Chapter 4: Scarred: Chapter 2

“Tristan!” The childlike voice soars across the courtyard, and I glance up from where I’m lounging against the trunk of the weeping willow, charcoal lining my palms and sketchbook splayed open in my lap. I rub my fingertips on my pant leg, flicking my head to move the strands of hair from my face.

The small boy skips over, stopping when he’s in front of me, his clothing loose and dirty, like he’s been running through the secret underground passages all day.

The ones I’ve shown him.

“Hello, little lion,” I say, amusement tiptoeing its way through my insides.

His face splits into a grin, his amber eyes sparkling, a sheen of sweat causing his light-brown skin to glisten. “Hi. What’re you doing?” He peers down into my lap.

I straighten, closing the book. “Drawing.”

“For your arms?” He nods toward my tattoos, hidden beneath my long-sleeve tunic, the dark ink peeking through the cream fabric.

The corner of my lips tilts up. “Perhaps.”

“Mama says those things make you a disgrace.” He lowers his voice and leans in so close his nose almost brushes against my forearm.

Disgust rolls through me at the fact that a scullery maid assumes she has any right to speak my name.

I tilt my head. “And what do you think?”

“Me?” He straightens, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“You can tell me.” I lean forward. “I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

His eyes sparkle. “I think I want some too.”

My brow quirks. “Only the bravest little lions can have them.”

“I’m brave.” His chest puffs out.

“Well then.” I nod. “When you get a little older, if you still feel the same, you come see me.”

“Simon!” a woman’s voice hisses as she runs forward, her gaze growing wide as she looks between us. She stops short when she approaches, her black skirt dusting the ground as she drops into a deep curtsy. “Your Highness, I apologize if he’s bothering you.”

My jaw tics, irritation bubbling in the center of my gut. “I wasn’t bothered until just now.”

“See, Mama? Tristan likes me,” Simon says.

She gasps, reaching out while still in a curtsy and gripping her son’s arm tight. “Address him appropriately, Simon.”

“Why? You never do.” His forehead scrunches.

Her shoulders grow taut.

My stomach burns, my hand trailing along my brow bone, feeling the thin line of raised flesh that runs from my hairline to just above my cheek.

She needn’t worry about voicing what we both know she calls me. It’s what everyone calls me, although never to my face. They’re all far too cowardly for that. Instead, they speak it in secret, their whispers soaking into the stone walls until even the silence suffocates me with its judgment.

“Tristan is fine, little lion.” I stand, brushing off my pants as I do. “But only in private. Wouldn’t want the others to get any ideas.”

“Simon,” his mother snaps. “Go back to our quarters. Now.”

He glances at her and then at me. I give a slight nod and he smirks. “Bye, Your Highness.”

Spinning around, he runs off.

His mother stays in her crouched position, head bowed, until a loud commotion at the front gates has her rising and turning toward the noise. I step in close, my hand reaching out to cup her cheek and turn her face back, the small slivers of muted sun peeking through the clouds and glinting off the silver of my rings.

“Kara,” I purr, my fingertips stroking against her silky, dark skin.

She sucks in a breath as our gazes lock.

My grip tightens until she winces. “I didn’t give you permission to rise.”

Her breathing stutters as she drops back into a curtsy, once again bowing her head. I stare down at her, her son’s earlier words churning like a storm inside my mind.

“Your son says you love to speak of me.” I step forward, the tips of my shoes hitting the hem of her skirt. “You should be careful about the things you say, Kara. Not everyone is as forgiving. Wouldn’t want word to get around that you seem to have forgotten your place. Again.”

I crouch down in front of her. “Is it true you believe I’m a disgrace?”

She shakes her head. “He’s a child. He loves to make up stories.”

“Children have such incredible imaginations, don’t they? Although…” My hand reaches out, my fingers skimming across the back of her neck. I revel in the way her body trembles beneath my touch. “If anyone knows about disgraceful acts, it would be his mother.”

My hand grips the knot of tight ringlets on the back of her head and pulls, satisfaction burning through my chest as she gasps in pain. I lean forward as her back bows, my nose brushing against the side of her face.

“Do you think I don’t know?” I hiss.

She whimpers and it makes my stomach tense in delight.

“That I’m as stupid as every other person who walks these castle halls? That I don’t see the resemblance?”

“Pl-please…” she stutters, her hands pushing at my chest.

“Mmm,” I hum. “Did you plead for him like this?” I whisper in her ear, my free hand grasping her throat. My eyes glance at the royal guards lining the entrance gates and the bystanders gathering around them. A few people’s gazes skim over us, but just as quickly leave.

They all know better than to interfere.

“Do not make the mistake of confusing me with my brother,” I continue, my fingers flexing in her strands. “And don’t forget your place again, or I’ll take great pleasure in reminding you.” I release her, pushing her head until she collapses onto the ground, her hands reaching out to catch her fall. “And unlike him, I won’t care how much you beg.”

Standing straight, I pick up my sketchbook and stare down at her, enjoying the view of her cowering at my feet.

“You may rise.”

She sniffles as she stands, brushing the dirt from her clothing, and keeping her eyes pointed toward the ground.

“Go.” I flick my hand. “Don’t let me see you out here again.”

“Sir,” she whispers.

I turn before she finishes speaking, walking to the shade of the weeping willow and leaning against its trunk, the bark scratching against my back. Xander, my brother, and his personal guard, Timothy, walk out of the castle doors and into the courtyard, making their way to where an automobile is rolling through the gates.

Curiosity holds me in place like my feet are encased in lead, and I watch from the shadows, my grip tightening on my notebook as Xander moves toward the auto and opens the door. A thin woman with blonde hair peeking from under a purple hat exits first, smiling, before moving to the side.

And then a dainty hand reaches out, and another woman places her palm in Xander’s.

My stomach rises and falls like an avalanche, knowing that I should take my leave but not being able to move away.

Because there she is.

The new queen consort has arrived.