Page 22 of Scarred

I spin the ring on my finger, the lion’s diamond eyes glinting with every turn. “Like I said, I’m just here for support.”

“Tristan.”

“Xander,” I reply, elongating the vowels as they roll off my tongue.

“While I can appreciate your sudden need to be in the conversation, it’s a little late to play the part of dutiful prince.” His eyes trail down my form as if the mere sight of me is offensive.

Maybe it is.

My grin drops, something heavy twisting my stomach. “There is no part to play. I am His Royal Highness Tristan Faasa, second son to the late King Michael II, whether you want to admit that or not.”

Standing up, I move across the room until I’m in front of him, my body towering over his short and gangly frame. He glares up at me with his ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses, and I stare down at him, bringing the joint to my mouth and inhaling, taking in each uncomfortable tic of his features and every pebble of sweat that beads on his brow. I exhale, blowing out the smoke so it coats his face, making him sputter.

“I know you’re a very important man, Alexander,” I whisper. “Standing here, having the ear of the new king and the one before him, thinking you’re beyond reproach.”

My hand grasps his shoulder, allowing the burning tip of the rolled paper to rest close to his neck. The urge to stick it on his skin and listen to it sizzle is strong, but I hold myself back. “But I want you to remember two things. One: that my blood runs truer than yours, even if it is hidden beneath ‘ghastly’ ink and a blackened soul.”

I pause, enjoying the way he fidgets under my stare.

“And the second?” he asks, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“The second is that I know what you did to my father. And I’ll never forget those who left him alone to die.” The burning edge of my cigarette grazes against his jugular, my stomach somersaulting in delight as he jerks in my grasp.

“Oops.” I smile. “Did that hurt?”

“You know much less about your father than you think,” Xander hisses through clenched teeth.

Huffing out a laugh, I glance at the ground before meeting his gaze again. “And you don’t knowme.”

“What about Sara?” Michael cuts in. “Let’s announce our betrothal, officially. That should be enough to shift the narrative.”

I turn my attention to my brother. “Already on a first name basis? My, you move fast.”

Michael’s eyes narrow. “She’s my wife.”

“Not yet,” I reply, my stomach souring.

Grabbing Xander’s hand, I wrench it toward me, laying the still-lit joint in his palm and closing his fingers around it. His face scrunches in obvious disgust.

“You’ll get rid of this for me, won’t you, Xander?”

“Leaving so soon?” Michael asks, sticking out his bottom lip. “Pity.”

I lift a shoulder. “You two are dreadfully boring.”

“Talking about important things isn’t supposed to be entertaining. Although,” he rubs his chin, chuckling. “You’ve never been one to care about anything important.”

The hole in my chest twists, making my teeth grind. “Yes, well… if we all cared aboutimportance, brother, who would care for you?”

His smile drops. “Go fetch Lady Beatreaux before you run off to whatever whorehouse you’re planning to waste your night in.”

I click my tongue and nod, spinning on my heel as I head for the door.

If I were to turn around and look back, I’m sure I would see their faces painted in surprise at how easily I agreed. I’m not known for how well I take orders. But surprisingly, Iwantto find her.

Arousal surges through my insides, pouring down my middle and pooling in my groin as I remember the way she looked last night; on her knees, chest heaving, and hair mussed as she stared up at me like she wanted to knife me where I stood. Most likely with the one she was hiding behind her back.

No one else has treated me the way she does—with anger brimming so potently that it tries to bleed through their gaze and strike me down. It makes me want to shove my cock down her throat and see if she’d try to bite it off, just so I could punish her for using teeth.