Scarred (Never After Series)
Scarred: Chapter 8

I have seen no one of importance in three days. Sighing, I shuffle the playing cards, my eyes glancing around the table at my brand-new ladies-in-waiting.

Ophelia, a young girl with rosy cheeks and bright red hair, and Marisol, a woman who is here to help train me for the king. Both of them sit in front of me, whispering words of adoration any time I so much as blink.

Part of me is disgusted because I know their loyalty is false, but the other part is enjoying their attention. There’s something nice about being treated so well, even if it comes from a place of wanting to climb a social ladder.

Still, I wonder which of them are here on behalf of their families, hoping to bed my future husband and become his mistress.

I wonder how many already have.

Not that it bothers me either way. It’s well known that kings take pleasure from many sources, and it’s even more well known that King Michael prefers a buffet and isn’t particular about his tastes.

The more he gets it from somewhere else, the less he’ll have need of me.

He’ll be after my purity, of course, and he’ll wish to produce an heir. I don’t intend to let things get that far.

“This is quite boring, isn’t it?” I say, placing down the cards and tapping my nails on the table.

Sheina stands behind me, brushing through my hair as she laughs. “Milady likes to go on adventures. When we were girls, you couldn’t bribe her to stay still for a second.”

I huff out a breath, rolling my eyes as I lock my gaze on the youngest girl in the room. “Don’t listen to her, dear Ophelia. I’m perfectly fit to sit here and… drink tea all day and eat crumpets.”

Giggles burst around the table, and I smile, something warming the center of my chest when I do.

“Now…” I take advantage of the new camaraderie and lean forward. “Tell me about these rebels.”

Ophelia’s green eyes widen and Marisol shifts in her seat, fingers brushing over her blonde hair.

Interesting.

“Did I say something inappropriate?” I ask. “Apologies if I did. I overheard talk and got curious, but from your reaction, I can see it’s a sensitive subject.”

I pause, allowing my words to linger in the air before I continue. “You know… You should tell me, anyway. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of anyone, most of all the king.” I place a hand on my chest, giggling. “Can you imagine?”

Ophelia hesitates before leaning in close. “They’re the outliers.”

“Outliers?”

She nods, and Marisol purses her lips before adding, “Filth is what they are. Disgusting creatures who think they have a right to live on our level.”

My stomach tightens. “Do they not?”

Ophelia shakes her head. “They’re criminals. People say they smoke and drink until they can’t see straight, and then sneak into the upper east side and snatch people right off the streets.”

“For what purpose?” My brows draw in.

“To make a statement?” Ophelia bites on her lips.

“They’re hyenas,” Marisol cuts in. “They’ve only become a problem recently, and now that they’ve thrown themselves at King Michael’s feet?” She shrugs her shoulders, brushing her hands down her skirt. “They won’t be around much longer.”

Sheina’s fingers pause from where she’s pinning my hair. “That’s rather harsh,” she chastises.

Marisol’s gray eyes cut to hers, her features drawing tight. “They hold human sacrifices in the middle of their dirty roads! Strip a person down until there’s nothing left but their pride, and then they take that too, leaving only shame and whimpers for death in its wake.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Ophelia scolds. “No one’s seen it happen.”

I suck in a breath. “Surely not. Wouldn’t they want the people on their side if they plan to go against the king? Wouldn’t it be obvious people were missing?”

Ophelia shakes her head. “Sometimes, milady, there’s no rhyme or reason to people’s madness. And if they have someone leading them now…”

Her voice trembles and her eyes glaze over.

My heartbeat rages in the center of my chest. “They’re that organized?”

I remember the unkempt woman from the party and the way she spoke. But I had filed that away as the ramblings of a deranged woman, driven mad by the famine running rampant in the city streets. King Michael didn’t seem to be bothered, so I assumed there was no reason to take it seriously.

Marisol’s spine stiffens, and she clears her throat. “Yes, well, we shouldn’t speak of these things. It’s forbidden.”

I stare at Marisol, taking in her words and slotting them away to dissect further when I’m alone.

“Regardless,” Ophelia says. “They’re not the type of people you should consort with. Ever. It’s enough to be tried for treason.”

“Of course not.” Reaching out, I lay a hand on top of Ophelia’s, smiling. “Thank you for telling me.” My eyes flick to Marisol, then back. “Us ladies need to stick together, after all.”

It’s long after everyone has turned in for the night, but I can’t sleep. My mind fills with questions and my stomach floods with tension.

Rebels.

I’ve never heard of them before.

But Xander clearly knows.

