Chapter 12: Scarred: Chapter 10

There must be a dozen different kitchens throughout the castle, but the one I’m in now is the largest.

Before coming to Saxum, I’ve always been free to roam where I please—within reason—and then retreat to my room and bask in the solitude. But now, the only time I get to myself is in my bed at night.

I never realized how insane it makes me to be surrounded by people.

It’s now been four days since I’ve seen or heard from my husband-to-be. And while my mind should be focused on the future and everything I came here to accomplish, I’m finding it… difficult. But not for the reasons it should be.

I can’t even sleep without visions of Prince Tristan making his way into my chambers and forcing me onto my knees, except this time for a different reason.

It’s disgusting. Not because I’m a stranger to the act—although if anyone knew of my dalliances, I most likely wouldn’t be sitting here—but because out of all the people I’ve met in my entire life, I’ve decided Prince Tristan must be the worst.

Him invading my dreams is an unfortunate turn of events.

Earlier, while playing bridge in my sitting room, Ophelia recommended an afternoon nap, no doubt noting the deep circles beneath my eyes. I took her up on the offer, although I wouldn’t be using the time to catch up on sleep.

Instead, I grabbed the opportunity and made my way here, hoping to find someone working in the kitchens. I want to meet the people who are the true eyes and ears of the castle. Ingrain myself in their loyalty, so when the time comes, I can depend on them. And that’s how I ended up sitting at a large metal table in a room the size of a house, with Paul, one of the castle’s cooks, banging on pots and pans while he makes me tea and an afternoon snack.

“Honestly.” Paul wipes his brow, his auburn hair held back beneath a netted cap. “You’re gorgeous, milady, but your pretty eyes make me nervous when you watch me like that.”

I smile, tapping my nails on the table’s top. “No need to be nervous, Paul. I like your company already.”

“You do?” he asks, spinning around from the stove. “Of course you do. I mean—” He huffs before throwing his arm across his belly and bowing at the hips. “Thank you, milady.”

Amusement bubbles in my chest. “You know, you don’t have to be so proper when it’s just the two of us.”

“Forgive me.” He smiles. “I’m not used to royals coming down here to socialize.” He walks toward me, plopping a plate down on the table and gesturing toward the dish.

I grin back, leaning across the metal surface. “Well… I think you’ll find I’m not quite like the other royals.”

“Technically,” a smooth voice cuts in. “You’re not a royal at all.”

My spine bristles, every single hair follicle standing on end as Prince Tristan appears out of nowhere, his lips tipped up in that infuriatingly lazy grin, his eyes zoned in on me.

Paul gasps, dropping to a knee. “Your Highness.”

“Hello, Paul. Keeping our soon-to-be queen company?”

Surprise flickers through me. I hadn’t expected him of all people to be on a first name basis with the servants. Most people aren’t.

“So what if he is?” I cut in.

He turns to me, his eyes flashing. I sit straighter in my chair.

“Then I suppose he’s the lucky one today, isn’t he?”

My stomach flips as he steps in close. “Always in places I shouldn’t find you, aren’t you, little doe?”

My shoulders straighten. “There’s nothing wrong with getting to know the people who breathe life into the castle walls.”

His brows rise. “I agree.”

A muffled thud from the opposite side of the room soars through the air, breaking our eye contact as I twist to face the wall. “What was that?”

No one answers me.

Scooting back from the table, I stand, grabbing the front of my skirts as I walk toward where the noise came from. Another thud, this time louder, and I’m sure it’s coming from inside the walls. I spin around, my eyes locking on Tristan. “What’s behind here?”

He doesn’t respond, leaning against the corner of the table, crossing his feet and smirking.

My jaw tenses. “Paul?”

Paul wrings his hands together in front of his oversized belly. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

I quirk a brow when another thud hits. “You don’t hear that?”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with your ears,” Tristan suggests.

“My hearing is just fine, thank you.” My eyes narrow. “Stop making me feel crazy.”

He straightens off the table and moves closer until he’s standing in front of me, his shadow dwarfing mine. “Do I have that much power over you already?”

“I haven’t given you any power,” I seethe, my hand itching to reach out and smack the grin off his face.

He tsks, shaking his head. “That’s the thing about power, ma petite menteuse. It’s never given freely. You have to take it.”

“You speak French?” I don’t know what he just called me, but the way it flowed off his tongue like silky chocolate makes my insides quake.

