Mine, Forever After Read online

  “But that doesn’t mean he needs to take care of every single thing in the kingdom now,” Gray argued. “He’s made it right by taking responsibility. In fact, he’s taken on much more than he could possibly handle. We both know I could help with the burden.”

  “You pointed this out, and he still refuses?” Evrard asked—even though he already knew the answer. Of course Gray had asked. Rory had never even turned him down. But then he’d never actually made an effort to include Gray either.

  “He never outright refuses,” Gray explained. “But it’s become clear that he’s not going to assign me more important tasks until he believes that it’s a good idea.”

  “Perhaps …” Evrard paused for dramatic effect, something he’d always enjoyed and now used far more than was necessary, now that he was back at court. “Perhaps your position needs to be more official. Then it would not be a matter of Rory choosing to include you, but a matter of royal protocol.”

  It took Gray a long moment to realize what Evrard was saying. “You think we should be married?” It was hard to keep that edge of disbelief out of his tone. He and Rory were already committed, already in this together through both the successes and the failures. Their union was even official enough that Lion’s Breath had decided he deserved to wield the power it held.

  “Did you not intend to be married?” Evrard inquired mildly.

  That was an even stupider question. “Of course. Someday,” Gray said. Except that, truthfully, there had been much unspoken assumption and no actual conversation about it—except when Rory had asked him if he wanted to continue carrying Lion’s Breath. They’d both known what that meant implicitly, and what it meant when Gray said he did. But somehow, in all their time together, they had never discussed having an actual wedding.

  “It didn’t seem important right now,” Gray added ruefully. “Rory being crowned officially seemed much more pressing.”

  “It was much more pressing, but I do believe having a wedding, in which you both commit yourselves to each other and to the kingdom of Fontaine, will solve both your problems admirably.”

  “So humble,” Gray grumbled.

  If Evrard had been in human form, Gray could imagine his insouciant shrug. Both elegant and infuriating, a special skill of Evrard’s. “You have come to me for a solution to your problem with Count Aplin and the Duke of Rinard’s displeasure and a way to convince Rory to transfer some of his burden of kingship to you. This does in fact solve both problems admirably. It solidifies your position and gives the kingdom a chance to celebrate, thus muffling any discontent and also requiring Rory to share his duties with you as his official consort. A neat, tidy solution, and one, I might add, that you already had planned on performing, someday.”

  Per usual, Evrard was not wrong. His overconfidence was then not misplaced, and his ego continued unchecked.

  Annoyingly unchecked. Gray sighed.

  “I do not doubt the solution, only the timing,” Gray said.

  “Ah, then this hesitation is borne of romance. You wish to get married because of love, not because of matters of state.” Evrard sniffed. “You are a prince, and Rory is a king. Your love affair might have been foretold for many years, but that does not mean you are not incredibly blessed to have your soulmate be your chosen mate. Many others are not so lucky.”

  Gray knew the marriage between his parents—which had eventually become a happy one—had been arranged. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry Rory; indeed, the opposite was true. But he could not, with a clear conscience, suggest marriage now to Rory, without further explaining why the timing was ideal.

  “Rory isn’t going to agree,” Gray finally said. He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t being entirely honest either.

  “You should still ask.” It was framed as a suggestion, but Gray knew better because Evrard’s tone had become particularly stern.

  I will try one more time to convince him, before this step is necessary, Gray thought to himself as he took leave of Evrard to return to the royal suite and dress for the banquet. Surely I can convince him.

  Chapter Two

  The banquet was as crowded as Gray had worried it might be. He’d gone over the invitation list himself, and then helped undertake the onerous task of assigning seating based on rank. But it was one thing to see hundreds of names in tiny print on a long scroll of parchment, and quite another to see the faces all those names represented, crowded together, even though the reception rooms at Beaulieu were enormous and dwarfed even the throne room in Tullamore.

