Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
All the air is sucked from the room as I stare at my father’s blank face. I’ve gone my entire life without seeing death, and now, tonight, I’ve witnessed it twice.
Gone.
Father is gone, and now the entire kingdom is in my hands.
The room spins, and bile burns the back of my throat.
I barely register my body swaying before I’m surrounded by warmth and strength, as Weston finally breaks his unspoken rule and wraps his arms around my shoulders.
His voice is low as he murmurs into my ear, and even though I know the room is filled with guards and gods know who else, after what we just endured, it feels like it is only him and me.
“Sweetheart, I need you to stand for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I whisper, not knowing if any sound even left my lips. He may have posed it as a question, but I know I don’t have a choice. I have to tell them all that their king is gone.
“Hold on to me.” His strong fingers sink into my waist, steadying me. With trembling hands, I grip his forearms as he lifts me to my feet. My legs wobble beneath me, and my knees threaten to buckle, but the muscles in Weston’s arms tighten, holding me securely. “I won’t let you fall.”
Pain shoots through the muscles of my neck as I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes scan my face, and I don’t know what he sees there. There are too many things circling through my mind to even know how I look, but in him I only find reassurance.
We turn in a slow circle until I am facing the room, but his hands don’t leave my waist until he’s sure I will not fall.
I am going to stay strong, even if it is only to get through these next few minutes.
Warily releasing me, he faces the throne room and the chaos that still fills it. Healers bustle around. Guards stand above shackled prisoners. Staff shuffle in and out of the doors, but it all feels like a blur. All I can focus on is Weston, and his voice echoing against the stone walls.
“The king is dead,” he shouts, and everyone stills, their attention snapping to the First Guard standing on the dais.
Sorrow, shock, disbelief, anger. Each face has a unique response to the news.
My stomach churns in the next moment as all their gazes rise to me.
Hands fisting on my pants, I wait for Weston’s next direction.
“Kneel before your queen.”
My nose burns as I watch everyone before me follow his command and drop to their knees.
Weston scans the room, ensuring complies with the tradition, especially in the wake of the treason today.
When he is satisfied, he turns toward me and drops to a knee, the same way he did in his room, before linking our lives together with his oath.
The muscles in his face relax as he looks up at me, his severe authority softening for my eyes only. His voice betrays nothing as he calls out into the room, the resonance causing me to startle.
“Long live Lennox Holt! Long live the queen!”
A loud echo erupts from the group kneeling behind him, but I can’t take my eyes off of his.
“Long live the queen!”
He gives me a slow nod, and I don’t know if it is permission or reassurance, but I pull my gaze away and look out across the room at all the people, my people.
This moment is anything but easy. It is a double-edged sword, and only other regents will know the immense pressure and sadness that comes with it.
I want to remember, to try to soak up the hint of pride I feel as I look out among so many faces I have known for so long, but it’s too much. All of it.
I need time, space. I need to think straight before I have to be the queen I was trained to be.
I don’t know what to do now.
Flicking my wrist, I urge him to stand and reach out for him. He doesn’t need an explanation or a command; he knows, like he always does, what I need. Once he stands, so does everyone else, and the flurry immediately starts again. This time, I ignore it, keeping my focus on him.
“I’m taking you to your room,” Weston grumbles, closing the space between us but not getting too close, as close as I am used to him being. “The healer said to rest. Everything else will be dealt with.”
“Alright,” I rasp, and gulp down the fire that singes my throat.
Motion catches my eye, and I turn my head slowly to find a familiar figure crossing the dais, stepping past the covered, lifeless body of the Guardian of Dawnlin.
“Hello, son.”
Edmond’s voice feels like a warm blanket wrapping tightly around me, and I blink back tears as my chest swells. Neither of us ever thought we would see him again, but here he is, still alive, and completely unchanged from the night I walked away from him and left for another world.
“Pop,” Weston breathes, the relief in his voice palpable.
“My boy, it has been too long, but things like this always have a way of working out for the best.” Edmond smiles, his eyes squinting in the way I have become so familiar with. “I had hope.”
