Scarred Never After Series, Book #2

“The truth is, I am yours. Wholly. Inexplicably. Painfully. Unconditionally.” He moves my hand until the dagger presses against his throat. “And if you need to sacrifice my soul so you’re able to live with yours, then do it.”

"Do you believe in God? he mutters, staring down at the hash.

I place my hands in my pockets, tilting my head. “I do."

“You hardly attend mass." He peers at me from under his brows.

"There's a difference in beliefs and blind worship, Michael. One builds a sense of self, and the other strips it away."

"Your Majesty." Xander's voice breaks through the fog. "May I cut in?"

Michael nods, and it doesn't escape my notice that I never get a say. No one asks if I’d like to continue. They just pass me around ike an obiect, here for everyone's viewing pleasure.

The shiny tile reflects people's smiling faces as they drink and dance the night away, and I can't help but feel like I'm watching a show. Hundreds of people who live in an alternate reality, so different from what I know to be the truth.

But isn't that the case with almost everything? We spin tales and weave stories, creating a narrative that dictates how we’re perceived. Or in some cases, how others live.

“That’s right," I say. "Water is the most powerful element in the world. Calm when needed and ferocious when tried. Never assume you know something's power because of how it appears"

And it only takes so many times of being thrown in the dirt and told you're a freak for you to believe it. That because you're a little different, you're somehow less than.

"Brute force can win a war, I start, heat dancing against my fingertips. "But our strength is in patience. In planning. That is what topples empires. Together we rule, divided we fall."

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.”

Ophelia, a young girl with rosy cheeks and bright red hair, and Marisol, a woman who is here to help train me for the king. Both of them sit in front of me, whispering words of adoration any time I so much as blink.

Part of me is disgusted because I know their loyalty is false, but the other part is enjoying their attention. There's something nice about being treated so well, even if it comes from a place of wanting to climb a social ladder.

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.

Xander spins toward him, his hand whipping through the air. "Are you not concerned, sire? Reginald is dead. And a filthy jackal has made it into court and tossed his severed head at your feet. screaming about 'the rebel king."

… My eyes flick back and forth between them. Did he just call that woman a jackal? 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.

Besides, sometimes the only way to enact genuine change is by becoming part of the machine and ripping out the broken pieces yourself.

Spinning until I face her, I lean down, reaching out to wipe her face, the ridge of her cheek hard against my palm. She sucks in a breath as she looks up at me, her eyes shimmering, and l press my thumb into her skin before pulling away to glance at my hand.

My stomach burns when I realize the pads of my fingers are still dry as a bone.

Actors, all of them.

“Mother,"I tsk."Stop the dramatics. Any more fake tears and you’ll wrinkle.”

If you want to burn down hell, you must learn to play the devil's game.

"If something happens, know that I will find you in every lifetime, Sara Beatreaux. You are mine, and not even death can keep you from me."

"Im going to kiss you now,"I tell her.

"Why?" she whispers.

"Because, ma petite menteuse, the thought of not kissing you makes me want to die."

"The truth is, I am yours. Wholly. Inexplicably. Painfully. Unconditionally." He moves my hand until the dagger presses against his throat. "And if you need to sacrifice my soul so you're able to live with yours, then do it."

“I’m going to kiss you now,” I tell her.

“Why?” she whispers.

“Because, ma petite menteuse, the thought of not kissing you makes me want to die.”

Our lips collided, and with just one touch—one single moment—I know I’ll never let her go.