  It was no surprise that since he had spent so much time in the Valley, with only his own thoughts for company, Gray still found such crowds daunting. He put on a good face for Rory, because this couldn’t have been easy for him either, as he understood Rory had rarely participated in such gatherings prior to his coronation, but like all things, they were in this together.

  “I feel like I cannot even catch my breath,” Rory muttered as he and Gray stood at the very end of the receiving line, bowing to every noble and aristocrat that had deigned to attend—which, it seemed to Gray, was all of them.

  So far, they had yet to see either Count Aplin or the Duke of Rinard, and for that Gray was extremely grateful. Still, there had been a distinct coolness in the air as they’d greeted some other members of the court—nobles that prior to this evening, Gray might have counted as at least impartial.

  Rinard had warned him, Gray thought morosely. They needed to combat this growing discontent quickly and without drawing any additional attention. Maybe Evrard was right, and the best way to fix all their problems would be to make what was currently unofficial, very official.

  “I think we are almost at the end,” Gray reassured Rory, tightening his fingers on the back of the gold embroidered white silk tunic he wore. “It will be over soon.”

  Rory glanced up at Gray, his amber eyes wide and filled with exhaustion. “Sometimes it feels like it will never be over.”

  Straightening, Gray greeted the next guest, and then the next, before he had a chance to respond. “You should let me help,” he repeated. It was the kind of entreaty he’d made many times before, and always Rory had kindly but firmly brushed him off. But now, Rory hesitated.

  But before he could answer, the Duke and the Count, arm in arm, stopped directly in front of them.

  “Highness, Your Majesty,” the Duke of Rinard said. He bowed, as befitted both Gray’s and Rory’s positions, but Gray remembered enough of his own etiquette training to know it was not quite low enough to greet a king. Perhaps not an overt slight that anyone else might notice, but enough that it made Gray uncomfortable. Rory shifted next to him, Gray’s hand falling away from his back.

  “Duke,” Rory greeted Rinard coolly. “And Count Aplin is with you as well. How appropriate.”

  The Duke leaned over, brushing a quick, possessive kiss over the Count’s cheek. “I did not realize you were aware of my consort,” he said. His voice slithered across Gray’s consciousness, and his anxiety, already heightened, ratcheted higher. Maybe Rory had been aware the Duke and the Count were committed consorts, but Gray hadn’t known. Not for the first time, he thought what good he could do by creating a network of informants, even within Beaulieu itself. It would prevent anyone from developing unsavory ideas, and keep Gray informed when they did.

  Not only was Rinard developing them, but Aplin clearly was as well. The hair on Gray’s neck prickled as Aplin’s eyes, usually a mild gray, flashed an odd glowing green.

  But as soon as Gray had seen the change, it was gone, leaving him wondering if he had really seen anything at all. Surely, if another member of the court possessed magic, the same kind of magic as Sabrina, someone would know. And since nobody ever kept their mouth shut here, someone knowing typically meant everyone knowing. But he had heard nothing of this phenomenon and it filled Gray with an anxious dread.

  “Of course I am aware of Count Aplin,” Rory responded smoothly, “I made sure that my own consort supplied him wit
h rooms appropriate to his station for this very banquet.”

  Aplin frowned, and then his expression smoothed. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing at precisely the same height as Rinard had.

  Watching their backs as they departed, their figures melting into the thousand invited nobles, Gray realized that if Aplin was Rinard’s consort, he could not be nearly as harmless and easily dismissed as he’d hoped. There was a conspiracy afoot, and Gray was going to have to untangle it before it suffocated Rory.

  “How did you know about the rooms?” Gray asked. Aplin had passed along the message to Gray, but Gray had declined to ever give it to Rory. Had Aplin found another method to deliver it?

  Rory shot him a long-suffering glance. Gray looked down the line and saw there were easily another twenty-five aristocrats in the receiving line. Under any other circumstance, he’d have cried off, suggesting that the King was exhausted and would hopefully find time to greet the rest at a later time. But if Rinard and Aplin were conspiring to depose Rory from the throne, then he couldn’t afford to alienate any other possible supporters.

