“I didn’t want to interrupt.” I smile.
His green eyes are calculating, as they move from the top of my head down to the hem of my thin skirt and back, every millisecond pumping more blood through my veins, my heart working overtime as I try to control my reaction.
“Lost?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “Taking a leisurely stroll.”
“Hmm.” He nods. “Is that something you do often?”
“What, walking?” I reply, holding his stare, even though it makes my chest pull tight.
He steps in closer. He’s dressed down, dark pants with suspenders hanging off his waist, and a light tunic rolled up to his elbows, the black ink that’s etched into his skin on full display.
I swallow around the sudden dryness in my mouth. I’ve never seen a tattoo in person, but he’s covered. Intricate designs weave their way from his forearms and disappear beneath the fabric of his clothes. I’ve heard the whispers, even in Silva, of the scarred prince having drawings on his flesh, but I had thought they were only rumors.
It surprises me how much I like them.
His brother, King Michael, is attractive. But Prince Tristan is hauntingly beautiful.
He tsks. “I meant eavesdropping, little doe.”
“I’m no doe.”
“No?” His head tilts. “Then what are you?”
My chin lifts as I hold his gaze.
He’s so close now I can see the jagged flesh clearly on his face, and I bite back the urge to reach out and touch it; to ask him what the true story is of how he got his scars. It doesn’t disfigure him the way you’d expect. Instead, it makes him even more striking, adding to his already intimidating stature.
But I don’t falter. I don’t retreat.
My nostrils flare as I move in even closer until I can taste his breath as if it were my own.
“I’m your future queen,” I whisper. “Maybe you should show some respect.”
His eyes spark at this, his hand reaching out and touching one of the spiral curls that’s fallen from my hairpin. He winds it around his finger, the corner of his mouth lifting into a mocking grin. “Well then, I’ll be sure to work on my curtsy.”
Anxiety stomps through my center like a stampede of wildebeests, but I keep my face neutral, so he doesn’t realize how strongly he’s affecting me.
“Do you think you’ve earned it? Respect.” His voice is soft as it slices against my skin.
I keep my breathing shallow, not wanting to suck in the lungfuls of air my body is craving, afraid that if I do, my chest will brush against his torso.
My teeth grind together, my mind whirling with a warning to tread carefully.
“I do,” I reply.
His brows lift, and he steps back a space, the strands of my hair bouncing as he releases the curl. His fingers rub across the front of his mouth. My eyes catch on the glint of diamonds in one of his silver rings, realizing they’re the eyes of a lion, mouth wide as if in the middle of a roar.
His family crest.
My stomach flips when my gaze comes back to his, and the air grows thick, wrapping around us both with an unspoken challenge.
A loud slam echoes off the walls, making my gut fall to the floor.
Quick as a flash, Tristan’s large hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me fully into the room, my fingers grabbing for his chest so I don’t topple over from the sudden movement. His arm winds around my waist to steady me, pulling me flush against him.
“What are you—”
His other palm smacks against my mouth, his rings cutting into my lips.
“Quiet,” he demands. “Unless you think being caught alone in a dark hallway with your betrothed’s brother is good for your reputation.”
That shuts me up.
He doesn’t remove his hand, and my stomach squeezes tight, my heart pumping blood so hard it whooshes through my ears. Glancing down at me, his fingers tighten around my waist. My body heats in response.
His jaw muscles tighten, and he releases me, shoving until I stumble, my hand reaching behind to catch myself from falling.
“Don’t let me find you down here again or I won’t be so kind.”
I huff. “Don’t presume to tell me what to do, and think I’ll listen like your little servant girls.”
His eyes narrow and he moves forward, pressing into me until my back hits the cold stone of the wall. “Jealous?”
“Hardly,” I bite out.
“Careful, little doe. Keep running into places you don’t belong and someone may mistake you for prey.”