Page 52 of Scarred Crown

She picks at the food on her plate, not eating anything, tearing several things apart. “That’s a very privileged stance.”

“You think the grandmother was right?” I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice. Another reason none of my charities are medically based. Life and death decisions aren’t for me, especially if there’s even a sliver of hope. I’d pour my fortune down a black hole for a pinpoint of light.

Julia sips her spritzer and takes a while to answer. “No, I don’t. But I also don’t live here. This isn’t my life, my culture, my survival. Do I think there are certain situations where death might be a mercy?” She meets my gaze. “Yes.”

“Name one,” I challenge.

She avoids my gaze and sips her wine, surveying the platter of food. “You know, I was really hoping for some of that rice pudding. I’ll go ask about it.”

Before I can gather my thoughts on her abrupt change in mood, she’s unzipping the tent and slipping out the door. We’ve had the right to life debate before, and she’s never backed down. Slightly different arguments for different purposes, but I handed her this discussion on a platter.

Then the real reason annoyance has been niggling at my brain since she unzipped the tent crystalizes—she didn’t grab anything from the hooks by the door. She shouldn’t be headed down the path alone at night.

“Julia!” I pluck a flashlight off a hook and duck out of the tent behind her.

But I’m barely out the door before I bump into her stiff back.

“Jules?” I ask when I register her trembling.

I follow her gaze, and my heart knocks against my chest. Realization dawns on me, and I fight the urge to sweep her into my arms and run.

Ahead of us, less than one hundred feet away, are a lioness and two cubs. The cubs are crouched low, but the lioness is clearly startled by our appearance. A mother and her cubs.

Jesus. This is not good.

“Nick.” Her voice quivers. “I don’t know what to do.”

Nick

Fourteen years ago

Ever since I can remember, the last weekend of the summer has been dominated by my father’s extravagant, country-wide, birthday party. A bottle of estate wine is delivered to every household on the island, and everyone is buoyed by the celebration. Other events are stressful, and perhaps for some people this one still is, but for us kids, it’s a gravy weekend.

We dress up in our finest, but since my father keeps the guest list small—only a few hundred hand-selected people—we’re able to be ourselves with less scrutiny. Everyone in attendance is trusted by the monarchy to run favorable stories, keep our stupidity out of the gossip circles, and enjoy themselves.

It’s my favorite weekend of the year.

Last year and this year, it’s doubly my favorite since Alex returns to uni on Monday. Can’t come soon enough.

“What time is Jules arriving?” Alex asks while he peers into the mirror of our shared and expansive powder room. Attendants are still running around the three of us, but they aren’t quite so sticky about perfect hair, straight bowties, and crisply pressed pants.

“You’ve become as bad as Nick.” Brice runs a hand through his light brown hair, and Bea, who is normally in charge of final touches, winces at the disheveled mess he leaves behind.

Perhaps not everyone is as relaxed about our appearances as the three of us like to believe. But she doesn’t rush to fix the disorder either. Seems like a win.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Alex sniffs.

“Where’s Jules? Where’s Jules?” Brice mocks, pretending to search the room frantically.

“He’s not Jules’s type,” I mutter. Brice’s comment stings. Even though I’d prefer to ignore Alex, he’s made his interest in Jules about as subtle as a Mack truck plowing into a wall. Thankfully, she seems oblivious.

It must burn him that she’d rather be with me as a friend than with him in a relationship. This is the only time in my life where I’m certain I can’t lose. In the past, whenever we’ve gone after the same thing, he’s come out on top either legitimately or through devious means. The only fair play Alex is interested in is one that puts him on top. Drives me a little insane the façade he’s constructed of being such a good boy. How many times have I heard that murmured comment to our mother or father at parties when Alex is holding court? People eat up his brand of bullshit like candy.

For my part, I’ve learned that competing with him is futile. He’ll do anything to win—no matter who he tramples, no matter the cost. Whatever Alex wants, Alex gets.

As a result, I can’t help feeling a bit smug he’s become hung up on a person he’ll never be able to get. Not that I’ll have her, but at least he’ll never have her either.

She’s not interested.