He smirks. “I’m a prince.”

His arm rises, and my breath sticks in my lungs, waiting for the searing heat of his touch, but it never comes. Instead, he presses his hand next to my head. There’s a loud creak and then the wall is moving, an entryway appearing as if it’s formed out of thin air. My eyes grow wide as I twist to face it, staring into a darkened tunnel; its walls made of rock as if the castle has melded its insides within the mountain it sits on.

“Lady.”

My hand moves to my chest, my mind whirling with questions. Do the tunnels only exist within the buildings? Do they go underground to town? Who all knows of them?

“Hey lady, you’re stepping on my sword.”

I’m jolted into the present, my eyes swinging down into the light-brownish-orange gaze of a child.

“Oh.” I step back, my foot releasing the toy sword trapped beneath me. “I’m so sorry.”

My corset digs into my ribs as I lean down to pick it up, staying crouched as I hold it in my hands. “Are you a knight?” I ask.

His chest puffs out, a small smudge of what looks like black soot streaked across his brown skin. “I’m the king.”

“Oh.” My eyes widen, and I raise my hand to my head. “Of course, I should have known. You look the part of a mighty king.”

Bowing my head, I hold out his toy. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

A smile tips the corners of his lips as he reaches out, taking the sword back from my hands. “Who are you?” he asks. “I’ve never seen you before, and my mama knows all the people who work here.”

“This is Lady Beatreaux,” Tristan says from behind me. “Milady, this is Simon.”

Simon’s head cocks, his eyes trailing up and down my form as if he’s judging whether I’ll get to live or die.

“Do we like her?” he asks.

Tristan chuckles, and the sound sends confusion tinkling through my insides, twisting up the narrative of him I’ve had painted in my head. He seems genuine with this child, as if he cares for him.

His stare burns through me as he places his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “We do.”

My breath catches, butterflies erupting until my stomach soars.

Simon scrunches his nose as he looks at me. “You’re still a girl though, so I can’t like you too much.”

I laugh, standing upright and running my palms down the front of my dress, trying to shake off the unsettled feeling brewing inside of me. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty, but there’s not much I can do to help that.”

“Yeah. I guess not.” His eyes glance over at me once more before turning to Paul. “I’m hungry. Got any grub?”

Twisting toward the prince, I place my hands on my hips, keeping my voice low. “Why are you always showing up everywhere I am? I was told you were a ghost in this castle, yet here you are. All the time.”

“Have you been asking about me?” He grins.

Irritation clamps down on my middle. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Does it bother you that I’m here?”

“You bother me, in general,” I reply.

He sighs. “My brother requests your presence. I’m simply the pony brought here to carry you back.”

I laugh. “I find it hard to believe you’d ever allow yourself to be ridden like a horse.”

His eyes flash, and embarrassment bleeds through me, realizing what I just said and how it sounded. His mouth opens, but I throw my hand in the air. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

“Tristan! You can’t leave!” Simon squeals, pushing past me so fast I’m jerked to the side. For the third time today, I’m surprised, as this small child throws himself around Tristan’s legs in a tight hug, and my irritation melts away as Tristan kneels until he’s level with the little boy’s face, brushing the smudge of dirt from his cheek.

“Have you been in the tunnels all day?” he asks.

Simon nods. “Yeah, don’t be mad. I just…” He leans in and lowers his voice. “When the other kids see me, they laugh. They’re mean.”

My heart twists violently as Simon’s knuckles blanch where he grips his toy sword. Moving my gaze from him, they land on Paul, whose expression mirrors the feelings swimming inside me—although when he sees me looking, he wipes the emotion from his face, spinning around to face the stove.

Tristan leans back, his nostrils flaring, his veiny hands and ringed fingers gripping the boy’s shoulders tight. “You’re a lion. Aren’t you?”

“Ye-yeah.” He sniffles.

“That’s right. And those kids? They’re sheep. We never allow ourselves to care about the sheep, little lion. Do you understand?”

Simon nods.

“You’re better than they’ll ever be,” Tristan murmurs, tapping his chin with his fingers.

A knot lodges in my throat, something heavy and warm settling in my chest and swirling outward, like smoke unfurling through my veins and heating every part of me.

Tristan stands, smoothing his hand over the top of Simon’s head before looking over at me.

“Come on, little doe. Wouldn’t want to keep your new husband waiting.”