  “We’re almost done,” Gray reassured him—unfortunately all too aware of how much of a lie that was. They weren’t almost done. In fact, it felt like every day they were only beginning.

  “Aplin sent along about twenty messages to my personal steward,” Rory explained under his breath. “He said he spoke to you.”

  Gray ground his teeth together and gave the next noble, Countess What’s-Her-Name, an entirely faux smile. “I did speak to him. I declined to pass on his complaints because I believed they were silly.”

  The look in Rory’s eyes was stark. “Silly, yes, but unwise to ignore.”

  Gray didn’t like the feeling he’d been chastised, but then whose fault was it that he was currently on “placate nobles” duty? Especially when he was terrible at it?

  They made it through the remaining twenty introductions, and then had at least a few minutes where they could retreat to a small adjoining room before the banquet began in earnest.

  Rory looked slightly surprised that Gray led him out of the receiving room, but also seemed resigned as Gray pulled him into the antechamber, and then closed the door firmly behind them.

  “I need a minute,” he said.

  Rory leaned against the wall, still impossibly beautiful in his white and gold silken finery, but when his eyelids drooped, the dark circles underneath them stood out starkly on his pale skin. “We have a minute,” he said, and then paused. “Aplin and Rinard aren’t harmless, you know.”

  It was difficult, but Gray restrained his eye roll. “Yes, I’m aware,” he said. “They’re incredibly dangerous, especially Rinard.” Gray took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. Why had he ever believed that once Sabrina was dead, they would be safe? Safety, after all, was something he could never take for granted.

  “Aplin is far more dangerous than Rinard. Rinard postures, and talks a lot, but I believe Aplin’s naivety and pettiness hides a deeply calculating mind.”

  It was a possibility that had never occurred to Gray before this moment. And once he thought about it, his conclusion chilled him. He’d wanted to wait, but waiting wasn’t possible. Not now.

  “I spoke to Evrard today,” Gray said. “There is a possible solution he suggested to help balance out your duties as well as dismiss any insidious talk amongst the court.”

  Rory’s eyes opened and he gazed into Gray’s own. “What was his suggestion?”

  This was entirely the wrong time to suggest it, and Gray was hardly prepared, but he was not going to ask Rory to marry him without some semblance of romance. He had no ring, but he could at least get down on one knee.

  He did so, and Rory blinked in shock once, and then twice. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a surprised squeak. Lately, especially, Rory acted older and wiser than his years, but occasionally, his playfulness would return, and Gray would be reminded that he was really a young man, taking on too many burdens at too young an age.

  “King Emory,” Gray said, praying his voice would remain steady, “Rory, it would give me the greatest happiness and honor to take your hand in marriage, if you would be so willing.”

  Deafening silence filled the air between them. Rory was still gaping at him, clearly shocked that Gray had chosen this moment to propose—frankly Gray was shocked he had selected this moment too, so he could hardly fault Rory for that—but the automatic agreement that Gray had expected was nowhere to be heard.

  Finally, Rory took a step towards him, and then another, reaching out to grasp Gray’s hands in his own and lift him to his feet. Rory’s expression was full of regret and Gray experienced a sudden burst of anxiety that maybe he had made assumptions all along that could not possibly be justified. “This was Evrard’s idea,” Rory stated, but didn’t ask. He clearly already knew why Gray was proposing. And even though Gray had not gone out of his way to prevent it, he’d hoped that happiness over being together forever would help make the origin of his proposal more palatable.

  Unfortunately, that did not seem to be the case.

  “It was Evrard’s idea,” Gray agreed, but tightened his grip on Rory’s hands, pulling the man closer to him, pressing him against his own body. “But I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The idea to get married now might be Evrard’s but it was always my intention to be with you, for as long as you would have me, you know that.”

  Rory did not look quite as convinced as Gray had hoped.

  “I do know that.” Rory’s voice was regretful, and Gray felt the immediate loss of contact as he pulled away. “But I do not want to get married because it would silence my critics. Especially Aplin and Rinard. This is my life, not theirs, and they do not get to control it simply by existing.”

