Chapter 23: Scarred: Chapter 21

Going to the tunnels was foolish, but clearly, since coming to the castle, I’ve yet to learn from my mistakes. I thought I would be safe. But I should have known I would meet the prince there. He seems to love lurking in dark and shady corners, and he loves dragging me there with him even more; either to threaten my life or speak filthy words in my ear.

I don’t know how to tame my reaction to either.

And I loathe him.

But there are moments. Ones where he doesn’t seem so terrible. Like when his talented hands draw courage on Simon’s arm, or when he keeps my secrets safe. And whether I want to admit it, there’s no one else I’d prefer to be caught by when I’m sneaking through the castle halls. There’s a level of trust there—one I’ve never found with anyone outside of my father—and I haven’t quite figured out how to correlate the two mismatched emotions.

His brother, however, is an easier one to navigate.

“Thank you for inviting me to lunch today,” I say across the small oval table to Michael.

I dressed for the occasion, assuming that meant we’d be making a public appearance, but I was brought to his office instead, where he had a light snack of sandwiches and tea for us to eat.

He smiles as he wipes a crumb off his mouth with his white cloth napkin. “My pleasure. So, tell me about you, Sara.”

“What would you like to know?” I tilt my head. I’m not stupid enough to believe that he’s curious to get to know me. No man ever is.

He shrugs, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Anything you think is of importance.”

I return his smile. “I’m a simple girl with simple needs.”

He laughs, a hearty booming sound that echoes off the walls, his handsome face thrown back toward the ceiling.

The sound itself is overwhelming in its candor, and I find amusement bubbling in my chest.

“I find that very hard to believe,” he says.

I lift a shoulder. “I’d much rather talk about you.”

“Don’t you read the papers, Sara?” His brow quirks. “What is there to know of me other than what the people have already said?”

His smile widens as he speaks, but there’s a sadness that whips across his features so fast you can barely see it. A pang hits the center of my chest, but I brush it off, reminding myself that I don’t care how he suffers. He deserves to suffer for the pain his family has caused.

“Well,” I whisper. “We don’t get the papers in Silva.”

He laughs. “No? I thought everyone got the papers.”

Disbelief coats my insides. Is he really so obtuse?

I blow out a heavy breath, gritting my teeth to temper the anger that’s simmering at the base of my gut. “There’s no place to print them. No business that can distribute.”

“In Silva?” His forehead scrunches. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, I think I would know,” I snap. “I’ve lived there my whole life.”

“I was there once as a boy, and it was a lovely town.”

My heart twists at his words, memories of when I was a young child and Silva was still thriving floating through my head. Of times when my father was alive, and people were happy and whole.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I intone. “How quickly things can shift. One minute you’re on top of the world, and the next…”

His amber eyes grow dark. “I suppose it is.” He takes a sip of his tea before grinning. “Well then, what do you wish to know about me?”

I wish to know that you’re dead.

Tapping my nails on the table, I lean in. “I want to know what will make you a great king.”

His smile drops, and anxiety plugs in the center of my chest until it feels as though my air has run stale.

“Are you insinuating I am not already great, Lady Beatreaux?” His voice is deeper, a sharp edge lining the tone.

I shake my head. “I’m simply asking what the people will remember you for. As your wife, it’s my duty to highlight those features, to accent them. I must know your plans if I’m to be a suitable complement at your side.”

His head cocks, his thick fingers rubbing against his jaw.

My heart thrums against my ribs and I lean in closer. “What makes you great, King Michael Faasa III?”

His eyes flare, but before he can continue, a knock sounds on the door and my cousin, Xander, walks in, a thin smile spreading across his face.

“You two look cozy.”

Michael breaks our stare and sits back in his chair, his gaze flashing to me one more time before he grins at my cousin. “She is to be my wife, Xander. Did you think we wouldn’t enjoy each other’s company?”

“One can never be too sure, sire. Marriages aren’t always about compatibility.”

Michael stands, walking over to his oversized oak desk and flipping open the container of his cigar case that sits on the edge. “Well, lucky for us, my bride is beautiful and pleasant at conversation. We’re more than—”

He stops in the middle of his sentence, his face draining of all its blood until it’s a ghastly white, his eyes growing as large as cylinders.

“Sire?” Xander says, his face pulling tight with tension.

“What is it?” I ask, standing up from my chair, alarm circling through my veins. “Are you alright?”

Michael’s jaw tenses, his hand wrapping around something in the box before he drops it and backs away, shaking his head.

“Your Majesty,” Xander tries again.

Michael’s face pinches as he turns to me, his eyes narrowed and panic swirling through their depths. “Did you do this?”

The sudden shift in his personality throws me off guard, my defenses rising.

“Do what?” I move toward the desk and peer in the case.

There are half a dozen cigars arranged perfectly, and right on top is a black handkerchief with gold lining, the initials MFII engraved in the corner.

Realizing they’re his father’s, I reach out to touch, but Michael flies forward, smacking my hand back. “Don’t touch it, stupid woman.”

I gasp, bringing my palm to my chest.

“Sire, please.” Xander moves up next to me, his brows drawn as he reaches out to touch my arm. “Are you alright?”

I nod, my mind racing a thousand miles a minute as I watch Michael pace back and forth behind the desk, his fingers pulling at the strands of his hair.

“Xander, look at this.” He throws his arm toward the open case. “What are we going to do about this? I’m not crazy, I told you I wasn’t crazy.”

My stomach tightens as I watch the scene unfold. Xander walks forward, peeking into the box, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His shoulders stiffen the slightest amount, and his head snaps up, staring at me just like Michael did. As if I’m the one who somehow put his father’s handkerchief in the case.

He sighs, looking over at Michael. “There’s an easy explanation for this, I’m sure.”

“Then explain it,” Michael snaps, his fist slamming on the desktop, making the foundation tremble.

Xander’s eyes flick between us, his voice coming out controlled and slow, as if he’s trying to tame the beast before it leaps from its cage and tears us to shreds. “Your Majesty, perhaps it’s time we sent Lady Beatreaux back to her quarters before continuing this conversation?”

My jaw stiffens. I don’t want to leave. I want to know what’s happening. “I think if there’s an issue that’s worrying to His Majesty, it’s imperative I stay, if only to provide support.”

Michael takes large, quick steps over, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. His energy is manic; it winds through the air and wraps around me, vibrating until it sinks into my bones. And while his touch is warm, there’s no comfort there.

No spark.

There is, however, a slight tremble.

“You are a treasure,” he says, his eyes flicking from me to the wall and then back. “And I’ve overreacted. That handkerchief is… important to me. I thought I had lost it forever.”

His thumb tips up my chin. “Maybe you’re my good luck charm.”

I force a smile. “I hope to be more than that.”

He grabs my hand then, pulling it to his chest. I let him and notice how quickly his heart is racing beneath his clothes. If I were a naive girl, I’d think it had to do with me.

But I know the truth.

Something has spooked him.

And it’s something to do with his dead father.