Chapter 15 — Hold Me

Rhys did not have time to return to the guest quarters before he heard Alaric’s door creak open. The prince jumped in fear, spinning around and praying to all that was holy Alaric did not hear his and Edmund’s conversation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation with Alaric right this moment. In fact, Rhys assumed this conversation would come after their wedding, perhaps even later.

“Are you alright?” Alaric asked, his voice rough and deep with sleep. Something within Rhys made his stomach flutter at the sound. “No. Nothing. Go back to bed.” He hurriedly said, waving a dismissive hand. 

Alaric did not retreat. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, biceps pressing against the thin silk of his night shirt, his chestnut hair disheveled and wild on the left side. Rhys’ brows furrowed. He huffed a breath, crossing his arms, nails digging into his arms enough to hurt. “Did you order your men to burn down my castle?”

Alaric’s expression went eerily blank. Rhys nearly shivered at the sight as the king stood straighter and combed his fingers through his hair once before dropping his hands at his sides. “No.”

Tears pricked at Rhys’ eyes, his gaze lowering. “Then why?” His voice broke.

Rhys could hear Alaric shuffle uncomfortably, then sigh. “Would you like to come in? This may be a long conversation.”

Rhys sniffed and nodded once, attempting to regain composure.

Once sat on Alaric’s desk chair, Rhys watched Alaric sit on the edge of his bed. 

“Your castle was lit aflame before I arrived. I had sent my men that dawn to negotiate with you, which I found out that evening they did not do. I have two of them serving time in prison for this.”

Prison doesn’t return my mother. Thought Rhys bitterly.

“This doesn’t excuse what happened, but it is the price they shall pay for it.” Alaric said steadily, as though he’d read Rhys’ mind. Rhys nodded. Emotions aside, prison made sense logically. He would have done the same had the roles been reversed.

“Why would they immediately opt for fire, though?”

“That, I cannot answer. Perhaps they were angry. The war has taken its toll on more than just the soldiers.”

“But I did not commence it.”

“No. But this marriage was our last hope of ending it.”

“Then they believed I would say no?”

“I was told your father fled before my men had a chance to speak with him. I have personally written letters to King Callum in the past, asking if he would grant me his blessing before we proceeded with the raid. He ceased to send a reply to all of them, so I assumed sending my men to negotiate that morning was necessary—especially after I spoke to the Council and they decided this was for the best, as well.”

“My father did not flee. He and Aris left that morning to help the soldiers at the Eastern border.” Rhys shook his head, eyes stinging once more. He recalled the firm but caring hand on his shoulder by his father and the sweet words spoken to him by his brother. 

Alaric paused. A silent, deadly pause that made Rhys straighten instinctively.

“They were not fleeing?”

“Of course not. My father is not a coward. He would have negotiated with your men.” Rhys scoffed, leaning back in the chair.

“Your father and brother,” Alaric began slowly, “They died at the hands of the men I sent to negotiate.” 

So it wasn’t at the hands of soldiers. Rhys blinked tears from his eyes, feeling them slide down his cheeks like a final prayer. “You mean they were assassinated?” His eyes had widened, such a pretty blue, they were, like sapphire. 

Alaric rose from the bed and knelt before Rhys, taking his hand ever gently and placing his forehead to the prince’s knuckles. Rhys froze in shock, undecided yet whether he wished to pull away.

“I am so sorry, Rhys. So, so terribly sorry.” His voice cracked. This grown man—king. Knight commander. Was knelt before Rhys in tears and apology.

Rhys’ own silent cry had dried, if only because he was too utterly stunned to form a coherent thought, much less action.

“I did not order those men to kill your father nor brother. But still, they were under my command and sought them out.” His hands held Rhys’ tighter as he shook his head in disbelief. 

Once Alaric raised his head, which took much longer to do than he would admit, Rhys noticed his eyes were red and glistening. Alaric knew better than most what it felt like to lose those dear to you, and yet, he did not arrive with his men to ensure nothing like this happened. He should have known. He should have been there.

Rhys’ own head was bowed now. All the grief from the very first night of this new hell he lived flooded his insides like water until all he could do was cry into his own hands, wave after wave swallowing him whole and pulling him to sea with each new drag at the shore. His shoulders shook as he hiccuped a sob, shaking his head. “You knew,” he croaked. “You knew they were after Daddy and Aris and you did nothing?”

“I did not know until after they had perished, but that does not make it right.” Alaric’s hand hovered over Rhys’ shoulder before he wisely dropped it.

Rhys stood then, wiping his swollen, red eyes with his hands before his head thudded against Alaric’s chest. He so desperately hated what he was about to say, but Alaric was broad and warm and Rhys desperately needed a hug. 

“Hold me.”

And Alaric did. Ever slowly, giving Rhys every chance to pull away or kick him in the shin, before those large arms wrapped around the omega’s narrow shoulders, holding him against his chest, eventually guiding one of his hands through his hair in a soothing motion as he wept.

“I hate you.” Rhys’ voice came soft and distraught, utterly exhausted and broken.

“I know.” Alaric whispered, his head bowed.