Page 53 of The Beauty and His Beast

Camdyn entered the church alongside his husband, not arm-in-arm but hand-in-hand.

The inside was already packed with spectators—officials, advisors, nobles. Camdyn recognized one of the men who had initially objected to his charity banquet, the one who had kissed his hand thrice when they met. There were familiar faces from his wedding as well, though he couldn’t place a name to any of them.

Up on the balcony, he spotted Gibson and Kenelm. His eldest brother leaned against a column. His gaze drifted from Camdyn’s to Everild’s, and he gave Camdyn a small nod.

Everild nodded back.

Was that an apology from his sibling? Camdyn wondered, bewildered. And did his husband accept it? The two men were more alike than they thought—sometimes they were both quite odd.

On the other side of the balcony stood his father, looking pleased beyond belief. All his great planning had come to fruition: his youngest son, married to the king, bringing their family into the royal fold. Camdyn would let him have this moment because his father would never be in his presence again. It would be his first declaration as prince consort.

He squeezed Everild’s hand again—those big, rough, callused fingers—and was heartened when his husband squeezed back.

They stepped in front of the priest. Camdyn turned and watched the rest of the procession file into the church and find places to stand.

A hush fell over the crowd as the priest cleared his throat. He was an old man, white-haired and slightly stooped, but he had a kindly face that reminded Camdyn of Cenric. He indicated that Camdyn should step to one side. When Camdyn let go of Everild’s hand and moved, the priest smiled and opened his arms wide.

“Who is this man who stands before me?” he asked.

Everild took a deep breath and spoke, his voice deep and slightly rough, but loud and clear. “My name is Everild. The people call me the Beast.”

“Is this your only title?”

“No,” Everild said. “They call me king.”

The priest addressed the spectators. “Is this so? Is this your king?”

A raucous cheer rose from the crowd. It shook the church. Shouts and cries of “Long live the king!” echoed throughout the building, a never-ending chant of support.

Camdyn pressed his hands to his heart. “Long live the king,” he whispered.

The strength of the crowd’s support seemed to have surprised his husband. Everild stared at the priest, wide-eyed, as he waited for the next prompt.

The priest gently patted his shoulder. “And why are you here, oh great and noble king?”

“All my life is a gift from God,” Everild answered. “I was born by Their love. I am here today by Their grace. We are all Their subjects, and I am a man like any other. I will rule only with Their blessing.”

“Then kneel, Everild the Beast, and humble yourself before God.”

Everild knelt. Camdyn unclasped his cloak. His husband’s tunic was loose for this purpose—the priest gentlypulled it off him and handed it to Camdyn, who took it in his hands and draped it over his arm.

His husband’s broad back, thick with muscle and covered in scars, was revealed to both God and the spectators.

The priest anointed him with oil, brushing a hand across Everild’s forehead, shoulders, neck, and chest. It smelled like roses. “May your reign be long and bountiful,” the old man said.

He held his hand out for Everild’s tunic. Camdyn hastily passed it back to him. He wrapped the cloak around Everild’s shoulders after he was carefully redressed. Then the priest took the golden crown, heavy with jewels and the lives of past kings and queens, and placed it on Everild’s head.

“Rise! Greet your subjects, King Everild.”

Everild stood, turned, and bowed deeply.

“Long live the king!” The shout started up again. “Long live the king!”

Now it was Camdyn’s turn.

They waited for the cries to die down before the priest turned to Camdyn. “Who is this young man who stands before me?”

It was Everild who spoke first. “He is called Camdyn. He was a novice, but now he is my love. My husband.”

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