Mine, Forever After

by Beth Bolden

  Typically this was the extent of the preparation Rory needed, usually both of them were so incredibly eager to have Gray inside him, but this time, Gray kept fingering him, alternating his deep thrusts with shallower teasing brushes, until Rory was panting, sweat beading on his brow, his cock painfully hard as it tapped his stomach wetly.

  “Please, please, please,” Rory pleaded, feeling at the very edge of his self-control, driven there by Gray’s own. He was clearly as ready as Rory was, but still he held off, apparently content to drive Rory mad with pleasure.

  He only relented after Rory felt like he might explode from the tension wracking his body, and at the very least, orgasm before Gray could even slide his cock inside him. Gray carefully withdrew his fingers and slicking his cock up, positioned himself between Rory’s legs.

  “I love you,” he said, his intense gaze boring straight into Rory’s own as he finally slid home.

  Rory trembled with the effort it took not to give himself over to the overwhelming bliss. When Gray’s cock slipped in those last few inches, Rory’s head fell back against the pillow, and he groaned, “So good, so full.”

  “I’m gonna make you feel even better,” Gray promised, and began to thrust, his rhythm overwhelming Rory almost immediately. “See, I promised you,” he grunted, as Rory found himself hurtling right over the edge without even a single touch on his own cock, spurting all over his own stomach and Gray’s too.

  Gray followed him only a moment later, letting out a loud, incredibly sexy groan that might have made Rory hard again if he hadn’t just finished coming as hard as he ever had in his life.

  “That was,” Gray said, pulling out and then collapsing next to a completely worn-out Rory. “That was something else.”

  “You’re a closet sadist, as well as the sexiest man in the world,” Rory said, pulling together the energy to roll over and gaze at the man he loved. The man he was going to marry.

  “It’s part of my charm,” Gray said with a rough chuckle.

  “You’re perfect,” Rory said as his eyes began to droop. “You’re perfect, and I love you.”

  ———

  It was clear; Rory did not think Gray was perfect the next morning. “Come on,” he said, half-dragging Rory out of the warm cocoon of the blankets. During the last six months, it was always Rory pushing to get up earlier and earlier, and somehow get more done in a day than was physically, humanly possible, but maybe that was finally catching up with him, because he was resisting Gray’s efforts to coax him out of bed so they could finish the harvest.

  “Your guard is already out, they’re in the fields right now,” Gray grumbled, pulling Rory’s leg out, only to have him retract it rather forcibly.

  “Then they should keep it up,” Rory mumbled into the pillow. “I’m tired. So tired.”

  “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Gray said, sitting down with a hard thump on the side of the bed. “I told you that you were, and you wouldn’t listen.”

  “No need to say ‘I told you so,’” Rory complained. “I already figured out how to fix it, didn’t I?”

  “But we can’t really fix it if we don’t harvest this corn and travel back to Beaulieu.”

  Rory’s head tilted to the side, as if he was considering this. “And we can’t plan our wedding either,” he pointed thoughtfully.

  “Exactly,” Gray said. Six months ago, he might have asked why a wedding would take a lot of planning—but then he’d entered the rank-fixated and event-obsessed court at Beaulieu, and he’d discovered that everything he knew about events was wrong. At Tullamore, they’d prided themselves on keeping state occasions simple. As long as there were plenty of roaring fires, enormous roasts over them and plenty of ale and whiskey to go around, the clansmen had not been particularly hard to please.

  At Beaulieu, a court event was an event. And a royal wedding was likely a whole other level of obsessive planning that Gray wasn’t sure he was prepared for. Yes, he desperately wanted to marry Rory, but he also didn’t want to worry about who was going to sit sixteen seats down from the royal table.

  “Why don’t we just … get married,” Gray said.

  Rory stared at him blankly. “I thought that was what we were going to do.”

  “I mean, without all the pomp and circumstance.” Gray sighed. “The banquet to honor the Mecant tribe took a whole month of planning! I don’t want to wait that long.”

  Reaching out and stroking his arm, Rory smiled up at him sweetly. “I want to get married now too, but unfortunately, part of what will help distract the court from stewing about your future kingship is plenty of pomp and circumstance.”

