Chapter 22 - A kings jealousy
There is something deeply unsettling about the way he says it, calm, steady, completely unbothered, like a man announcing a decision that has already been made and cannot be undone. It is not dramatic. It is not loud. It is worse than that. It is final.
"...another heir," I repeat slowly, because perhaps if I say it out loud again, it will become less ridiculous.
"Yes. Preferably 8 more, but i am open to debate."
The moonlight catches on the blade still resting in his hand, the sword I gave him only moments ago, and I find myself wondering if I have made a terrible mistake gifting a man like this something sharp on the same night he has decided to start planning children like military expansions.
"Maybe we should focus on the first one before we even talk about any more," I say carefully. "Plus 8 children is extremely excessive."
"I don't think so, 8 Daughters is perfectly a reasonable amount to have."
I blink. "...daughters."
"Yes."
"And if it's a son?"
The reaction is immediate.
Violent.
His face twists with such profound, offended disgust that it would be almost funny if I were not so tired. "I will manage that problem when we get to it, "he says flatly.
My patience, what little remains of it, begins to crumble. "...problem?"
"Yes."
"Our child is not a problem ."
"It is if it's a son, a very serious problem that will ruin my plan."
"It's a child, what plan could it possibly ruin?"
"I don't want to share my wife with another man."
"It will literally be my son?" I ask.
"That would one day grow into a man."
A slow, burning irritation spreads through me. My body aches, my limbs feel heavier than they should, and the last thing I have the energy for is arguing with a man who looks at a hypothetical child and sees competition.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am entirely serious."
"About what?" I ask, incredulous now. "The fact that you are already planning to dislike your own child?"
"I did not say dislike," he corrects, offended. "I said it would require management."
"...management."
"Yes."
"What kind of management?"
He considers it.
Which is exactly what I did not want him to do.
"Boarding school," he says.
I freeze. "...what."
"Preferably far away."
"Achilles."
"A different kingdom."
"Achilles."
"A different continent."
"Achilles!"
He exhales, long and suffering, like I am the one being unreasonable. "You are not being logical."
"I am not being logical?" I repeat, my voice rising despite my exhaustion. "You are trying to exile a baby."
"It is not exile."
"It is banishment."
"It is a preventative strategy."
"Prevention of what?"
His gaze sharpens, something possessive and entirely unreasonable flashing behind his eyes.
"Of him taking what is mine."
I blink.
"...your son."
"A future man."
"He will be a baby."
"For a limited time."
"And then a child."
"And then a problem."
I let out a slow breath, staring at him like I am trying to understand how a man capable of ruling a kingdom can also be this utterly ridiculous.
"You are jealous," I say.
"I am prepared."
"You are jealous of a child that does not exist."
"I am anticipating conflict."
"You are insane." I drag a hand down my face, closing my eyes for a moment as the exhaustion presses heavier against me. I can feel it now, more than before, the weight in my bones, the dull ache behind my eyes, the way even standing here feels like it requires more effort than it should.
"You cannot send your own child away because you are afraid I will love him more than you," I say, my voice quieter now, not because I am calmer, but because I am tired.
"You already sound like you are defending him," he says sharply.
"Because he is a child."
"He is a male."
"He is your son."
"That does not make it better."
"That makes it worse!" I snap, losing what little patience I had left. "What is wrong with you?"
He crosses his arms, looking deeply offended now. "You are choosing him over me."
"There is no him!"
"There will be."
"And when there is," I say, forcing my voice steady, "you will love him."
"I will tolerate him."
"You will love him."
"I will monitor him."
"You will love him."
"I will care for him."
"You will love him."
"You are very repetitive."
"And you are exhausting."
That, finally, makes him pause.
He studies me, then not as his opponent in this ridiculous argument, but as his wife. His gaze drags over me, taking in the way I am standing too still, the tension in my shoulders, the faint way my hand presses against my stomach without me realizing it.
I don't give him time to respond.
I turn.
And I start walking.
"I am not having this conversation anymore," I say, already moving down the path.
"Ophelia..."
"It is late," I continue, not slowing. "I am tired. My body feels like it belongs to someone else, and tomorrow I have responsibilities that do not involve discussing the future exile of our imaginary son."
"Can't you see he's already putting a wedge between us?"
"Achille, please shut up ."
He groans behind me, long and dramatic, like I have personally wronged him by refusing to engage further.