I scoff. “Please. You don’t own me.”
He grins. “Now who’s the liar, ma petite menteuse?” He thrusts himself against me again, and my traitorous legs fall open, giving him more room.
Leaning down, he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, kissing me with teeth and tongue and spit. It’s sloppy. Messy. Everything that I crave, but nothing I can have.
“I’ve killed many men,” he whispers against me. “And I remember the face of every single one, soaking their image into my brain as they pray to me for absolution.”
“You have a complex,” I sneer.
“Sara, I didn’t kill your father.”
I stop fighting against his hold, growing slack in his arms, confusion racing through me as my brows draw down. “No, you did. My uncle told me it was you, he—”
“Wants to take the crown,” he cuts in.
I’d love to deny it, and for the next few moments, that’s what I do. I search every single crevice of my memory, trying to drag up something that proves his innocence. That proves he would never. He was so convincing in his plight for me to kill the rebel king, and if even that wasn’t genuine, then I wonder if I really have known him at all.
My uncle has been like a second father to me. But he’s also been the one in my ear at every turn, fanning the flames of my fire and directing them on where to go. Was everything manipulation for his end goal?
“You were their scapegoat, little doe. The one who would take the fall for the murders of the monarch and blaze the path for them to steal the crown.”
My chest cramps. “What?” I shake my head, disbelief pouring like icy rain through my body.
His fingers press against my lips, brushing over them in a soft caress. “You know I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” I say again. “He wouldn’t, I’m his family.”
Even as I say the words, the truth sinks into my bones, making them ache, and I know.
I am such a foolish woman.
Sympathy coasts through his eyes. “I’ll be your family now, little doe.”
My chest feels heavy, and my soul feels worn, but there’s also a sense of relief that lifts a burden from my shoulders, the chains tying me to the Beatreaux name breaking away and smashing as they fall to the ground.
“Swear it,” I plead. “Swear to me, on your father’s grave, that you speak the truth.”
He cups my cheek. “I swear it on my father’s grave, Sara. I will only ever tell you the truth.”
My gaze moves back to his, my heart swelling as I stare into his perfect face. “Did you mean it when you said you loved me?” I ask.
He sighs, moving my arm from above my head and resting it over his racing heart. “I’ve only ever wanted one thing in my entire life. The throne. I’ve been plotting and planning for so long, I can’t remember what life was like before. And I’m so close, Sara. So close to victory.”
My stomach tightens.
“But you…” He licks his lips. “You could burn down the entire kingdom until it’s nothing but charred rubble, and I would crawl over the embers with glee, so long as I could worship at your feet.”
My insides quake from the magnitude of his words.
“If that’s love, then yes, I love you.” He lifts a shoulder. “I can’t feel anything but loving you.”
I bite back the emotion that’s stampeding through my chest, lifting my hand to push the stray hair off his forehead. My breathing stutters, and I know that with my next words, everything will change. “I love you too.”
His eyes darken, and his cock pulses against my center.
“And it would be such a shame not to see you wear the crown.”
CHAPTER 47
Tristan
“What are you drawing?” Simon’s voice cuts through my concentration and on instinct I jerk away, trying to hide the work in progress from his view.
He grins at me, his gap-tooth smile making something loosen in my chest, and I lean back against the bark of the weeping willow, watching as he plops down next to me, laying his toy sword at his side, and peering over my arm again, trying to get a good view.
“Is that lady?” he asks when I don’t respond fast enough.
I hesitate for many reasons. The foremost being that Simon is ten years old. He has loose lips without meaning to, and I’m unsure what will happen if he runs and tells his mother that the prince was drawing pictures of the king’s fiancée. I have no clue whether she’s still warming Michael’s bed, but there are many people in this kingdom who will take information and use it to give themselves an advantage, no matter how trustworthy they seem. And I don’t trust Simon’s mother as far as I can throw her. Anyone who allows their child to be beaten and bullied or doesn’t mind if they run through tunnels all day long doesn’t deserve to have a child.