Page 31 of The Beauty and His Beast

Once the door was shut behind them, the sound of the lock clicking into place shattered Everild’s resolve. He collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed by the weight of everything that had just transpired, wracked with sobs.

Camdyn rushed to his side, alarm and concern written across his face. “Are you hurt? Everild, what’s wrong?”

Everild pulled him into a tight embrace, his face pressed against the softness of Camdyn’s green tunic as his body shook with emotion. “They thought I mistreated you. They thought I beat you—that I raped you.”

Camdyn’s hands ran gently up and down Everild’s back, soothing him. “I know, Everild. I’m so sorry. They were so wrong, and they should’ve never said such things to you.”

“I would never hurt you,” Everild choked out.

“Oh, Everild, I know. You protect me. You’ve only ever protected me.”

Everild’s voice was thick with emotion as he whispered against Camdyn’s neck. “I don’t deserve you. The things I’ve done... they stole you from the monastery to give you to me, of all people. You would’ve been a saint if not for me.”

Camdyn chuckled softly and pulled back to gently wipe Everild’s face. “You think too much of me. I would not have been a saint. I’d have been barely a tolerable cleric. And—I realize that the life you’ve had has affected you, in ways. But please, just know that—that when my brothers came to the monastery and told me I was to be married, all I hoped for was that my husband would be kind to me. And you have been, you’ve been so kind. You’ve been more than I ever could have asked for. I’m so glad it was you who met me at the altar. Thank you for being my husband.”

Everild’s breath shuddered, and tears spilled anew as Camdyn’s gentle hands soothed him. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, Camdyn.”

He cried until exhaustion claimed him. Camdyn guided him to their bed and curled up next to him. “I’m alright,” Everild murmured, his voice fragile. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Camdyn replied softly.

They lay together, the warmth of Camdyn’s presence comforting Everild as his tears dried and his breathing returned to normal. Camdyn nestled into his side, their usual position in bed, with Everild’s arm wrapped protectively around him.

“Everild?” Camdyn’s voice was soft, hesitant.

“Yes?”

“What Gibson said, about you being king—what did he mean by that?”

Everild sighed softly, his voice hoarse from talk and tears. “At the hunting party. The king told me that he’s made me his heir. And that he married me to you because your family is powerful, and would be my allies.”

Camdyn thought for a moment before asking, “You’ll be king one day, Everild? But why didn’t you tell me?”

Everild hesitated, his voice thick. “Because I don’t want to be king. And because I didn’t want to upset you. So much has changed for you recently, going from a novice to a lord’s husband. I thought that—the prospect of being married to a king, to being a prince consort—that it might scare you off.”

Camdyn kissed the corner of Everild’s mouth, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’ll be a good king. You take care of me and everyone else in this castle. There’ll be many more people to be responsible for, but I’ll be there to help you as best as I can. Don’t worry. I won’t go anywhere without you.”

Everild couldn’t find the words. He was struck dumb by the kindness Camdyn had shown him and the deep affection he held for him. Taking Camdyn’s hand, he kissed the inside of his wrist, his heart swelling with love and admiration. Imagining a future with Camdyn by his side, finely dressed and radiant, he whispered, “I can only try. But I know that with you with me, I’ll be at my best.”

Camdyn smiled, his eyes warm, and they held each other close.

???

When he woke early the next morning, Everild immediately noticed the absence of Camdyn, the side of the bed where his husband had been softly snoring just hours ago nowempty, though still warm. It felt wrong, the warmth of the sheets where his love should have been. His heart sank slightly, but he quickly pushed the concern aside, washing his face and dressing as usual. He told himself Camdyn must simply have gotten up early, as he often did, to tend to some task or another. Breakfast would wait, he thought. They would share it together as they always did.

But as the minutes stretched into an hour, and then two, the feeling of unease deepened. There was no sound of Camdyn’s light footfalls in the hallway, no cheerful call of his name to join him for breakfast. Everild’s thoughts raced, and with them came the creeping tendrils of panic. The chapel. Camdyn had often gone there in the early mornings, for solitude or prayer, or perhaps simply to center himself. Surely, he thought, Camdyn could not have disappeared from there, not with the chapel being so secure, the only possible way out through the hall, where staff were always present. There had been no mention of any disturbance. And yet—could he have changed his mind? Could he have slipped away while the house was still asleep, hiding his departure behind a guise of early morning prayers? The thought made Everild's chest tighten.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Everild bolted from the bedchamber, his heart racing in his chest. He hurried down the long, familiar corridors of the castle, as if the walls themselves might hold some clue to his husband’s whereabouts. The sound of staff moving in the great hall met his ears—scraping chairs, the soft rustle of cloth, and the faint scent of herbs and polish drifting through the air. He rushed toward them, desperation in his eyes, seeking reassurance, even if he wasn’t sure what he hoped to find.

In the hall, some of the staff were cleaning the stained glass windows, their movements graceful and practiced as they dusted the panes with care. They moved with an air of serenity,a calmness that contrasted with Everild’s frantic pulse. As they noticed him, their polite smiles barely faltered, though their eyes held the knowing look of those who had seen the fluctuations of a newlywed’s emotions. These past weeks, Everild had swung between uncontainable joy and anxious fear—something the staff had come to understand, even if they chose not to comment.

“Where’s my husband?” Everild croaked, his voice thin with uncertainty.

One of the women, a middle-aged servant who had often attended to Camdyn’s garden, gave him a long, appraising look. "Why, my lord Everild, lord Camdyn’s only gone out to tend his garden."

The garden? Everild’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But he does that in the afternoon,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even as they left his lips.

The woman shrugged, unconcerned by Everild's obvious alarm. “Well, I’m just telling you what I know, my lord. Your husband’s out in the garden. You’ll have to ask him what he’s up to.”

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