Page 9 of The Beauty and His Beast

“Here’s the happy couple,” Wilburg said in a singsong voice, his tone slurring slightly as he swayed on his feet, supported only by Dustan. “God, but you’re a gorgeous thing, Camdyn. We heard you were, but not like this. If I’d known, I might have married you myself. What do you think, Dustan?”

Dustan offered a humorless smile, his gaze lingering over Camdyn’s form with cold detachment. “A very fine husband you found for the Beast,” he said, his words deliberate and unsettling.

Camdyn shifted uncomfortably, his hands twitching as he fumbled with his utensils. “Um. Thank you, Your Majesty? Lord Redmane?” he murmured, clearly unsure how to respond.

Everild’s stomach twisted in irritation, and he felt his patience wearing thin. His voice was low, a guttural edge to it as he addressed the king. “Just here to congratulate us?”

Wilburg grinned widely, a manic gleam in his eyes as he gestured with a wobbly hand. “Oh, always to business with you, Everild. Keeping me on track, as always. That’s why—” He hiccupped, a lopsided chuckle escaping his lips. “Oof, I think I’m pickling myself as we speak. But don’t worry, not tonight. Tomorrow, or the day after. Soon, we’ll talk.”

Everild’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he nodded stiffly, his voice clipped. “Soon.”

The king tottered back to his seat, waving for more wine, completely ignoring the heavy air at their table. Meanwhile, Everild watched as the musicians struck up a lively tune, the clapping of guests filling the space as Camdyn withdrew deeper into his own thoughts, lost in memories of a life that no longer existed.

Everild sighed, his hand brushing through his hair in frustration as he motioned for a servant to refill both his and Camdyn’s goblets. They had been drinking this concoction all night—a sweetened mixture that was far more water than wine now, flavored with fruits and honey, with only a dash of fermented grapes left to give it any bite. It was far from the crisp, rich drink Everild would’ve preferred, but he had lost interest in that too. He watched Camdyn hold out his goblet, the young servant struggling to hide his awe as he poured. He was so absorbed by the sight of Camdyn that he nearly overfilled the cup, spilling a drop of the drink onto the tablecloth. Camdyn offered a warm, sincere “thank you,” making the servant blush as he hurried off, clearly lost in the sight of the man he had just served. Camdyn watched him leave, a curious look passing over his features, but Everild’s focus shifted quickly. He couldn’t afford to be distracted for long.

Dustan, of course, saw his opening immediately. The man leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with that nasty, cruel amusement that Everild had come to despise, and sneeredin their direction. “I see,” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery, “plying him now so you can plow him later. A wise strategy.” His laughter rang out, vulgar and cruel, cutting through the room like a blade.

Camdyn shrank into himself, his face turning a deep red, eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to suppress the sting of the words. “Congratulations, cousin,” Dustan continued, his voice an almost sing-song taunt, “Enjoy your first rut with your little lamb tonight.” Each word landed with a sickening thud in Everild’s chest.

The fury that rose in Everild was immediate, almost primal. His fists clenched, and he bared his teeth. He could have said so much, could have crushed Dustan’s spirit, shut that vulgar mouth once and for all, but it was all for nothing. Dustan merely chuckled to himself, clearly reveling in the discomfort he had caused, and walked off, leaving a path of unease in his wake. Everild’s jaw tightened, and he reached for Camdyn’s hand, intending to assure him that nothing of the sort would be taking place.

But Camdyn flinched, his body trembling as if the words had struck him harder than any physical blow. His gaze dropped, and he muttered an apology, his voice laced with uncertainty and shame. “I’m—sorry, my lord,” Camdyn whispered, barely audible. His hand trembled as he lifted his goblet to his lips and drained it in one go, the motion stiff and robotic, as if he was trying to numb the awkwardness, the discomfort, the fear.

Everild’s chest tightened at the sight, his heart aching in response. Why should Camdyn apologize? He had done nothing wrong—nothing. It was Dustan, the bastard, who was at fault here. And yet, the thought that Camdyn might now believe all Everild’s kindness, his warmth, was simply a way to lure him into bed gnawed at him like an open wound. The thoughtmade him feel sick, a wave of nausea sweeping over him as he glanced down at their half-eaten plate of beef, the sauce dark and red, pooling like blood around the tender meat. The food—everything—felt so distant now. He could hardly stomach the sight of it.

