Scarred (Never After #2)(7)
His lean frame lounges in the chair across the room, his blond hair falling over his brows. I glance down at the heavy wooden table, my touch smoothing along the rice paper in my hands, making sure the contents are wrapped nice and tight before I apply the gum edges.
“She was…” I pause, rubbing my fingers together to remove the sticky residue of the ganja, small bits of green buds still lingering on my skin. “Mediocre.”
I sit back, grasping a match and striking it against the rough edge of the tan Lucifer box, my gaze soaking in the bright orange glow of the flame. It transfixes my mind as I watch it burn down the wood stick, the heat becoming intense as it licks against my skin. I move the fire to the end of the cigarette, inhaling before allowing the light to extinguish.
“Michael Faasa’s bride is ‘mediocre’?” Edward laughs.
I hum, my mind picturing the girl who came through the castle gates earlier today, wide eyed and wild-haired, looking so eager to please. She irritated me with her sweet smile and the way she batted her lashes Michael’s way.
But it wasn’t my brother who stained her cheeks pink.
“The word in court is she’s quite the beauty,” Edward continues.
“My standards are much higher than that of the court,” I reply.
Lifting my legs, I prop my feet up, my black boots chunking down on the table as I cross my ankles. “She’s pleasing to stare at, but as useless as the rest of them.”
“What more do you need than beauty?” Edward shrugs. “Studious conversation?”
My chair tilts on its back legs until I’m staring at the textured ceiling, feeling cold even though there’s a fire roaring in the room’s corner. Or maybe that’s just my insides—where my heart used to be—now empty and lacking, a hollow ache that craves chaos just to see it burn.
Moving the joint to my lips, I inhale, the smoke pouring down my throat and into my lungs, providing a calm my nerves never feel without it. “Edward, it’s extremely unsettling to me you underestimate the wiles of a woman. They’re snakes in sheep’s clothing. Remember that, always.”
He purses his lips, his brows lifting and spine straightening, almost as if I’ve offended him. “You’ve always been dramatic.”
I blow a plume in the air. “I’ve always been right.”
Irritation sours my stomach at his loose tongue but reprimanding him will take energy that I don’t have, so I’ll file it away and remind him of it later when the mood strikes. Right now, I’d rather make him leave.
I’ve never been one to crave the company of others. Perhaps that’s because when I was a child, everyone could tell that I was just a little different, no matter how badly I tried to fit in.
And even if they couldn’t tell, my brother made sure they knew.
I snap my chair forward, the impact of the legs hitting the floor vibrating through my body. “Leave me.”
Suddenly I’m craving retribution; needing to rid myself of the memories from when I was powerless and at the mercy of Michael and his pack.
There’s an unofficial gathering to welcome Lady Beatreaux to court.
Unofficial because I’m not required to be in attendance.
Although, even if I were, I’m not known for adhering to the rules of nobility, and I doubt they’d expect me to show up. Which is exactly why I’ve come.
The “who’s who” of the kingdom are all here. High-ranking officials, Dukes and Viscounts from nearby areas, and all the ladies and gentlemen of the court. Laughter and small chatter echo off the high ceilings and stone columns of the great hall, crystal glasses clutched in bejeweled fingers and rosy cheeks that belay the truth of their intoxication levels.
My brother sits at the front on a raised dais, two empty chairs on either side of him, sipping wine and gazing at his people.
He’s always been this way, even when we were children; always needing to be above it all, flashy and glamorized, admired by everyone regardless of who he has to push down to do it.
The disgust rolls through my stomach, clawing up my throat as he flirts with a servant girl who fills his flute with more to drink.
I stick to the shadows, making sure to not draw attention to myself, wanting to see little doe-eyed Lady Beatreaux when she makes her way into the lion’s den. And I don’t need to wait long, because the double oak doors creak open and in she walks, her head held high and dark-black hair pinned back, perfect ringlets framing her face.
Her dress shimmers as she moves, the green complementing the pale cream of her skin, and it would be a lie for me to pretend she doesn’t steal the show. She draws every single person, like moths to a flame, as she makes her way through the crowd and toward my brother.
Behind her is that same wisp of a girl with sandy-blonde hair she showed up with. Suddenly, the girl stumbles, her foot sticking in the hem of my new sister-in-law’s dress, making them both falter in their steps.
Lady Beatreaux’s face twists as she cuts her a quick glare.
It’s quick—the slip in her mask—before she smooths the irritation and replaces it once again with a soft, appealing look, but awareness tingles down my spine, and my interest piques.
That interest grows when she stops in front of my brother and curtsies low before taking the spot next to him, his eyes sparkling and lips curving upward as he takes her in.