Page 19 of The Beauty and His Beast

“Oh! Um, bread would be nice. Maybe with cheese? And lentil and vegetable stew, please.”

Everild thought briefly of the hart, its lifeless body on the ground, butchered and sliced, its flesh tossed to the dogs. He swallowed the bitter taste that rose in his throat and smiled down at Camdyn.

“Whatever you want, Camdyn,” he said softly, meaning it with all his heart.

???

When they returned to the group, a loud cheer erupted from the gathered hunters. Udele, with a satisfied grin, patted their horse’s flank before lifting her fingers to her lips to blow a sharp whistle. The whistle echoed through the trees, releasing three piercing shrieks that sliced through the tension in the air. The call was a signal, unmistakable to all the hunters, that Camdyn had been found.

Everild dismounted with careful deliberation, his boots hitting the soft earth as he reached to steady his husband. He helped Camdyn down from the horse gently, sensing the exhaustion and uncertainty in his every movement. Everild’s men, loyal and silent, immediately gathered around them, forming a tight circle to block them from prying eyes. The two young attendants, faces flushed with embarrassment, hurried forward, babbling their apologies for leaving Camdyn behind in the woods. He merely flushed, his face turning a delicate shade of red as he tried to wave off their words, his voice trembling as he murmured his own apologies, the sting of his earlier fall still present in his quiet shame.

"My husband needs to rest," Everild barked, his voice firm and authoritative, his anger simmering just beneath thesurface. "Seat him by the campfire while I speak to the king. Do not allow Lord Redmane to approach him." Some of the men glanced toward Dustan’s group, and Everild saw the dark mutterings shared among them, the suspicion clear in their gazes.

An uncertain expression returned to Camdyn’s face as Everild kissed his forehead softly, trying to reassure him despite the storm inside him. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, his voice low and tender.

“Yes, my lord,” Camdyn murmured, his voice barely audible, his gaze dropping to the ground.

The disappearance of Everild’s husband had, oddly enough, not interrupted the conclusion of the hunt. The hart, once majestic, had been stripped clean, its carcass reduced to little more than bones scattered across the ground. Udele’s hounds, having completed their work, gnawed on the bones with a quiet hunger. The head was conspicuously missing, most likely taken to adorn the king’s walls as a trophy. Farther away, Everild spotted the king’s tent—erected with obvious care, though it looked somewhat smaller than Everild’s own bedchamber. His soldiers, always vigilant, recognized the fury on Everild’s face and instinctively moved aside to allow him entry into the tent.

Inside, the sight of his cousin lounging on a pile of pillows, casually drinking from a goblet, was enough to set Everild’s teeth on edge. The king looked up from his wine, startled by Everild’s sudden presence. He stood so quickly that his goblet tipped, spilling a cascade of red wine onto the dirt floor.

“Everild! You’ve found him, then? Is he all right? I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted this to turn out at all—” the king began, his voice smooth, rehearsed, but there was something strained in his tone, an underlying anxiety that only served to heighten Everild’s frustration.

“You’re always sorry,” Everild rasped, his words cutting through the air like a blade. His anger was barely contained, the pressure building inside him with every word. “What did you have to discuss with me? Talk and be done with it. I’m taking my husband back to our castle.”

Wilburg looked as though he wanted to argue, to push back against the demands, but he hesitated, clearly weighing his next move. With a resigned sigh, he set the goblet down on a side table and drew himself upright, a king who had momentarily lost his composure but was quickly regaining it. “Yes. Well. I wanted to talk about the future of the kingdom,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that immediately put Everild on edge.

Everild stared at him in silence, waiting for the king to elaborate. His cousin took a moment, gathering his thoughts, before speaking again.

“My successor,” Wilburg finally said, his words slow and deliberate, as though measuring their impact.

Everild’s expression remained unchanged, the silence between them heavy.

“I’ve thought quite hard about it,” Wilburg continued, an air of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “I’ve… made a decision. Gerald is probably confirming it with the other advisors as we speak.”

Everild’s mind raced. Was this about an adoption? Or perhaps a pregnancy? The king had certainly had his share of lovers over the years—men and women alike—but none who had ever seemed to hold a special place in his heart or family. Everild could feel the tension building in his chest, his suspicions rising as he tried to read his cousin’s intentions.

Unsure how to respond, Everild simply nodded, his voice cold. “Congratulations. To your dynasty. May it be long and storied.”

His cousin smiled, a look of genuine satisfaction crossing his face as he leaned back into the pillows. “Ah, it will be now, I think. I need someone respected, someone who will hold onto all the gains we’ve made—strengthen them, even. Someone who can truly unite the people,” Wilburg said, his tone turning a bit more earnest. “Camdyn’s father is one of the richest men in this kingdom, and his family’s old and well-loved. Their people are wild—they’ve never willingly bowed to me, but they’ll gladly bow to you with one of their own at your side.”

A cold shiver ran down Everild’s spine. His heart lurched in his chest. “What?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “What?”

Wilburg’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of calculation and expectation. “You can’t be a proper king if you don’t have the right consort, cousin,” he said, his tone condescending yet certain. “Didn’t I say I would take care of everything for you? A pretty, pious husband. The support of his family and their allies, money, soldiers. That summerhouse his father threw in for good measure. And a kingdom. That’s as good a present as any, isn’t it?”

The words hit Everild like a blow to the chest. “No, I can’t. I won’t. Why? Why me?” he asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

“Who else would there be?” Wilburg countered, his expression puzzled, as if the answer was so obvious it should be unquestioned. “You’re my cousin. You’ve been my lifelong companion. I’ve always sought your advice and your thoughts, haven’t I? You’ve never steered me wrong. And you’ve supported me, fought for me. Who else would I choose?”

The thought of Dustan entered Everild’s mind, sharp and unwelcome. “Dustan?” he asked, the very idea repulsing him, though he knew it wasn’t an impossible consideration. In terms of bloodlines, he was just as legitimate a choice as Everild, if not more.

Wilburg hesitated for the first time, his smile faltering. “I’ll admit, I discussed that with Gerald. But… He’s not popular, with many of the other lords and ladies. Or the officers, really.”

“Neither am I,” Everild snapped back, his patience running thin.

“Ah, but, you see, there’s been some—some accusations. Conduct during the war, some bedroom rivalries, that kind of thing,” Wilburg explained quickly, the words tumbling out. “I’ll tell him my decision, but I wanted to wait to tell you, first.” His eyes darkened slightly as he continued, “And besides, he’s not who I wanted. You’re to be the king, Everild.”

“I won’t accept. I’ll refuse it,” Everild growled, his words laced with venom. The very thought of wearing the crown made him feel sick. He had never sought it. As a youth, all he cared about had been swords, wrestling, and avoiding his lessons. As a soldier, he had only wanted to survive. And now? Now, he just wanted Camdyn. He wanted to see him smile, to hold him.

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