Page 39 of Scarred

Xander sighs. “That’s the opium, sire. If it would help keep the nightmares away...”

“Don’t speak to me like a child,” Michael snaps. “If you want to help, figure out how to talk to spirits and make my dead father staydeadinstead of tormenting me.”

My stomach flips.Michael has nightmares of our father?

The resounding silence is thick.

“What?” Michael hisses. “I see that pathetic look in your eyes, Xander. Either say something useful or get the fuck out of my room.”

There’s a vile undercurrent to his tone, one I’ve heard whispered in my ear since I was born.

In public, Michael has a charming—if not overbearing—personality. But it’s in these private moments that the snake sheds his skin and comes out to play.

Perhaps Lady Beatreaux and he are better suited than I thought.

My chest twists at the realization.

“Have you…”

“Spit it out,” Michael snaps.

“Have you seen him again while you were awake?”

The resounding silence is thick. Shock punches through my middle, my mouth dropping open as I eavesdrop.

“Have you given any more thought to what I’ve suggested? To speaking with someone?”

“I’m speaking to you.”

“Yes, but… I mean someone more equipped to help you with them. To figure out the root cause.”

Another long pause, so heavy with tension that it bleeds through the walls.

“They would call me mad,” Michael whispers.

A grin sneaks its way on my face, satisfaction bubbling in my chest as I straighten off the wall and make my way toward the tunnels.

My brother isn’t as infallible as he would have everyone believe.

And the people deserve to know when they’re being ruled by amadking.

CHAPTER17

Sara B.

News of Michael’s proposal has spread, and things are happening in the castle. Almost everyone in the king’s inner circle already knew why I was here, but now, their heads bow a little deeper, their spines notch a little straighter. Respect that I have done nothing to earn is handed to me on a silver platter, simply because a man with the “right” blood in his veins asked for my hand.

Marisol came barging in at the crack of dawn, whipping open curtains and laying out color swatches, droning on about the engagement ball and how it was my duty to plan it.

She knows nothing of duty.

Her blonde hair is coiffed and her gray eyes spear through me as she shows me the thirtieth shade of purple and asks me to compare it to the last twenty-nine, as if I’ve been paying attention.

“Marisol, I hate the color purple.”

“What?” She half chuckles. “It’s the color of royalty, my lady.”

“Great. Pickyourfavorite and we’ll go with that.” I groan, standing up from my place on the couch. “I need some air.”