Unease burns through me.

I had thought I was ready when I arrived, yet here I am, less than a fortnight, and already there’s a wrecking ball thrown in my plans. A sound from outside the door makes me shoot upright in bed, my heart stuttering.

Is someone here?

I throw back the heavy duvet and swing my legs to the side, my feet meeting the rich fabric of the Persian rug.

Walking to my vanity, I slip on my deep red nightdress, the long silk sleeves flaring out at the wrist, and the hem kissing the floor. I cinch it tight at the waist and grab one of the blades I keep hidden in the top drawer before making my way to the door to see what caused the noise.

Twisting the handle, I throw open the wood frame, glancing both ways but meeting only silence. The area is dark, lit only by the small iron wall sconces that decorate the halls.

Blowing out a deep breath, I tuck a loose black curl behind my ear and take a step out of my room, closing the door behind me, my nerves buzzing beneath my skin.

I only make it two steps before a body moves out of the shadows and stands in front of me.

“Oh!” I yelp, my stomach rising to my throat and then plummeting to the ground.

Prince Tristan gazes at me, his hands in his pockets and his eyes like stone.

“You scared me.” My mouth is dry and my tongue swipes out to wet my lips as I take a large step back against my closed door, placing the dagger behind me. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

He cocks his head and moves closer. “What are you hiding, little doe?”

Irritation winds its way through my middle and I stiffen my shoulders. “That’s none of your business. Why are you in my wing?”

His dark brow rises. “Your wing?”

“Yes, my wing. Do you see any other ladies here?”

He glances around. “I don’t see a single one.”

The insult slices through my chest. Insufferable. “You’re as horrendous as they say, aren’t you?”

His posture changes then, his shoulders growing taut, almost as if his aura itself is mutating into something dark. Something dangerous.

It’s transfixing, the way he can morph from an unaffected stance to whatever this is, and it makes my hair stand on end, my gut screaming that I should watch my step.

“This may be your wing, but it’s my castle. These are my halls,” he hisses, moving in so close his breath ghosts across my face. “It would be incredibly stupid of you to assume just because I don’t wear the title of king, that you shouldn’t bow before me.”

My breathing stalls, but the next words still slip off my tongue before I can swallow them down. “I only bow for those who deserve it.”

He smirks, his body pressing into me, making heat surge through my middle and my heart slams against my ribs. His hand slides up the outside of my sleeve, the fabric creating a delicious sensation against my skin, despite the way my insides are stewing with a vile brew of hatred and panic, not wanting him to see what’s hidden behind my back.

“I could always make you,” he murmurs.

My nostrils flare, a small slice of fear winding its way around my spine like a rose vine, the thorns pricking me with warning.

I ignore it.

“You could try,” I snark.

His palm skims over my shoulder until it meets flesh, my stomach jumping when he touches me, skin to skin.

“This is inappropriate,” I rasp.

His fingers dust across my collarbone before moving up the front of my throat, curling around my esophagus. His thumb presses beneath my chin, the pressure causing my head to tilt back until I’m meeting the fierce green of his eyes.

My chest pulls tight, anxiety swirling through my middle, and something heavy settles deep in my belly.

“Hmm.” His nose skims the side of my cheek, moving back until it brushes against my ear. “I think you’ll replace I care little for what’s appropriate.”

His other hand grabs at my waist, and my eyes flutter from the heat of his touch, searing through the thin silk of my nightdress. My fingers tighten around the sheath of my blade.

I could do it.

He’s distracted, and the knife would cut through his skin, sinking into his veins in seconds.

But I didn’t come this far to be messy, and I won’t allow something as silly as emotion to cloud my judgment.

A blunt stab of pain hits my shin, causing my legs to buckle. Tristan’s grip is firm as he catches my fall, his hand pressing down. Bitterness rages through me as my kneecaps smack against the shiny tiled floor, causing me to wince from the impact, and the dagger clatters to the ground beside me.

His eyes snap to the weapon, and he cocks his head. “Interesting.”

My chest burns, teeth grinding as I glare at him.

“I prefer you this way,” he coos from above me. “On your knees, chest heaving, and face flushed while you stare up at your betters.”

He reaches down, his fingers cupping my chin and jerking until the muscles in my neck strain. “Let this be a lesson, little doe. Don’t forget your place.”

“And where is that?” I force out through the tightness in my throat, my body shaking from the anger that’s pouring through my veins.

He grins, and the sight of it is so sinister it makes dread crawl through my insides like a thousand spiders.

“Trembling at my feet.”