Scarred (Never After Series)

My eyes scan the ballroom. Over and over, they flick from one corner to the next, waiting for the stumpy frame of Lord Claudius, but he’s nowhere to be found. It doesn’t ease my anxiety or calm the embers of anger glowing in my chest.

Regret is already settling in thick that I didn’t kill him when I had the chance; fear whispering that maybe he’s found someone else to prey on, someone who isn’t hiding daggers on their thigh.

Michael sits next to me as we stare out at the dance floor, his mother and my uncle both having retired for the night. The shiny tile reflects people’s smiling faces as they drink and dance the night away, and I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a show. Hundreds of people who live in an alternate reality, so different from what I know to be the truth.

But isn’t that the case with almost everything? We spin tales and weave stories, creating a narrative that dictates how we’re perceived. Or in some cases, how others live.

“Are you having a good time?” Michael asks, engaging me in conversation for the first time all night.

I grin. “It’s lovely.”

He stands, reaching out a hand. “Shall we dance?”

My brows rise, nausea teasing my esophagus, but I place my palm in his and let him lead me to the dance floor, hoping that nobody can see the slight tearing near the hem of my dress.

The ballroom clears, people moving to the outskirts to make room for us, and I feel sick.

I feel sick when his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in close.

I feel sick when his hand grips mine.

And I feel sick when he smiles.

“You are quite the prize, Lady Beatreaux.”

Bile climbs up my throat.

I’m no one’s prize.

The musicians end the song, immediately starting up another, and I groan at the thought of having to continue this dance. My feet are aching, and my soul is sore.

“Your Majesty.” Xander’s voice breaks through the fog. “May I cut in?”

Michael nods, and it doesn’t escape my notice that I never get a say. No one asks if I’d like to continue. They just pass me around like an object, here for everyone’s viewing pleasure.

Xander steps in close, and I smile as he takes my hand, but he doesn’t return the gesture.

The next song starts, and he jerks me across the room, my feet stumbling as I try to keep up with his steps. I wince when his palm tightens around mine, crushing my fingers together until my knuckles crunch.

“What do you think it is you’re doing?” he hisses.

His tone catches me off guard, and I jerk back. “Excuse me? I have done nothing.”

“Don’t play innocent with me, cousin,” he sneers. “I saw you.”

My heart deep dives to the ground. “I—”

“I won’t have everything we’ve done—everything we’ve worked for—thrown in the trash because you can’t keep your legs closed.”

Shock rips through me, a knot of emotion expanding in my throat until it seems like it will burst. “I have done everything that you’ve asked. And yet you accuse me like this?”

“I saw you,” he repeats. “With Lord Claudius.”

“You saw nothing, clearly.”

“If it had been someone else?” His brows rise to his peppery hairline. “If it had been the king?”

I clench my jaw, shaking my head, because while his accusation is wrong, everything he’s saying still rings true. Michael wouldn’t have cared how it was happening, or whether I had a say. He’d only care how it looks.

My face burns, and I nod, trying to stem the rush of tears begging to escape. “You’re right,” I choke out. “So, let me finish the job now, and I’ll die happily. What are you making me wait for?”

“Quiet,” he snaps. “People can hear.”

“You’re the one speaking of it!” My voice grows louder, unable to temper the emotion pushing against the wounded walls of my chest.

“I believe you owe me a dance.”

Xander stumbles to a stop at the sound of the silky voice, and my heart spins on its axis as I meet Tristan’s gaze.

His eyes are tumultuous—wild—as he stares down at my cousin.

“You’re dismissed, Alexander.” There’s no room for argument in his tone, and even if there was, Xander couldn’t refuse. Not here, not in front of people.

As I glance around the room, it’s no surprise that people have stopped to stare.

They always do when Tristan is near. I don’t blame them. I can’t ever force myself to look away.

Clearing his throat, Xander gives a thin smile and releases me, waving his arm and tilting his head in a pathetic attempt of a bow. “Of course, Your Highness.”

The disrespect is clear.

But Tristan doesn’t even flinch, instead moving toward me.

My heart sputters, the butterflies in my stomach taking flight. Normally, I’d despise them for showing up, but compared to all the other emotions I’ve been having tonight, they’re a welcome distraction. His eyes meet mine as he swoops in, his arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me close. My breath whooshes from my lungs when our hands tangle, and my heart dives into my stomach, wanting to rip off my black satin gloves, just to feel what its like to have his fingers pressed to mine. He lifts our palms out to the side, and then we’re waltzing.

He commands my body the same way he commands a room; effortlessly. I sink into his hold, allowing my mind to shut off for the first time all night.

For some reason, the way he’s holding me, the way he’s pulling me just a little too tight, and a little too close, makes tears crop up behind my eyes.

He makes me feel safe. Important. And I haven’t known that since my father.

If I dig a little deeper, it’s easy to see that Tristan and I, we’re cut from the same cloth, and that’s part of the reason I can’t stand the sight of him. Because looking at Tristan is like looking in a mirror and seeing the pieces of myself I try so hard to hide.

But he doesn’t hide them, and I’m not quite sure how to handle that.

My jaw stiffens as my vision blurs, and I try harder to hold back the sadness, not wanting to show weakness in a roomful of people.

Tristan’s face softens, his fingers tightening around my waist before he pushes me outward, spinning my body around and drawing me back in, closer than we were before. Too close to be appropriate. My stomach flutters like it has wings, and wetness seeps between my thighs.

His lips brush my ear. “No, little doe, not here. They don’t get your tears.”

I nod against him, my nostrils flaring as I breathe in deep to stem the angst that’s rolling around my insides like a wrecking ball.

I’m sure people are staring.

But I revel in his touch.

His fingers dig into me, like he never wants to let me go before he steps back, his hand slipping into his pocket as he bends at the waist and grips my fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

Arousal pulses through my core when his lips touch my skin, my forehead scrunching when something crinkles between the pads of our fingers. I tighten my grip, so whatever it is doesn’t drop from my grasp.

“Thank you for the dance.” And then he spins around and storms away, his black tailcoat whipping behind him.

My fist closes around the piece of paper, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

I smile at the few lingering eyes, and as casually as possible, walk to the side of the room, nodding at people as I pass them by, anticipation winding tighter with every step I take.

It isn’t until I make it to the far wall that I turn away and unfold the note with trembling fingers.

Meet me where you kiss the stars.