The noise in the hall pressed in on him, a cacophony of music, laughter, shouting, and the endless clash of drunken conversations. The air felt thick, the heat from the large fires mixing with the body heat of the crowd, until it was almost unbearable. The din was suffocating, the conversations spiraling into near arguments, and all Everild could do was sit there, trying to find some air, some peace, but there was none to be found. People continued to swarm their table, eager to congratulate them, to gawk at Camdyn as if he was some sort of prize to be ogled.

The men and women who approached them were all finely dressed, their laughter polite, their words smooth and practiced. They made Everild feel like an outsider in his own life. These people had never bled for anything, never worn armor, never fought for their survival. He felt out of place, dressed in his doublet, feeling heavier than ever before. The weight of the fabric, the velvet shirt against his skin, all of it felt like a personal affront, something that made him itch with discomfort. He wanted to rip it off, throw it to the floor, and leave it all behind. Why was he even here? He was tired of these games, tired of the false smiles and whispered compliments.

Where were they still feeding the fires in the kitchens? How could it possibly be getting hotter? Sweat dripped into his eyes, his vision blurred. His head swam, and his stomach clenched in unease. He wiped a hand across his forehead, but the dizziness only worsened. He needed air. Camdyn. Was Camdyn even well? He was wearing so many layers, his clothes were so heavy, surely he was overheating too…

Just as he was lost in these spiraling thoughts, his attention snapped back when he saw Camdyn handing a small child, Young Aoife, back to her sister. A smile—genuine, bright, free of the earlier tension—spread across Camdyn’s face, and for a brief moment, Everild could see the joy there. It was fleeting, but it was enough. His husband seemed in better spirits than earlier, and Everild tried to hold onto that small victory, but before he could comment, the siblings surrounded them like a shield wall, their voices cutting through the noise.

“You seem in much better spirits than this morning, darling,” Cera remarked, her tone laced with concern.

Camdyn’s smile faltered as he opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. “Forgive me,” he began, but trailed off. “I didn’t mean to cause such a scene. But… Father…” His voice cracked, and Everild’s heart sank. He tried to catch sight of his father-in-law through the crowd but couldn’t. The constant bustle around him made it impossible to focus. Where was he? He couldn’t seem to find him, couldn’t find any way to push through the rising tension in the room.

Kenelm cleared his throat. “Well, the two of you seemed to be getting along well enough,” he commented, his eyes darting between them.

“Oh, um, yes. I think we are,” Camdyn murmured, but his voice was fragile, uncertain.

Gibson, ever the pragmatist, cut in, his words directed at Camdyn, but his gaze was locked on Everild. “Just remember what I told you. As soon as you can—”

“Gibson!” Cera interrupted sharply, but it was already too late. Everild’s patience, already fraying, snapped entirely. He shook his head, trying to block out the noise, trying to make it all stop, just for a moment. Their voices were like a beacon in the chaos, sharp and invasive.

Where was the exit? The thought raced through his mind, but he couldn’t think clearly. How had he let them get so close, how had he not noticed how overrun they’d become? He was unarmed, without his armor, vulnerable in ways that made him feel exposed. He needed out, he needed space, he needed—

“My lord? My lord! Everild!” Camdyn’s voice cut through his spiral. Everild blinked slowly, his focus snapping back to his husband, whose face hovered before him. Camdyn’s small hands were on either side of his head, holding him steady as his eyes filled with worry. “You’re all sweaty and shaking. Are you okay? Water, someone get—oh, thank you!” Camdyn quickly grabbed a pitcher and filled Everild’s goblet with cold, refreshing water.

The cool liquid cleared his head enough to focus, and Everild took a steadying breath.He straightened up, his voice firm but gentle as he spoke. “We’re leaving.”

Camdyn frowned, confusion in his eyes. “To where?”

“To bed,” Everild replied, cutting off any further protest. His exhaustion weighed heavy on him, and the stress, the anger, the discomfort—it all rose within him like a wave. He felt his body tremble, and he just needed to rest. Let these people take the plates, the wine, the food.

They could empty the cellar, the larders, take everything. But in their bedroom, they would find peace, silence, and rest.

With one swift movement, he stood—too fast, and the dizziness hit him again. He grabbed Camdyn’s hand and pushed through the sea of siblings, their angry, concerned expressions fading in the distance as he stormed past them, leaving their chatter behind. He moved with purpose, feeling the weight of their stares, but he didn’t care. All that mattered now was getting to that bed.

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