Page 11 of Scarred
He follows the movement before understanding dawns on his face, and he makes his way toward them. And then, suddenly, there’s a piercing scream that wails through the air, so curdling it makes the ends of my hair rise.
“By God!” someone else yells.
Edward rushes through the crowd then, all pretense having disappeared, tackling the figure and wrestling them to the ground. The stranger drops to their knees, and the hood of their cloak falls with them; long, dirty hair spilling down the intruder’s shoulders.
It’s a woman.
Something heavy thuds, and it’s followed by shocked gasps and squeals. People jump backward, looks of horror overcoming their features.
As if in slow motion, the object rolls toward the dais and comes to a stop almost perfectly in front of Michael’s throne.
He shoots up from the seat, his gaze widening as he stares down at Lord Reginald’s severed head, his gaping eyes and lolling tongue blue; severed neck tendons dangling, having left a trail of blood behind it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Michael demands.
Edward jerks the woman to stand, wrenching her bony wrists behind her back with one hand, and gripping her hair in the other, forcing her to meet Michael’s gaze.
My heart rate speeds up, fingers steepling as I watch the scene unfold.
She smiles wickedly, her eyes glazed and crazy. “This is your warning, Michael Faasa III.”
“Warning from who?” Michael booms.
Her grin widens.
Michael’s fists clench, his jaw muscles working back and forth. My eyes move from him to his bride-to-be, expecting her to stare in terror, and selfishly wanting to revel in her fear; to soak it in like sunshine and let it fuel me through the night.
But she sits in silence instead, her head tilted, a curious sheen coasting across her eyes. She’s perfectly poised and seems unaffected.
Interesting.
“I am your king,” Michael snaps.
The woman bends at the waist, a high-pitched cackle pouring from her mouth and bleeding into the tense and silent air. Edward pulls her upright, tightening his grip on her skull.
She spits on the ground. “You are no king of mine.”
Xander appears out of the crowd, storming his way to stand in front of the maniacal woman. “Who did this to Lord Reginald? Was it you?”
She grins, her head tilting so far to the side, her neck looks as though it may snap in half. “I’d do anything to please His Majesty.”
Xander’s palm is quick as it whips through the air, the crack reverberating off the walls as the woman’s face is thrown to the side.
“That’s enough. Let her speak.” Michael’s hand flies up, his gaze falling on her. “You’ve already committed treason. Surely you know death awaits you. So finish your message, filth, and then rot in the dungeons.”
“He’s coming for you,” she singsongs, her body seeming to vibrate in place.
“Who?” Michael demands.
She stills. Her head lowers the tiniest amount, and her mouth breaks into a smile so wide, you can see every single rotten tooth.
“The rebel king.”
CHAPTER5
Sara B.
The king’s private office is as beautiful as the rest of the rooms in the castle. Deep-purple velvet covers almost every inch of the dark mahogany furniture, and intricate paintwork lines the ceiling, money bleeding from the walls.