“How did you know?” I force out, and he shakes his head.
“That is a story for another day. Right now, Your Majesty, you need to heal. I am sure my son wants to take you away from all of this.” He gestures to the surrounding room, a knowing look on his face.
Weston moves quickly, crossing the dais and wrapping his arms around his father.
“I missed you,” I hear him mumble, and my chin quivers as I remember the look on his face back in the spring when I told him story after story of my time with his father.
Edmond’s reply is harder to catch as it is muffled in Weston’s shoulder, but I’ve been listening to his voice for far too long not to pick up on it. “I knew you both would come home.”
Weston releases him and steps back. “Later,” he promises.
Edmond smiles and nods. “Of course. Attend to the queen.”
Weston looks out over the room, his eyes scanning until he finds who he is looking for.
“ONeal,” he barks, and the man stops and stands at attention, waiting for his command. “Find Tila and tell her she’s needed in the queen’s chambers. Charles, clear everyone from this room except for the healers to shroud the king, then meet me upstairs at her door.”
I barely have time to process the commands before Weston is striding back across the dais and scooping me into his arms. He cradles me close, as if he doesn’t care who sees or that this is a completely acceptable action of the First Guard for a queen who has had her life threatened.
The men spring to action, but we aren’t in the throne room long enough to see anything else. Weston blazes through the empty halls, his pace never slowing, even as he carries me up the long flight of stairs.
“Where are your rooms?” he murmurs, and I point to the right as we approach the top of the steps.
“That way.”
We crest the top, and the tapestry-lined hallway I have walked down countless times feels different now.
Weston starts down it fiercely, and the door I once saw as symbolizing my captivity, but I now see as a sign of safety, finally comes into view.
But before we get close, I grab his torn uniform and tug, urging him to stop.
“Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” His arms tighten as he looks down at me, and I can see with the clench of his jaw that he’s trying very hard not to look around, and be on alert, instead focusing on me and what I need.
“Open that door. I need to see.” I point to the door I sped past for my entire life, that I avoided out of guilt and pain, but now that I know the truth of what happened, I don’t want to avoid it anymore.
His hand lifts from where he’s clutching me and grasps the handle. Turning it, he pushes open the large door, and I can’t help but hold my breath.
Was this entire journey, with all the highs and lows, lessons and friendships, worth it? Or did my mother let go before I even had a chance to try to save her?
Light pours into the room from the windows, and as I look toward the bed, I let out that held breath.
She’s still here; still lying in a perpetual sleep. Nothing has changed since the night I left, the night of my ceremony. The night I told her I would not give up on her.
My father didn’t let her go.
“Lyla…” Weston mutters, and his voice trails off into the thick silence of the room.
“She held on,” I say, the hoarseness of my already damaged voice now worsened with the swell of emotion. “He didn’t give up on her.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into my hair, and all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, forcing tears to escape from the corners.
“Take me out,” I whisper. He doesn’t question it. He turns on his heel and tugs the door firmly closed behind us. It takes him only a few strides before he’s in front of my door, turning to face it and tipping his head forward.
“This one?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and he pushes it open, slipping us through the narrow opening before kicking it shut, and throwing the bolt into place. He sets me down gently on my feet, making sure I am steady before he takes his hands off of me.
“Don’t move.”
My skin prickles at the determination in his eyes, and the hardening of his jaw.
He turns his back on me and begins searching the room, looking in every space, closet, opening; anywhere someone might be hiding.
He checks behind curtains and underneath the bed before disappearing into the adjoining bathing chamber.
Moments later he reappears, and a bit of the tension has lessened, though not much.
He wordlessly strides over to me, this time lifting me with tenderness and concern.
Where I normally would snap at him and tell him I can walk, especially now that we are alone without pressure and observations of everyone around us, I don’t.
I want him to hold me, to take care of me, like only he knows how, and like he always feels compelled to do.
I once told him I wasn’t fragile, but right now, I feel like if he lets me go, I will shatter.