Page 52 of Scarred

And Iloathehim.

But there are moments. Ones where he doesn’t seem so terrible. Like when his talented hands draw courage on Simon’s arm, or when he keeps my secrets safe. And whether I want to admit it, there’s no one else I’d prefer to be caught by when I’m sneaking through the castle halls. There’s a level of trust there—one I’ve never found with anyone outside of my father—and I haven’t quite figured out how to correlate the two mismatched emotions.

His brother, however, is an easier one to navigate.

“Thank you for inviting me to lunch today,” I say across the small oval table to Michael.

I dressed for the occasion, assuming that meant we’d be making a public appearance, but I was brought to his office instead, where he had a light snack of sandwiches and tea for us to eat.

He smiles as he wipes a crumb off his mouth with his white cloth napkin. “My pleasure. So, tell me about you, Sara.”

“What would you like to know?” I tilt my head. I’m not stupid enough to believe that he’s curious to get to know me. No man ever is.

He shrugs, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Anything you think is of importance.”

I return his smile. “I’m a simple girl with simple needs.”

He laughs, a hearty booming sound that echoes off the walls, his handsome face thrown back toward the ceiling.

The sound itself is overwhelming in its candor, and I find amusement bubbling in my chest.

“I find that very hard to believe,” he says.

I lift a shoulder. “I’d much rather talk about you.”

“Don’t you read the papers, Sara?” His brow quirks. “What is there to know of me other than what the people have already said?”

His smile widens as he speaks, but there’s a sadness that whips across his features so fast you can barely see it. A pang hits the center of my chest, but I brush it off, reminding myself that I don’t care how he suffers. He deserves to suffer for the pain his family has caused.

“Well,” I whisper. “We don’t get the papers in Silva.”

He laughs. “No? I thought everyone got the papers.”

Disbelief coats my insides. Is he really so obtuse?

I blow out a heavy breath, gritting my teeth to temper the anger that’s simmering at the base of my gut. “There’s no place to print them. No business that can distribute.”

“In Silva?” His forehead scrunches. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, I think I would know,” I snap. “I’ve lived there my whole life.”

“I was there once as a boy, and it was a lovely town.”

My heart twists at his words, memories of when I was a young child and Silva was still thriving floating through my head. Of times when my father was alive, and people were happy and whole.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I intone. “How quickly things can shift. One minute you’re on top of the world, and the next…”

His amber eyes grow dark. “I suppose it is.” He takes a sip of his tea before grinning. “Well then, what do you wish to know about me?”

I wish to know that you’re dead.

Tapping my nails on the table, I lean in. “I want to know what will make you a great king.”

His smile drops, and anxiety plugs in the center of my chest until it feels as though my air has run stale.

“Are you insinuating I am not already great, Lady Beatreaux?” His voice is deeper, a sharp edge lining the tone.

I shake my head. “I’m simply asking what the people will remember you for. As your wife, it’s my duty to highlight those features, to accent them. I must know your plans if I’m to be a suitable complement at your side.”