Page 36 of Scarred

The crucifix is front and center, and something pulls in my chest as I stare at the sculpture, a hollow type of sadness spinning webs through my heart.

I’ve never questioned my duty to my family, or the justice that we seek. It’s all I’ve ever known, even before my father’s death; all they have conditioned me to want. But for the first time, I’m empathetic toward the plight of Jesus, although I’d never dare to speak it out loud.

How unfair that he had to sacrifice himself in order to cleanse our sins.

Finally, I tear my eyes away and move toward the shadows, realizing there’s a large oil painting hanging on display near the darkened hallway at the front of the room.

The portrait is of a king.

Black hair peeks from beneath his bejeweled crown, piercing jade-green eyes that come to life through the picture; fierce and harsh. A shiver skates down my spine.

“That’s my father.”

My breath whooshes out of me, stomach jumping to my throat as I spin around, coming face-to-face with Tristan. My hand flies to my chest. “You scared me.”

The corner of his lips tilt as he steps up next to me, his hands in his pockets as he glances at the portrait.

I side-eye him, wondering what his relationship was with his father. Michael piqued my curiosity, and while I don’t expect Tristan to open up, I can’t help the question from flowing off my tongue. “Do you miss him?”

Something dark coasts over his face, his jaw tensing. “Yes.”

My mouth pops open, turning my head to study him. “I miss my father too.”

It’s all I can think of to say.“I’m happy he’s dead and I hope he rots in hell”seems like it wouldn’t be an appropriate response.

He stares up at the painting, and so I follow suit, taking in the angles of King Michael II’s face and how similar they are to Tristan’s.

“He looks like you,” I note, glancing at him again from the corner of my eye.

His brow rises. “You mean unbearably attractive?”

I smile. “Terrifyingly so.”

“Hmm.” He nods, twisting toward me. “And are you one who runs from your fears, Sara Beatreaux? Or do you face them?”

My heart kicks against my ribs, and my mouth goes dry. “I don’t believe in running.”

“No? You might change your mind living here.”

My stomach drops, the good feeling disappearing. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning,” he replies.

“I saw you yesterday,” I blurt. “In the town square. You were hiding your face like quite the little creeper... is that because you didn’t want to be seen?”

He steps closer until his frame towers over mine, strands of his disheveled black hair falling over his brow. “So many questions for someone who gives nothing in return.”

My legs freeze in place, like I’ve stepped into wet cement and let it dry around my feet. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“That could take a long time.”

“You’re about to marry into the family. We have nothingbuttime. Unless Michael tires of you before the wedding and chooses one of his other whores instead.” He cocks his head, his eyes calculating as they blaze over my skin. “Or maybe… you have a secret agenda.”

Irritation rushes through my chest, expanding like a heatwave. “I amnota whore.” My fists clench at my sides. “And just because you have no propensity for morals doesn’t mean it extends to others.”

He reaches up and cups my chin, his thumb brushing over my lips. “Such a smart mouth. Pity my brother won’t know how to tame it.”