Chapter 43: Scarred: Chapter 41

It’s a very interesting turn of events to have my brother listening to my words as though they’re gospel, and it’s just more proof that he’s truly lost his mind.

If I wasn’t so fixated on the memory of how my little doe felt wrapped around my cock, maybe I’d find some humor in the irony of the boy who spent his life telling me I wasn’t worth the dirt on his shoe, asking me what he should do.

Granted, all of this is from my careful manipulation of his hallucinations. I saw a weakness, and I pounced. The rebels are large and growing every day. I have many factions hidden in plain sight. We’re everywhere, even in the spots you wouldn’t suspect. But I’m not an idiot, and if there’s opportunity to strengthen our odds, I will always take it.

Which is why I lightly suggested last night that Timothy not have a proper burial—something that Edward could use to sway opinions of the king. People don’t do well when one of their own isn’t treated with respect.

“Brother, I’m sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know where else to turn.” I shake my head, pacing as though the thoughts are plaguing my mind.

“Out with it, Tristan. I’m busy,” he snaps, leaning back in his chair and puffing on a cigar.

“It’s about father,” I whisper, glancing around the room as though someone will overhear.

This gets his attention, and he sits forward, his brows rising. “Has he told you something else? Come to you in a dream again?”

I hesitate for a few long moments. “He has. But… I don’t know.”

“Tell me,” he hisses.

“In my dream… the king of Andalaysia was sending troops to our southern border.”

Michael grips the roots of his hair. “What? You think they mean to wage a war?”

Blowing out a deep breath, I shake my head. “I don’t know, Michael. It’s probably nothing. Fuck!” I kick the wooden chair leg. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“No.” He shoots to his feet, walking around the desk until he’s in front of me. He grips my shoulder tight. “You’re not crazy. We are not crazy.”

I nod, running my palm over my mouth.

“Did he say when?”

Shrugging, I glance up at him from under my brows. “I can’t be sure.”

Michael chews on the inside of his lip. “We can’t tell the council of this, they won’t believe it.”

“Michael, you’re the king. This is an absolute monarchy, not a democracy,” I say. “Don’t let others make decisions as if Faasa blood runs through their veins. It doesn’t.”

His eyes flare, his chest puffing out as my words sink into his psyche. “We’ll send troops to the southern border. Just to be safe.”

“Brother, I think that’s the right choice.”

Edward stares at me as I lean against the tavern’s bar top, lighting a joint and bringing it to my lips, saddened that I can’t still smell Sara on my fingertips.

Every cell in my body is craving to hunt her down and chain her to my side. It’s unhealthy; this obsession, but it’s here all the same, and I’ve never been known for my solid state of mental health.

“You seem different,” Edward states, sipping from a pint of ale.

“Do I?” I smirk. “Must be because we’re on the verge of everything I’ve ever wanted. My brother has gone mad, Edward. He believes I see the ghost of our father, who whispers warnings in my ear. And this time tomorrow, much of the king’s military will be on their way to the southern border, to guard against a fictitious threat of war.”

Edward’s grin stretches across his face. “And in the end?”

I smile. “In the end, I shall wear the crown either way. Preferably with a brand-new council, not filled with people who disrespected me as sport my entire life.”

“Victory is ours, Your Highness. I can feel it. Several of my men are already teetering on the edge. They aren’t happy with how things are.” He claps his hands together before taking another sip of his drink. “And the boys in the basement who attempted to kill Lady Beatreaux? What would you have me do with them?”

My blood boils as I think of the rebels who took it upon themselves to stage an assassination. “Keep them locked up. I plan to give them as a gift.”

“To who?”

I smile. “To Sara, of course.”

His eyes alight in recognition, but before he can say anything else, the door to the tavern bursts open and Sheina walks in, her eyes skimming the area until they land on us. A smile breaks across her face when she sees Edward, and he straightens from where he was leaning against the bar. And then, just as I instructed, Paul Wartheg follows behind her, his gaze growing wide as he takes in the three-dozen people eating and drinking at the tables, and his mouth dropping open when they snag on the iron cage constructed in the far corner with an unconscious Xander chained to the wall and on display.

I stub out the end of my joint and saunter over to them, adopting a warm grin on my face.

“Welcome, Paul.” I clasp my hand on his back. “I’m so happy to see Sheina convinced you to come.”

“It’s you,” he whispers. “You’re the rebel king?”

My grin widens. “I am many things, but right now, I’m just a friend.”

I prod him forward, and Sheina breaks away, moving to where Edward is and sinking into his arms, their lips locking in a long kiss.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say to him. “If only to see what your months of hard work, providing the food that makes its way here, has done.” My hand waves over the tables, pointing to the random faces. “If it wasn’t so late, you’d see small children getting their first meal in days. You’d see mothers holding babes to their chest while they cry in relief from what you’ve given them, when the monarchy has failed to provide.”

Turning toward him, I lock him in my stare. “I want you to know how incredibly sorry I am about Timothy.”

His eyes narrow, shoulders stiffening as he meets my gaze.

It isn’t spoken about—not out loud—but I know of him and Timothy. Of stolen moments and secret nights. Of love that would have ended in a much worse fate than a gunshot to the chest had anyone found out.

And while I don’t mourn Timothy’s passing, for one of the first times in my life, I can empathize with the thought of his death. I understand the pain of having to love in secret, and I do not wish to ever endure the agony of reuniting with the other half of your soul, only to have it unjustly ripped away.

It’s hard enough being told they aren’t meant for you when they’re the only thing that’s ever felt like yours.

I place my hand on his shoulder. “I promise you, Paul, the ones responsible will pay.”

“They won’t give him a funeral,” he hisses, his voice low and tortured.

I nod, drawing my brows down. “Then we will have one for him here.”

A single tear drips down his face and he wipes it away. I pretend I don’t see.

“I didn’t give them this order, but I bear responsibility all the same.”

“I believe you.” He clears his throat, speaking the next part in a whisper. “I don’t think for one second that you would allow any harm to come to Lady Beatreaux.”

My chest cramps, hoping we aren’t as obvious as he’s making it seem, but I smile. “And you would be correct.”

“I never came here before because I refused to pick a side,” he says. “But I can no longer stand by and watch as a corrupt monarchy destroys our people. Gloria Terra is a proud country, and we deserve a king who will bring us glory. Not shame.”

Satisfaction, heavy and thick, rolls through my blood like molasses. “Do I have your loyalty, Paul Wartheg?”

His eyes flash, and he drops on bended knee.

I hold out my hand, and he grips my fingers, kissing the top of my lion’s head ring. “I swear it.”

“Together we rule, divided we fall,” I whisper. “It’s my honor to welcome you to the rebellion.”