Page 84 of Scarred

“What’shappened,” my uncle starts. “Is that your cousin—my son—has been kidnapped.”

My lungs collapse. “What?”

“Stop… stop… stop!” Michael screeches, his hands coming up to tug on his hair. My eyes widen as I stare at him, noticing the pallid skin and deep bluish-purple bags welting under his eyes.

He looks ill.

“They know,” he mutters to himself. “He must be telling them.”

I step forward, my insides churning with his ramblings. I’m not sure what has him so out of sorts, but something tells me to tread carefully. “Your Majesty,whoknows?”

His eyes snap to mine and he shoves forward a square wooden box with dusted black metal hinges and an image carved into the wood on top. As I move closer, I realize it’s a hyena standing on a dead lion—its teeth bared and its black eyes reflecting flames.

The detail is immaculate and before I can think twice, my fingers are smoothing over the indents, mesmerized by the intricate design.

“Open it,” Michael whispers.

I do, and my stomach revolts at the sight, nausea whipping through my middle and up into my throat. It’s a hand; severed at the wrist with dried blood caked on every inch of skin until it looks as though it’s been gnawed on. And right beside it is a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Is that…?” I ask, my eyes flicking from Michael to my uncle.

Raf nods, his nostrils flaring as he slams the base of his cane on the floor.

“There’s a note,” Michael whispers, his voice cracking.

He slides a piece of paper to me, but before I can see what it says, the door swings open and Tristan waltzes inside as if he owns the room and everyone in it. His piercing jade eyes land on me, his gaze flicking up and down my frame, flaring as they coast over my unpinned hair.

“Tristan,finally.” Michael blows out a breath.

“You rang, brother?” Tristan smiles, walking farther into the room. “You look dreadful, bad sleep?”

“This is no time to be joking,” Uncle Raf cuts in. “I demand we call a meeting with the Privy Council.”

Confusion drops through me like a falling piece of paper. My uncle hates the Privy Council and everything they stand for. They’re partly why my father had to beg for aid in the first place; filled with selfish men who forgot about our country and became about greed.

“Uncle, honestly, what do you think the Privy Council could do?”

Again, he slams his cane on the ground. “Silence, girl. We don’t have time for stupid questions.”

His words smack across my face as surely as if it were his hand.

Tristan’s head snaps to him, his gaze narrowing.

Michael’s fist beats down on his desk, the strands of his usually slicked-back hair falling on his forehead. “You do not make demands ofme, Rafael. I am the king, and you are no one.”

“With all due respect, you are only as strong as your weakest link, Your Majesty, and clearly there are a lot of weak links if my son is so easily taken.” Rafael steps closer, jabbing his finger in the air. “Your father would haveneverallowed this to happen.”

Silence. Tense, heavy silence.

“Not to interrupt this fascinating show,” Tristan drawls. “But why am I here?”

“Yes,” Michael snaps, turning to Rafael. “Leave. Before I take out a pistol and shoot you where you stand.”

“Your Highness, I—”

“I said leave!” His voice booms off the furniture and echoes around the walls so loud it vibrates my eardrums.

My eyes fly back and forth between them, my stomach tangling in knots.