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But not this.
Something is wrong. My churning gut almost confirms it before I even acknowledge the hypercell of energy in the main hall as I enter. Standing under the main archway, pillared by two muscular men here for different reasons, I see what I’m not meant to across the room.
My heart falters as I realise how generous time has been to him.
He’s greeting those around him, a warm smile with an ice-cold edge drawing people in, making them indebted to him with a mere shake of the hand. Subconsciously, I palm at my dress, hoping to get rid of a crease that doesn’t exist, and I hate myself for allowing him such an instant effect on me.
“Is that him?” Andreas speaks over my shoulder, clearly having noticed my actions.
“You know about him?” my old friend barks questioningly.
“Yeah.”
Watching everything unfold, ignoring the ghost of my past, I can’t find more words to speak. This should have been a moment of triumph. I was meant to come back, a rise from the ashes, and everyone would bow at my feet, but it seems the new heir has been coronated and we don’t even share a bloodline.
As if in slow motion, his eyes catch mine. My breathing slows into a faltering pulse, my heart ceasing its one ability, but as I start to unravel, the gaze quickly passes. Unseen and unwanted, I exhale and realise that in the wake of my father’s death a bigger game was playing out.
“We need to leave.”
The words are pushed out in one quick breath, and I’m turning on my heels, fully prepared to walk back through the onlookers who had taken in my entrance with such disbelief.
“Tally, what the hell?” Andreas asks, unable to keep up.
“We need to leave.”
“I did warn you,” my old friend calls out, but he doesn’t move.
“Fuck you.”
“What the fuck was that?” Andreas asks, his voice twisting with confusion. “You’ve got to talk to me, Talia.”
I don’t.
I’m too angry to form words. Every jagged edge is threatening to cut every vein and artery, forcing me to bleed out on the marble floor beneath my feet, finally bleeding me dry.
I may not utter a single word, but that’s only because Andreas wouldn’t like what I have to say. The red mist that’s descending only wants one victim, regardless of the collateral damage, and Andreas would fall prey right at the starting line.
Breaking free of hell, I only know two things to be true:
Beckett Knight just made himself public enemy number one.
Queen takes King.
Chapter Two
BECKETT
“The prophecy’s a crock of shit.”
The statement coincides with the slamming of a door, but my temper doesn’t dissipate.
“Ah, there he is! The pessimist I’ve come to love!”
I snigger wryly but take a swig of my drink to hide it from any passing gaze. The liquor hits just right, burning down my throat as it goes. Nursing the crystal tumbler, I head out of the open French doors, grabbing the wrought iron railings of the balcony.
“I’m not here to joke, Seb. I mean it. The prophecy’s a crock of shit.”
“That or the Abernathy name just went to the grave with Nicolas.” His quick matched response is forever ready when I’m about fit to burst with anger. “C’mon, Beck. This is everything you wanted. You can’t be thinking of the alternative.”
