“Everything will work out in the end.” He smiles.
“Of course it will,” I drawl. “Failure does not run in my blood.”
He smirks. “Technically, your brother has that blood too.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true.” I grimace. “I suppose I’ll have to drain him of every drop.”
Edward chuckles as we approach the dark wood doors, the deep-gray metal hinges creaking as he pushes them open and we step inside.
People’s attention coasts across my skin, infusing me with strength as I feed off their energy.
The banquet hall is drenched in black and gold, our family flag flying high above our heads, long tables covered in white linens running next to the walls. The largest of them is perpendicular to the rest on a raised dais, overlooking the room, and my brother sits dead center, flanked by his bride-to-be and our mother; his advisers filling the other seats.
My stomach pulls tight as I glance over the faces of all the people who have stood in my way. People who have never shown me the respect they give Michael, when he’s done nothing to earn it.
Heads turn as I make my way down the stone aisles, my boots clacking on the floor and echoing off the sky-high ceilings.
“The scarred prince,” someone murmurs.
Once upon a time that phrase cut deep, but now, I use it as fuel knowing that soon anyone who dares speak against me will have to beg for repentance at my feet.
My brother hasn’t noticed me yet, deep in conversation with my mother and Xander, but my little doe is a different story. A dangerous heat crawls up my insides, knowing that while it’s her and Michael everyone is celebrating, it’s me who has her eyes.
Edward makes his way to one of the side tables, taking his spot next to other higher-ranking military and immersing himself in conversation. It’s important to have plenty of eyewitnesses to attest that we were here.
I stop walking when I reach the platform, rocking back on my heels, my gaze never leaving Lady Beatreaux’s. Her head tilts, brows furrowing, and I smirk, my tongue swiping across my bottom lip.
She fidgets in her seat.
“Tristan,” Michael says, the deep bass of his voice bouncing off the walls. “What a lovely surprise.”
Slowly, I move my eyes from his betrothed’s to him. “Did you think I wouldn’t show, brother?”
“One can never be sure with you,” he chuckles, waving his arm at a servant. “Bring him a seat.”
“Lady Beatreaux.” I let her name slide off my tongue, my attention falling back on her. “You look devastating. My brother is a lucky man.”
A few gasps sound from behind me, no doubt surprised that I would be so bold. Excitement flutters in my stomach, wondering how she’ll react—how my brother will react.
She smiles, tipping her head, but I see the flash of irritation swirling through the deep brown of her irises. “Thank you, Your Highness. That’s very kind.”
“I know your manners are rusty,” Michael cuts in, his eyes blazing. “But be careful how you speak of my soon-to-be wife.”
His hand reaches out and grabs hers, and she turns toward him, her features softening as she tangles their fingers together on top of the table.
Green gusts whip through my middle, and my jaw clenches so tight it cracks. I tear my eyes away, worried that if I don’t, I’ll storm the dais and rip his fingers clean off his body, making sure he can never touch her again.
I make my way up onto the raised platform and walk behind the backs of every chair, until I come to stand behind my cousin, Lord Takan, who sits next to my little doe. The treacherous witch.
Bending down, I press a hand on his shoulder, the diamonds of my rings glinting as I squeeze. “Cousin, it’s been a long time.”
His body stiffens, wine goblet freezing halfway to his mouth. “Tristan, what a delightful surprise.”
I lift a brow. “Is it? When was the last time I saw you?” I ask. “At my father’s funeral?”
He clears his throat, placing his cup on the table, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the top. “I believe so.”
“Wow.” I whistle. “Two years. Incredible.” A servant interrupts, a large chair being hoisted between their arms, and amusement dances through my middle when Takan is forced to move out of the way to make room for me.
Once my chair is in place, I sit down, my legs stretching underneath the long white linen tablecloth that covers my lap. I turn my body toward my cousin, but I reach out with my right arm, placing my hand on Lady Beatreaux’s thigh. Her entire body stiffens, her fork clattering when it falls on the plate.