Page 30 of Striking
The words are out before I think them through. But I mean every one.
I can’t explain it, but I want to be here for him.
Rhys’s big hands wrap around the backs of my thighs as he holds me.
“I have to go to the palace. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but I can’t bring you with me.” His eyes close for another moment, and when they open, they’re clearer than they’ve been since he left the bed this morning. “Christ, I promise you I’m not trying tohide you. But I can’t... Not today... I need answers. I need to take care of things...” he trails off.
“Hey.” I force his eyes to mine. “I’m not the crisis you need to deal with right now. I’m sure it won’t be hard to spend the day hidden away, studying. Take care of what you need to handle, and I’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”
“You will never be my crisis, Bellamy.” The deep tenor of his voice sends a chill down my hot, wet skin as he takes my hand and brushes a kiss over my knuckles, paying special attention to the rings on my finger. “We’ll talk tonight.”
I nod, unable to speak as my emotions go to war with each other.
Heartache.
Need.
Comfort.
Unexplainable peace and unimaginable fear.
None of them make sense.
But I’m not sure Rhys and I make sense either. How can we?
And yet... I’m not sure we don’t either.
The only thing I’m sure of right now, in this insane moment, is that this man is staring at me like I’m the last string of sanity he has to cling to, and I refuse to rip that away from him too.
Rhys
You can’t live your life as a royal without believing in fate. Destiny drives our lives from our first breath until our last. To rule a country is a calling stronger than any other. It has to be to survive it. But as I sit in one of the many conference rooms at the palace, surrounded by Atticus and my advisors, my hand in my pocket with my wedding band held tightly in my grasp, the weight of it all threatens to force me to my knees.
Atticus sits to my right, with the Duke of Hollenly to my left. Hollenly’s family has overseen the royal family’s funerals for the past three hundred and fifty years, and the fat bastard is as determined to make sure everyone is as aware of that today as he was when my mother died years ago. My father, The Duke of Edison, is next to him, as pompous and self-serving as ever. His face is red, pinched, and failing to hide any of his impatience. From the moment my mother died and took away his opportunity to be consort to the queen, he’s lived for the moment when he could be the father of the king. I tolerate him because I have no other choice.
The Archbishop of Calder is flanked by the Bishops of Mayson and Linley. The latter performed my wedding ceremony last night and is currently refusing to meet my eyes today.
As if this day wasn’t already going to go down as the most fucked of my life.
And that’s saying something.
“Seven days then. We need to give the world time to mourn the king.” Hollenly closes his folio with a flourish as if his word is gospel.
Our world is steeped in tradition and repetition. My mother’s funeral was exactly the same as my grandmother’s, down to the readings and hymns. Every last minute of it, and there were too many minutes to count. Too much time spent with my family’s pain on display for the world to see.
I close my eyes and remember what Grandfather said when we buried my mother.
“Grief is for the living. Don’t mourn the dead. The dead are in a better place. And for Christ’s sake, don’t let Hollenly make a spectacle of me. Give him five days. Not a day more.”
“And then . . . ?” I remember asking.
And I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he answered.
“Then you rule.”
Grandfather was no-nonsense at all times.
He understood the need for pomp and circumstance but avoided excess whenever he could. He was frugal. He was fair. I’d dare anyone to find a more down-to-earth monarch. And yet when my mother died, all of Mornea observed an entire week of mourning. He wanted to make sure the world grieved his only daughter.
