Page 59 of Scarred
I brush off invisible lint from the sleeve of my arm. “You’d be surprised what a lady knows, Simon.”
“That’s right, you should never underestimate a woman. Especially this one,” someone booms from behind me.
The voice makes my heart dive into my stomach and I spin around, coming face-to-face with a broad chest and a sparkling smile.
“Uncle Raf,” I gasp. “What are you doing here?”
His icy blue eyes gleam as they trail me from head to toe, his weight leaning heavily on a dark wooden cane. “Hello, sweet niece.”
“And who are you?” Simon interrupts, having walked forward to stand in front of me, his sword pointing at Raf’s chest.
My uncle glances down, his smile withering away as he takes in who’s questioning him. My eyes narrow, the need to protect Simon surging through my blood like a fire.
“This is my uncle, Rafael Beatreaux.” I place my hand on Simon’s shoulder.
“And this is His Majesty,” I say to Raf, my eyes widening.
Simon glances up at me, his amber eyes sparkling. My breath whooshes from me as I look at him, realizing for the first time that his eyes bear a striking resemblance to Michael.
My chest caves in on itself.
No. Is he?
Uncle Raf laughs. “Surely, you jest.”
I shake my head. “No, he’s the king. Don’t you know how to greet royalty with respect?”
Simon’s chest puffs out. “Yeah. I’m the king.” He shoves the tip of his sword into uncle’s leg, and I stifle the laugh that wants to burst from me. “Bow before me.”
Raf glances between us, and with every second he doesn’t play along, my ire grows.
“Little lion.”
Two words and my insides flare to life.
My spine stiffens, hating the way my body reacts to the simple sound of his voice.
Simon spins on his heels, dropping his sword and tripping over himself to run and greet Tristan, and I can’t help it when my heart squeezes, seeing the genuine affection in Simon’s gaze.
He loves him.
And he might be the only one who does.
I glance up from Simon, meeting Tristan’s eyes. Butterflies explode in the pit of my stomach, and dread follows, wishing that I could force them away. I don’t want them.
“Is that…” Uncle Raf’s hand reaches out to grip my forearm, but his touch is cold compared to the heat from the prince’s gaze.
“It is.” I step away, removing myself from his grasp.
“The scarred prince,” he whispers.
My chest twists.
“Don’t call him that,” I snap, turning to glare at him.
“Why is he staring at you like that?” he asks.
I blow out a breath and force a smile. “Probably wondering why I still exist. He isn’t my biggest fan.”
