Page 26 of The Beauty and His Beast

“Camdyn?” Everild’s voice broke through his musings. “I want to show you something. When you’ve finished eating.”

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The castle’s walls were bordered by large, grassy fields. Everild walked him a little away from the stone structure, to where the forest was just visible but where the castle’s shadow still reached them. They stopped at a small plot where the grass had been cleared and the soil upturned.

Everild rubbed the back of his head with a hand. He looked nervous. “You wanted a garden. I thought this might be a good spot. Is there enough sunlight? Is the soil fertile enough? I don’t know what you can grow now. Never grown anything before. But I can help till the soil for you.”

Camdyn inspected the plot of land. From where the area sat in relation to the castle’s walls, there should have been more than enough sunlight for the crops. And the soil was dark, nearly black—excellent! He smiled. “It’s perfect, Everild! If I start planting spinach now, we’ll have some by winter. I could plant onions, too, but those wouldn’t be ready until summer—carrots and peas by early spring, perhaps—“

Relief bloomed across Everild’s face. “You like it, then?”

“I love it. Thank you.”

His husband pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Anything you want. Just ask for it. I want this place to be a home to you. For you to find comfort in it.”

Camdyn blushed. “Then, could you—I want you to kiss me like you did at our wedding,” he said.

Everild nodded. Camdyn closed his eyes and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, he felt Everild grab either side of his face and give him a peck on the nose.

His eyes flew open. “Everild!” he scolded.

There was the beginning of a smile on Everild’s face. “That’s how I kissed you,” he said, innocently, his brow furrowed in mock confusion.

“Well, I meant the other kiss.”

“Was there another?”

“Yes!”

“Remind me.”

Camdyn murmured, “You held me like this.” He took Everild’s hands and put them on his hips. Everild gave him a squeeze. “And—and I had my hands like this—“ He pressed closer and placed his palms on his husband’s broad chest, fingers splayed.

His husband’s voice was low. “Now I recall,” he said.

Before, Camdyn had thought that he simply didn’t like to kiss. All the young men who had visited the monastery—ostensibly for prayer or shelter, but always seeking him out as soon as they could get away from prying eyes—neither their hands nor their lips had ever much interested him. The way they had put their mouths on his had been a curiosity, a way to while away the time, and Camdyn had honestly felt little else but bemusement at their activities and mild irritation at the merchant’s son, who always tried to slip his hand up his robes no matter how many times Camdyn slapped it away.

But with Everild, it was—it was odd, difficult to describe, because he never tired of it, their kissing. Each time it felt as though they were at the altar and all Camdyn could feel and see was Everild, how warm he was, how strong and protective. But that first kiss, and all the ones after—it was as though it had always been Everild he had been waiting for. They slottedtogether perfectly, their lips against one another’s, their fingers laced together, the way Camdyn fit underneath Everild’s chin when they embraced.

His husband was, as always, careful with him, his fingers brushing lightly against Camdyn’s bruises. But his kiss was hungry. Everild’s tongue licked against Camdyn’s lips and then into his mouth as if searching for a lingering taste of honey, wet and hot and wanting. It made Camdyn’s heart pound and his knees tremble, but—

But he could tease, too. He laughed at Everild’s groan when he pulled away. “More of that later,” he commanded. “I want to meet the rest of the household today.”

As he pulled Everild back to the castle, he heard his husband say, both amused and a little frustrated, “Yes, my lord.”

Chapter Seven

Later that night, after the day’s bustling activities had finally settled down, Camdyn excitedly told the cooks about his plans for the charity feast. He eagerly discussed every detail, his eyes shining with excitement as he spoke, but the cooks started to look increasingly harried. Their hands were busy with last-minute preparations, and some of them gave weary glances toward him as they tried to keep up with the mounting workload.

In the midst of this, Aldaay came to find Everild. He asked to speak with him privately, and they retreated to Everild’s study for a more discreet conversation.

“You weren’t as discrete as you could’ve been this morning,” Aldaay said, his tone calm but carrying an edge of concern.

Despite the memory of Camdyn’s delighted reaction to the garden and the lingering taste of his lips on Everild’s tongue, the events of the morning were still too raw in his mind. His husband had been so vulnerable, cowering and sobbing in their bed while his father loomed over him, angry and threatening. Everild had felt powerless at that moment, watching the man who was supposed to be a protector instead become a source of fear and pain for his beloved Camdyn.

During dinner, Camdyn told him the entire story, his voice trembling as he spoke. He fidgeted nervously in his seat,his linen napkin crumpled in his lap, and his face flushed with embarrassment as he explained how his father had grabbed him. How he had hurt him—physically and emotionally. Camdyn had clearly struggled with the weight of what had happened, but he told Everild everything.

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