the sorrow of him destroying the only other thing that matters. My sketches.

They’re all I had to keep me company. My only friends.

He overpowers me, throwing me across the room, my back smacking against the wood floor. Groaning, I roll over, squeezing my eyes shut at the sting in my spine. And then, a sharp pain slices up the side of my face, agony spearing through me, making a scream scratch my throat raw as it pours from my mouth.

Liquid gushes into my eye as I try to blink, my vision going red and dark, before gushing down my cheek and slipping through my lips, a metallic flavor settling on my tongue and making me retch.

My head grows dizzy; woozy from the pain, and I throw my hand over my face, my fingers becoming slippery as they’re coated in blood.

The blurry form of Michael hovers over me, a fire poker gripped in his hand. “Now you don’t even look like him,” he sneers, spitting on my broken body. “See how much he loves you when you’re nothing but a disfigured freak.”

He walks away and I curl into a ball, consciousness weaving in and out while I wish for someone to come and replace me. To hold me. Heal me. Love me.

The way they would if it were him.

But no one ever comes.

“Tristan.”

Sara’s voice snaps me back to the present, and I force a smile, my chest aching from the memory.

She shakes her head, removing her hands from my face. “You don’t have to tell me… I shouldn’t have asked.”

Snapping my arms out, I grip her palms in mine, bringing them back until they cup my jaw. “My brother was never a fan of the way I resembled our father. I suppose this was his way of settling the score.”

Her eyes flicker down the length of the jagged mark. “Michael did this?”

“Michael has done many things, little doe. This is just one of them.”

Something dark coasts across her face, her jaw tensing as her fingers grip tighter on my face. “I know.”

I bring the joint to my lips one last time, the paper having burned to where it touches just above my fingers, and I inhale before tossing the end on the ground and stomping it out with my boot.

My hand slides behind her, grasping the nape of her neck and dragging her into me until mere centimeters separate us, energy weaving between our bodies and spinning electricity through my chest, making my heart beat a staccato rhythm and nerves dance beneath my skin. I tilt my head, my thumb pressing into the bottom of her chin, forcing her perfect, pouty lips to part and ghost across the edges of mine.

The tension of being so close yet so far almost kills me, and I swear to God I would give it all up, right now, if she would promise to be mine.

I exhale, the smoke billowing from my mouth into hers.

My cock is painfully hard.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and my fingers tighten on the back of her neck, holding her in place, my other hand moving to her throat, two fingers stroking down the front as she swallows, the smoke that was inside my body escaping from her lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” I tell her.

“Why?” she whispers.

“Because, ma petite menteuse, the thought of not kissing you makes me want to die.”

Our lips collide, and with just one touch—one single moment—I know I’ll never let her go.