Xander’s palm is quick as it whips through the air, the crack reverberating off the walls as the woman’s face is thrown to the side.
“That’s enough. Let her speak.” Michael’s hand flies up, his gaze falling on her. “You’ve already committed treason. Surely you know death awaits you. So finish your message, filth, and then rot in the dungeons.”
“He’s coming for you,” she singsongs, her body seeming to vibrate in place.
“Who?” Michael demands.
She stills. Her head lowers the tiniest amount, and her mouth breaks into a smile so wide, you can see every single rotten tooth.
“The rebel king.”
CHAPTER 5
Sara B.
The king’s private office is as beautiful as the rest of the rooms in the castle. Deep-purple velvet covers almost every inch of the dark mahogany furniture, and intricate paintwork lines the ceiling, money bleeding from the walls.
The room itself is spacious, almost as large as my personal quarters, but even with its size, it feels stifling.
A tall, thin royal guard stands to attention behind Michael’s desk, and Michael perches in front of it, leaning against the lip. His eyes move back and forth, tracking Xander as he paces a hole in the carpet.
The Queen Mother is nowhere to be found—I haven’t even met her—and Prince Tristan disappeared after the decapitated head rolled to our feet. Honestly, I was surprised to see him there at all, having been told he rarely makes appearances in court. But I’ve been here for two days and have seen him twice already.
My stomach tightens and I shift in my seat, thankful he isn’t here right now. He’s unsettling. He stares at me as though he can see into the darkest corners of my soul. Or maybe that’s just his darkness reaching out and trying to find the blackest parts of mine.
“Xander, you worry too much. Have a cigar and calm down,” Michael says, flipping open a cedar box on the corner of the desk.
He puts one into his own mouth before passing the other off to Xander, who takes it with a sharp look.
My cousin is worried. It’s clear in the crow’s feet that crinkle the corners of his eyes and in the frown lines that deepen with every passing second. His bony fingers run through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and when they aren’t busy pulling on the strands, they’re adjusting his circular glasses that slip down the bridge of his nose from his jerky movements.
“I’d like to speak with Uncle Raf,” I interject.
It’s all I’ve been able to think of since the scene in the great hall. I hadn’t expected there to be an uprising on the outskirts; a mystery man wanting to take the throne for himself, and I’m desperate to find out more. I’m fascinated by the blind loyalty that bled from the treasonous woman’s soul; her willingness to sacrifice so much for her leader, making curiosity bite at my insides.
And I need to figure out if this is a wrench in my plans.
The worst type of ignorance is one that can be avoided, yet isn’t. I won’t allow myself to fall into that trap.
And my uncle, he’ll know what to do.
Xander turns to me, although his words are for the king. “Sire, I don’t think it’s safe to allow communication on such sensitive terms.”
Something hot spikes through my chest at his disagreement.
“I’ll tell my father,” he continues, deciding to speak to me instead of around me.
“Cousin, I’d prefer to speak with him myself. He’ll worry once he hears news.”
Xander frowns. “Sara, you aren’t here to tell us about your preferences. You’re here to be the king’s bride. All you need to do is sit down, look pretty, and let me handle things. He’d want to know you’re safe, and I’ll ensure he does.”
My stomach twists, but I settle back in my seat, my hands folding together on my lap.
Michael’s eyes are watching me, their glassy sheen peeking through the cloud of smoke that curls around his face.
“Xander, don’t be so harsh on the girl,” he says.
Xander spins toward him, his hand whipping through the air. “Are you not concerned, sire? Reginald is dead. And a filthy hyena has made it into court and tossed his severed head at your feet, screaming about ‘the rebel king.’”
Michael straightens, his jaw tightening. “Yes. We were all there.”
My eyes flick back and forth between them. Did he just call that woman a hyena? My jaw tightens at the derogatory name. It’s no secret that’s what the “have nots” are called in this country, but to hear it being spoken so plainly, as if they aren’t worthy of names or respect just because of their circumstance, slaps against my insides and makes me seethe with anger.
“Regardless, this isn’t proper conversation for a beautiful woman.” Michael winks at me.
Xander nods, running a hand through his hair again. “Yes, of course not. Timothy,” he snaps, spinning to the royal guard in the room's corner. “Escort Lady Beatreaux back to her quarters.”
Disappointment plops in the middle of my gut, but I’m not surprised they’re sending me away. I’m not stupid. They won’t say anything of importance in front of me, especially before we’re wed, and if I’m honest, most likely even after. Women aren’t granted the same respect as a man, as if what’s between my legs has anything to do with the way my brain works or my ability to process information.
I was about to pluck my eyeballs out from listening to these two morons drone on, anyway.
I rise from my seat and move toward King Michael, curtsying. “Your Majesty.”
His hand tips up my chin, bringing me to a stand. “Sara, sweetheart. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to become better acquainted. But you know what they say... good things come to those who wait.”
I force a small grin. “I’ve always been told patience is rewarded.”
His eyes flare, and that’s my cue.
My skirts rustle around my ankles as I walk to the heavy wood door. Timothy, the royal guard, moves behind me, the black and gold of his uniform highlighting the deep tan of his skin; so different from the pale creams I’ve seen so far in this region.
“Timothy, right?” My voice echoes off the cold stone walls of the castle halls.
He glances at me out of his peripheral but stays silent.
“Are you from here?”
Still, he stays silent.
“Saxum, I mean.”
After a few long moments of no response, I sigh. “Alright, then. Not a conversationalist. Xander was speaking of that woman. That… hyena?” The word is rough on my tongue, and I watch his reaction, not expecting a verbal response, but hoping he gives away clues on his face.
He doesn’t. He’s trained well.
“Are you mute?” I purse my lips. “Or just not allowed to speak.”
The corners of his lips twitch.
“Honestly, that sounds terrible,” I continue. “Doesn’t it bother you? Being told that you can’t even talk?”
He side-eyes me again as we approach the wing of my personal quarters, stopping once we reach my room.
I reach out, the metal knob rough against my fingertips. Timothy moves to the side of my door, his back straight and his eyes scanning the area. I pause, my stomach tightening. “Are you planning to stand out here all night?”