His body trembles, but he nods. “Good. Do you know what my favorite part about an ethanol fire is?” I ask, glancing down at the glowing end of my joint.
The uniformed men who are now my loyal soldiers leave the bar, walk down the steps, and move to stand behind me.
“Your Highness…” the man says as I spin around to face him.
“It’s extremely difficult to put out the blaze,” I continue, cocking my head. “You might want to move.”
He throws his body forward at the same time I flick my joint, grinning as it hits the building and catches on fire. I watch the flames, satisfaction brewing in my gut, before twisting to make sure the others have started theirs as well.
They have.
The guy on the ground gapes, wide eyed at the four burning buildings, smoke curling up in the air as people scream and run outside, trying to escape the fires.
I step closer to him, gazing down as he trembles at my feet. “Tell my brother that if he doesn’t give me Sara, I will burn this entire city, this entire country to the ground, until he has nothing left to rule.”
CHAPTER 54
Sara B.
This time, although I’m still in chains, at least I’m in a room.
It’s been days now. They haven’t hurt me physically; in case they need to use me for photos in the press.
They’re trying to lure Tristan in by using me as bait.
And through it all, the only thing I can think of is he’s alive. He made it.
The door to my room opens, Michael and my uncle stepping inside, the way they do every day around this time, just to torment me.
“Sara,” Uncle Raf starts. “We don’t wish to keep you chained up forever.”
“Then kill me,” I hiss.
“You are my blood, child. Don’t be absurd.” He sighs, walking toward me and sitting on the edge of the bed. Hatred burns bright in my chest as he does. “Change is scary, I know. We’ve lost your cousin, and your father, may they rest in peace.”
My insides boil at the mention of my father.
“But change is also good,” he finishes, leaning in to pat my hand, the chains clanking when he does.
I spit in his face.
Rage twists his features, and he slams his hand against my cheek, his rings cutting across my skin. Smirking, I fling the curls from my eyes and glare at him. “Finally, Uncle. Your true colors show after so many years.”
Michael sighs from across the room. “I’m tired of you two bickering. I should kill you just to be rid of it.”
“I wish you would,” I quip. “If you think Tristan’s angry now, just wait until he hears that I’m dead.” I smile. “I think I’ll come back and haunt the castle walls just to watch the show.”
Heavy footsteps make their way down the hall and bang against the door.
“Enter,” Michael spits.
A young soldier runs into the room, his brow sweaty and his face pale as if he’s seen a ghost. “Your Majesty.” He bows. “I have a message.” His eyes flicker around the room, hesitating when they land on me. “From your brother.”
My heart leaps in my chest.
Michael stands straighter, walking toward the man. “And?”
“He’s crazy, sire. He… he’s burning everything. He sent me to tell you that he won’t stop. Not until you give her back.”
Michael’s head tilts, growing still and calm. “What do you mean he’s ‘burning everything?’”
The man’s eyes flick to me one more time, and I lean in, something eager swirling through my gut, thinking of Tristan coming to save me. Just like he said he would.
“I mean, the entire main strip of Saxum is gone, sire,” he whispers. “And now they’ve moved on to the eastern end. And the fires… water isn’t working. They’re spreading fast.”
Michael roars, flipping the table next to him, the lamp sliding off the top and smashing to porcelain pieces on the ground. He turns to face me, pointing his thick fingers at me. “This is all your fault.”
I grin, my blood heating in my veins. “You reap what you sow, Michael Faasa. May God have mercy on your soul when Tristan gets his hands on you.”
Yells sound from down the hall, and Uncle Raf stands from where he was still sitting against the bed. Marisol appears in the open doorway, her cheeks flushed. Hope springs alive in my chest. I wasn’t sure if she had survived after freeing me.
She drops into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
“Speak, woman.” Michael paces back and forth, wearing a hole through the deep burgundy carpet.