Chapter 28: Scarred: Chapter 26

I hadn’t expected to meet with the dowager queen in private, but she sent for me as if I was a pathetic servant just waiting for her to come and call. Truth be told, I don’t wish to see her, but my uncle urged me to go, stating how important it is to stay in her good graces until I’m in a position of power.

So, I strapped my blades to my thigh, dressed in the most expensive day gown I have, allowed Sheina to cinch up my corset extra tight, and here I am, taking in shallow sips of breath while I follow Timothy down the hall.

“Do you know the Queen Mother?” I ask him.

“I do,” he replies.

“And?”

He quirks a brow. “And what?”

“Well, what am I walking into here, Timothy? Is she the rose or is she thorns?”

“Milady, she’s no rose.” He chuckles as we approach her door, turning to face me. “But neither are you. I think you’ll handle yourself just fine.”

Maybe I should be offended by his words, but instead, there’s a comfort that spreads through my chest—because he’s right—I am no rose, and I like that he sees me enough to know that.

The door swings open, a young lady in a simple pale-blue dress smiling and stepping to the side, allowing us to move into the room. My hands are clammy, making my pink-lace gloves stick to my palms, but I breathe in as deep as my corset allows and straighten my shoulders to fake the confidence I’m not feeling inside. We’re in her personal quarters; a place I’ve never been, and I’m struck at how similar to mine the sitting room is.

Deep browns of wood accent the red and cream wallpaper, and a fire crackles in the center of the room. There are two burgundy couches facing each other, and at the head are two brown leather chairs surrounding a small round table, already set with a tray of tea and white china with blue birds and gold trim.

None of that, however, is what catches my attention. Because from the second I walked into the room, I could feel him. A hum that weaves through the air and dances on my skin, wrapping around my middle like rope.

I try to resist glancing his way, I do, but I give in, acknowledging—perhaps for the first time—that my self-control with the prince is severely lacking.

My father’s pendant weighs heavily around my neck.

Our eyes lock. Tristan’s gaze peers like I’m an animal at a circus, and even though he’s across the room, it feels as though I’m on display just for him. My already shallow breathing stutters as he flicks his stare down to my decolletage, my thighs tensing to stem the ache flaring between them.

Timothy clears his throat, his hand grazing my elbow, and it’s only then that I snap out of it, tearing my eyes away and focusing on the woman I’m here to see.

Queen Gertrude Faasa: the woman who stood by while her son killed my father, watching him hang for daring to question the crown.

Rage burns bright in my gut.

I step forward, dropping into a curtsy, the pale-pink hem of my dress fluttering on the ground at my feet. “Your Majesty.”

“Come here, girl,” she snaps. “Stand up straight and let me get a good look at you.”

Her words slice through the air like a knife, demanding and almost cruel in their tone. I move forward and when I come to a stop before her—her eyes squinting and jaw setting as she catalogs every piece of me—I’ve never wanted to revolt more.

“So you’re the girl here to marry my son.” Her eyes trail up my form. “Do none of your ladies know how to tame those wild curls?”

My back stiffens at her shallow insult, but my confidence surges, realizing that she’s resorting to petty remarks instead of bone-deep jabs.

I let out a small laugh. “Curls like mine are difficult to tame, ma’am. My ladies do what they can with what God gave me.” I tilt my head. “Perhaps you could do my hair one day and show them how it’s done.”

Her lips purse. “And what makes you worthy to wear a crown, Miss Beatreaux?” She smiles and I move without waiting for her invitation, sitting down on the couch next to her.

“Please, make yourself at home,” she quips.

I smile so wide my cheeks ache. “Thank you.”

“Tell me.” She nods toward one of her ladies. “Do you come from nobility?”

“My father was a duke.”

The same girl who opened the door steps forward, pouring tea into the fine china before moving back to her place against the far wall.

“And what does he do now?” the Queen Mother continues.

The pit in my stomach gapes wider. “Rots in the ground, unfortunately.”

A sharp laugh from behind us catches my attention, the sound making my stomach flutter. I twist my head, glancing at Tristan who’s leaning against the door, his black boots crossed at the ankle. I’m not sure why he’s still here, but oddly, I find his presence comforting. Almost as if he’s standing at my back instead of hers.

“So, he’s dead then?” she asks. I turn my attention to her, the butterflies in my belly dissipating as soon as she speaks.

“He is, ma’am,” I confirm, although the conversation is sending a wave of anger through my veins.

She doesn’t remember him. She knows my name, knows where I’m from, but doesn’t even remember.

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 you at 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 you tried to build.”

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

Tingles race along my spine when I feel a delicate brush at the nape of my neck, and I suck in a breath, my insides tangling tighter than they were before.

Tristan is touching me, his fingertips ghosting across my skin, making goose bumps pebble down the length of my body. Panic at his mother seeing mixes with the thrill of being touched, and instead of leaning away, I press back, my stomach flipping and surging until it settles next to my racing heart.

I don’t dare look his way, but I can feel him staring.

And I shouldn’t enjoy it how I do.