  “Then marry me because you want to,” Gray begged, uncomfortably aware of his own pleading tone, but also painfully aware that he had just been turned down. For fair and just reasons, but they didn’t prevent the rejection from stinging.

  But Rory didn’t say anything, just continued to look pained, like somehow his own heart was cracking, right along with Gray’s. “We should go back to the party,” he said gently, and this time he did reach for Gray, tucking his hand into Gray’s much larger one. “We will be missed.”

  Gray wanted to tell him that for once, Rory’s royal duties shouldn’t come before his personal ones, that they should stay here and decide how to move forward, how to eliminate the threats against them while staying committed to one another, but the distance in Rory’s eyes—the first Gray had ever seen—kept his mouth shut.

  ———

  Gray didn’t stop the servant from filling his wine glass again with the ruby red liquid in the glass pitcher. Rory shot him a look.

  “What?” Gray asked, “I’m enjoying this party.”

  “You don’t usually enjoy parties,” Rory pointed out. “And banquets, those you especially dislike.”

  It was impossible to keep his hurt inside. It felt like it showed on every inch of his body, radiating out of him like the sun and its warm rays. Except that Gray felt like the exact opposite. “This is my first banquet,” he pointed out slowly.

  “And you seem to be having a much worse time,” Rory retorted. At least they were seated at the very head of the gigantic table, separated by enough sparkling glassware, delicate porcelain, and shining silver that nobody could hear them bickering. Or notice that perhaps Gray had imbibed much more than he usually did.

  “Perhaps that has nothing to do with the event, and everything to do with the proposal you just rejected,” Gray said.

  Rory’s gaze shuttered close. “I didn’t reject you.”

  “You didn’t say yes,” Gray pointed out, gesturing with his glass. “I think I would have noticed if you had.”

  “Can we not do this now?” Rory hissed. “At least save it until we’re alone. Please.”

  It was not fair, but then life felt particularly unfa
ir right now. Maybe it was that he was seeing everything through the haze of the wine, but to Gray, it felt like all he had done since arriving at Beaulieu was to be everything he thought Rory wanted, to be available whenever Rory had a free moment, to take care of every pressing matter that he could, so Rory could be free to rule his country. And in payment, Gray received very little if any personal time, possibly treasonous nobles, and a rejection of his marriage proposal.

  If Evrard was here, at this stupid, blasted banquet, then Gray could at least complain to him, but he was in his stable, snug and undisturbed, and likely completely unaware of the chaos he’d created with his simple suggestion.

  Gray had resented the unicorn many times in his life, but his resentment had never burned as acutely as it did right now.

  He leaned back in his chair and glared at the liquid in his glass. “I think I should go back to the Valley.” The words came out without him even thinking about them, and definitely without him considering the effect they could have. For when he’d lived in the Valley of the Lost Things, it was not as if he had felt life was any more fair. In fact, he remembered all those painfully lonely nights, wishing to meet someone he could share his exile with, and never, ever glimpsing even a possibility on the horizon.

  Then Rory had arrived, changing everything, but now, somehow, life as Rory’s consort was nowhere near like he’d imagined it during those lonely nights. But then, Gray thought, watching as Rory’s expression went pale, he had never imagined that his consort might be a prince or a king. He’d only ever wanted some poor shepherd boy or a sweet milkmaid. He’d never dreamt that he would find himself back in a place similar to where he had been born.

  Maybe … just maybe … he had had the right idea all along.

  “Do you mean,” Rory hesitated, “do you mean to leave? To go back?”

  Gray didn’t know what he meant. He knew, objectively, that he was still in love with Rory, and that he never wanted to leave him, but there was something about Beaulieu that was driving him slowly insane and was making him say things he’d never have considered under normal circumstances. But then, becoming the consort to a king and wielding a magical weapon was hardly normal, even for someone who’d grown up with a unicorn as a father figure.