Chapter 31: Scarred: Chapter 29

“Do you think it’s a rebel?” Edward says, adjusting the cuff on the edge of his uniform. “Someone who’s grown restless and took matters into their own hands?”

A shot of rage fires through my chest at the thought of a rebel disobeying me, and I glance at Edward, distrust weaving through my mind.

“Why would somebody wish themselves a torturous death by my hands?” I ask. “They have to know that’s what would await them.”

He nods, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “Do you think it’s Alexander? That pathetic little bird?”

“I think everyone is suspect at this point.” I rise from my seat, making my way to the corner of Edward’s room and staring into the mirror perched on top of his chest of drawers.

“Even Lady Beatreaux?”

Defensiveness slams down like a concrete wall, cracking my foundation with its force. I spin to face him, tilting my head. “If you have something to ask me, Edward, do it. I cannot stand guessing games.”

He swallows, lifting a shoulder. “I mean nothing by it… but she is an attractive woman.”

I clench my jaw, tamping down the urge to cut out his tongue for speaking of her as if he has any right. As if he has any clue of how devastating she truly is.

“She’s my brother’s.”

He glances at me from his peripheral as he comes to stand next to me in the mirror. “Yet you warned the rebels not to touch her.”

I sigh, tiring of his line of questioning. “I will be the one to kill her, Edward. Preferably while Michael watches.”

My mind flashes back to the dinner, when she brushed against my cock, then placed the same fingers in Michael’s hand, smiling up at him like he was her world.

A sudden thought strikes me like a sharp slap to the face.

What if it was her responsible for Takan’s death?

She’s always sneaking around in places she doesn’t belong, has knives attached to her thigh, and plays the part of a doting royal when I know for a fact she’s a silver-tongued snake.

She was also sitting next to Lord Takan at the banquet.

A huff of air escapes me as the puzzle pieces slot together, a cool trickle of relaxation sliding down my insides at the realization.

Of course, it would be her.

My little liar.

I expect to feel anger, but instead I grow aroused, delighted that if it is her, she’s far more nefarious than I thought. It makes me want to push her, see how far she’ll go until she breaks.

My cock rises to half-mast from her devious deeds, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, biting back a groan, recognizing that this makes her even more attractive to me than she already was.

I straighten my black vest, then walk to where my black tailcoat is thrown across the chair, picking it up and easing my arms through the sleeves.

“This changes nothing with our plans,” I say to Edward, a sly grin creeping along my face. “Might as well make tonight a two-for-one special.”

The last ball held in the Saxum castle was when Michael assumed the throne, throwing the most lavish event since the turn of the century ten years prior.

I didn’t attend.

Must have slipped my mind.

Still, I knew that by presenting Lady Beatreaux to the court, she would be the center of attention.

However, I didn’t expect for it to affect me the way it is.

I watch her from the shadows of the ballroom, my blood bubbling like a vat of acid as I watch her paraded around on the arm of a dozen different men, all clamoring for a chance to dance with their future queen.

My brother sits next to my mother in a blocked-off area meant for the royal family, underneath a shimmering black and gold awning made of the finest drapery.

“She’s quite the beauty, isn’t she?” a slurred voice murmurs behind me.

I glance over, annoyance lancing through my bones that someone thinks they can speak of her. That irritation only grows when I see a short and stocky man with far too many jewels and red hair as bright as the sun, swaying in place, his wine sloshing over his glass.

Lord Claudius, the Baron of Sulta, which is a town across the plains of Campestria near the southern border. He used to spend summers with our family at the country estate, and has always been quite envious of my brother, almost to the point of obsession.

“Hello, Claudius,” I sigh. “Good to see you’re still quite the little creeper.”

He grins, tipping up his glass and draining the wine. “And you, Your Highness, still lurking in the shadows. Still hiding from your brother like you did when we were kids?”

Chuckling, I spin around to face him, dwarfing him with my shadow. “Were you even invited tonight, little man? Or did you sneak your way in to be close to Michael?”

I reach out, gripping his shoulder. “Maybe if you put on a dress, you can trick him into thinking you’re a whore, and he’ll let you slurp on his cock the way you’ve dreamed of for years.”

His face drops into a furious scowl and he rips himself from under my hand, storming away without another word. My eyes follow him as he walks to the center of the ballroom, tapping the shoulder of the young man dancing with Lady Beatreaux, and replacing him, his grubby fingers gripping her waist and pulling her into him.

Anger eats through my skin from the inside out when he touches her, her smile becoming forced, eyes flashing with unease.

Normally, I’d enjoy her discomfort. But only when it’s at my hands.

He dances them around in a simple foxtrot, his palm moving farther down her waist until he’s skimming just above the curve of her ass.

I’m two seconds from shoving my way through the ballroom and flaying every single one of his fingers, but before I can, she extricates herself from his grip.

He bows as she moves away, heading across the shiny tiled floor and out into the hallway.

Anticipation tightens my muscles as his beady eyes stalk her, and I see the moment he makes the decision. He stumbles his way across the floor, following her out of the ballroom doors.

I glance at my brother, expecting him to be seething with rage, but instead, he’s busy looking off to the side of the room, making eyes with one of the servant girls standing against the far wall.

Disgusting.

Cracking my neck, I weigh my options. I could follow them or I could ignore it.

Sara Beatreaux is not my problem.

Normally, I wouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

But I do.