50. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SEBASTIAN
Beautiful.
The twins are beautiful; they are everything.
My son, swaddled in the traditional royal blue fabric on the left.
My daughter, on the right. Separate bassinets pressing up against each other, keeping them close so they can feel each other's presence.
Both of their small heads turn toward the other, their soft pink lips and full cheeks nearly identical.
Hushed lullabies fill the nursery on a continuous loop. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star has played at least four times since Georgina brought me in to meet them.
It’s late, nearing eleven, but this is the first time I’m able to get a good look at them both. Walking in on them nursing from Veronica wasn’t the right moment, but now the fury simmering inside me has vanished, replaced with an unfamiliar type of love.
“What are their names?” I whisper into the dimly lit room, my eyes continuously moving from one twin to the other.
“Their true ones?” Georgina’s voice is perhaps even softer than mine. She stands beside me, her palm pressed comfortingly between my shoulder blades. I can feel her warmth, and I lean into it instinctively.
My throat tightens with her words, chest filling with that unease from earlier. Their true ones. Of course, because Mary would have never allowed Veronica to give them names. I tilt my chin, nodding slowly.
“Jameson and Lilith.” Her fingers rub against the fabric of my collared shirt.
A quiet sob breaks through my lips, my chest is so tight I would worry death was coming if I weren’t so focused on the names Veronica picked out.
Jameson and Lilith. For me, and her mother.
“They’re perfect,” I say hoarsely, my voice breaking alongside the heart beating in my chest. My vision blurs, a steady stream of tears runs freely down my cheeks. I make no attempt to stop them, nor do I want to.
They show my vulnerability; they mimic the pain that fills my chest.
They fuel my desire to make things right.
Seven Years Old
“Someday, you’ll rule the kingdom.”
My father is beside me, his hands on the railing of the balcony.
The balcony is really high, I don’t like being really high.
Ronnie does. I’m not supposed to be up here unless I am with an adult, but Ronnie always sneaks us out here.
She usually sits between the sticks that hold the railing up with her legs hanging off the side.
I don’t do that, I’m too scared.
Ronnie isn’t scared of anything. I think she scares me a little.
“One day, when you’re older, I’ll be gone.” My father speaks, and I look up. “Your mother won’t be in charge of the kingdom. It will fall on your shoulders, Sebastian.” He isn’t looking at me, he never does. “I can only hope you’ll fill my shoes.”
I don’t think he likes me very much. Maybe one day he will. Ronnie says he’s just a grumpy old man.
She doesn’t like him very much.
“I will, father,” I say, nodding my head as I reach up to grip the top of the balcony too. “I want to be the best ruler.”
My father looks down at me, his eyebrows are pressed together so it looks like he only has one.
It’s funny, but I know I can’t laugh right now.
Instead, I lift my shoulders higher like he does sometimes, and puff my chest out.
His eyes move over me, I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I hope he likes how I’m standing.
“With any luck, you’ll be just like me and my father and my father’s father,” he says. “You are a Baros, after all.”
Ronnie says I am nicer than my father. Maybe I will be mean too when I get older, because I’m a Baros.
I’ve been back for a total of three days. Within those seventy-two hours, I’ve spent sixty of them preparing for what comes next. Veronica hates me, rightfully so. She will know the truth soon enough, everyone will.
If I have to burn down all of Hawthorn to prove myself to her, I will.
The door to my father’s room is free of the guards usually posted outside.
I have personally requested a moment without audience, to say goodbye to him properly.
No one has half the sense to refuse, not when I will be the ruler of this kingdom in the upcoming days.
Unfortunately, King Deacon Baros’ reign has come to its tragic end.
Mary and my mother are visiting town this afternoon. The sun is out, finally warm enough to enjoy. They go once a month to show their faces to the wealthy patrons of Hawthorn. They’d never be caught dead in the village, it’s beneath them completely. I still haven't spoken to either of them.
My father lies still on the king-sized bed, centered on the far wall.
A cream lace canopy drapes over the tall wooden posts, golden tassels lining the border.
It’s elegant and tasteful, much like the rest of the palace.
Two large windows are on either side of the bed, they’re open to permit air to flow throughout the room, which I’m grateful for.
Even from where I stand still by the door, it reeks of deceit and oncoming death.
“Hello, father,” I say, closing the door tightly behind me.
The lock clicks into place, signaling the finality of it all.
There are two wide arm chairs on either side of the bed, which I’m assuming are my mother and Mary’s.
My eyes slide over my father’s withering form.
He’s pale, the sun-kissed coloring of his skin nothing but a pasty cream.
Stubble lines his jaw making him look older, and his hair is slicked back and damp from sweat.
He looks terrible.
I settle into a chair, picking the one beside the nightstand filled with pill bottles and a pitcher of water.
His hazel eyes are glossy, unfocused as he lifts them to the underside of the canopy.
Even now, on his death bed, the fucking prick won’t look at me.
It’s a sign of disrespect, one he’s shown me since I was a young boy.
My jaw flexes; I lean back, “This is like any of our other interactions, father, so I figured we would keep up with the routine.” His jaw ticks.
“Very well.” Deacon says gruffly. “How was Tria?”
A laugh leaves my throat, and I shift until my ankle rests on my knee. “A warzone, as one would expect when sending someone off to war.” My tone is sarcastic, dull.
The man lying before me just nods; it’s nonchalant, clipped. “You should have died there, at least your wife could raise your son to be adequate enough.” He sneers, a cough vibrating his chest. My father lurches forward from the sheer punch of it.
I stare blankly at him, noting the dark red blotches clinging to the corner of his lip before they’re hastily wiped away.
Any sense of having a civil conversation with my father quickly diminishes, I rise up from the chair, sliding my hand into the pocket of my dress pants.
My fingers run over the length of the slick glass vial before I pull it out, shifting to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand.
“Mary’s time here is nearly over, father,” I say, uncapping the stopper from the vial.
The clear liquid trickles out the higher it tips, dropping into the small amount of water in the glass.
“Mother’s time could possibly be up too.
How tragic would it be, for her to die right after you of a broken heart? ”
My father’s eyes meet mine, hazy and unclear.
Still, I can see the anger building fiercely within those hazel irises.
“Let’s not draw out the inevitable. You taught me that,” I murmur while picking up the glass.
His face pales, but he doesn’t waver. My father has always been too proud to show even a hint of vulnerability.
“This is beneath you, Sebastian.” He grunts; there’s a small tremble in his voice.
“Perhaps, but I’m done giving a shit about what is beneath me and what isn’t.
” I lower myself back into the chair, holding the glass in both hands as my elbows rest on my knees.
“You will die a ruthless leader, your people will mourn, and they will welcome your son into the crown.” I lift the glass, pressing the rim to his lips.
“Be grateful I am not exposing you for the piece of shit you truly are.”
My mother and wife wail in time with the trumpets that blare throughout the kingdom of Hawthorn.
Warm sunlight washes over my skin as I sit on a marble bench along the stone path that winds through the garden..
I look down to the stack of letters in my lap.
They’re tied together with thin ribbon, the same ribbon I found in Mary’s chambers once I left my father’s side four hours ago.
Every letter I wrote while away sits in the stack. All made out to Veronica.
A faint prickle crawls along the back of my neck, causing the fine hairs there to stand on end.
I tilt my head, finding a pair of dark eyes staring down at me from the window above.
I hold Veronica’s gaze, not allowing myself to break the contact.
I need her to know I won’t stop until every last person who broke her is gone.
A final trumpet blares through the air, followed by silence.
All hail King Deacon. May he rest in fucking peace.