Page 65 of Scarred

There have been many moments where life has smacked me upside the face and opened my eyes to the realities that drain your innocence away, but this is the first time that I realize how one experience can be so vastly different for two people.

To me, my father’s murder was life altering. But to her, it was just another day.

I vow right here to never take death for granted; that even if people’s lives end, I’ll pray for them and the families of those who loved them. Everyone deserves to be remembered, even if it’s to imagine their soul burning in the pits of hell.

“Hmm, pity.” She picks up her tea, swirling a spoon through the liquid for long moments before tapping it against the side of the cup, the clinking sound sharp.

“Both of my boys lost their father too.” She shakes her head. “But of course, you’d have known about that already.”

I nod, tangling my fingers together on my lap. “It was a momentous day indeed to learn of King Michael’s passing.”

“We still mourn,” she sighs.

“Yes,” Tristan cuts in. “Tragic. If you’d like to fixate on your husband again, mother, by all means, let’s continue our earlier conversation.”

My heart skips at the sound of his voice, and curiosity winds its way through my heart as I glance back and forth between them. He speaks to her as if he can’t stand the sight of her, which is so different from everything I’ve learned of them over the years.

I’ve always thought the Faasa family was a cohesive unit, loyal to only each other until the bitter end. And even though I realized that the king and his brother don’t get along, I never imagined that would extend out to the dowager queen as well.

Not that it makes a difference. In order to end the Faasa reign, I must eradicate them all.

“Tristan, you may leave,” his mother states.

Twisting toward him again, I smile. “Yes, there’s no need for youat all.”

He smirks as he straightens off the wall and walks toward us. He’s wearing all black, as he usually is, his jacket covering the tattoos I ache to see; even though I convince myself it’s to admire his art.

“How can I, when the conversation just became so interesting?” he asks, dropping next to me on the couch. “I think I’d much rather stay.”

“Please, don’t,” I retort, although there isn’t much conviction behind my words.

He tsks, the sound skipping through the air and tapping against my skin as surely as if he touched me with his hands. His legs splay wide and he flings his arm across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers dancing perilously close to my shoulder.

My body coils tight, muscles stretching thin as I lean to the side to ensure that not a single piece of me touches him.

He’s making it hard to focus, although, maybe, that’s his goal. I’m convinced he loves to watch me squirm.

Infuriating.

“And tell me, Miss Beatreaux,” the dowager queen continues. “How is it that a lady without a father can hold herself so well in polite society?”

My chest cracks at her words, but I keep the reaction from showing on my face. “The same way a widowed queen does, I suppose. With a heavy heart and a strong sense of self.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes flick down my body before meeting my gaze again. “A queen’s duties are far superior to that of an orphaned child.”

The urge to reach out and strangle her grows so strong I have to tangle my fingers together on my lap.

“I look forward to becoming queen then.” I run my palms down my skirt. “Is it nice?”

She tilts her head.

“Oh.” I laugh. “I’m curious if you enjoy not having those duties anymore? I’m sure you’re grateful that you can live your days at a cottage in the middle of nowhere, with no responsibilities left to your name.”

She stiffens, her gaze narrowing.

“It sounds very relaxing,” I continue. “Maybe one day, after I wed your son, we’ll be able to visit, and I can reassure your doubts by showing you all the ways I’ve improved on the foundation youtriedto build.”

She sets down her teacup, the liquid sloshing over the sides as she turns to glance at her lady in the corner.