  Gray sighed. “So we can’t avoid it?”

  “I’m afraid avoiding it will likely be impossible.”

  “Then,” Gray said, suddenly rising to his feet and wrapping his arms around a squirming bundle of blanket-swaddled Rory, and lifting him up, “we’d better get started.” Rory grumbled, but finally he discarded his blankets and began to get dressed.

  It took the rest of the day to get the corn harvested and packed into the cart. When Gray went to visit Evrard and prepare him for the next day’s journey, the unicorn merely stared at him.

  “Go with you? Why would I go with you?” Evrard asked, clearly uncomprehending what Gray was asking.

  “We’re going back to Beaulieu,” Gray said slowly, enunciating every word, knowing it would likely annoy Evrard, but doing it anyway. “Rory and I are getting married. He came here with nearly the same plan you had.”

  “Imagine that,” Evrard said smugly.

  “Don’t you want to be at the wedding?” Gray asked, trying to prepare himself if Evrard claimed that he didn’t. Or if he maintained this charade that he wouldn’t be coming back to Beaulieu at all.

  “The wedding is merely a formality, and mark my words, it will indeed be a formality. I will miss seeing you stuffed and glittered and wrapped in enough gold-embroidered thread to decorate a regiment.”

  Gray couldn’t understand. “Why will you not be there?”

  Evrard’s gaze finally turned towards him, and to Gray’s shock, it was soft and empathetic. “I know you wish me to be there for you, but the last thing the royal court will need at your wedding is a reminder of Rory taking the throne. I am associated most strongly with that event. You need to present a front of unassailable strength.”

  “Wouldn’t us standing with a royal unicorn help present that strength?” Gray asked slyly.

  But Evrard’s expression never wavered. “I wish I could return with you, I do. But it cannot be helped. Your life is situated. Rory’s life is situated.”

  Gray had told himself that he would not let his feelings be hurt if Evrard refused to come. But it was inevitable. Evrard, while hardly the most appropriate father figure for a child, had been the only one he had known. And now that his own, real father was dead, Evrard was all that he had remaining.

  “You have your family,” Evrard said, reading his mind yet again, even though he knew it annoyed Gray, “and they will be there, and on that day, I will be thinking of you and Rory and sending you all my good wishes and happiness for the future. But as you well know, I have served my purpose here. I saved you. I saved Prince Emory, and saw him to his kingship, and now I have seen you to yours, and also to marriage with your soulmate. There is little to keep me here. I am like the Valley; I come as needed, and now that we have both outlived our usefulness, we will fade into the ether.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that but I understand,” Gray said, but truthfully, he couldn’t feel anything but hurt and bewildered. Part of him desperately wanted to say that Evrard should stay for him, and for all the good, measured advice that he would surely need in the future. But he also had his pride, and his pride stopped his tongue. “Then this is goodbye.” He placed a hand on Evrard’s neck, and Evrard bowed, his mane flowing to the straw below their feet.

  When Gray came out of Evrard’s stable, Rory immediately knew something was wrong, a
nd came up to him, a concerned expression on his face. “What has happened?” he asked.

  “Evrard will not be returning with us. Not for the wedding. Not ever again, possibly.” Gray took a deep breath. “If you wish to say goodbye to him, now would be the best time.”

  “I shall say something, certainly,” Rory said, and marched off to the stable. No doubt to inform Evrard that he was being an idiot and that he would be coming back to Beaulieu with them in the morning.

  But Rory returned from the stables with a defeated look in his eyes and they did not speak of it again.

  In the early morning light of their departure, Evrard did come out of the stables one last time, white coat shining and glimmering in the dawn, and if Gray had to turn his head away to prevent anyone from seeing a tear fall, then it was between him and his horse.

  When they departed the Valley of Lost Things, Gray took everything of value to him, as he knew, instinctively, that it would not remain any longer. This was the last of its magic, and with Evrard gone, it too would dissipate after their departure.

  Chapter Six

  Rory had been certain that they could not possibly organize a royal wedding in under a month, but three weeks and six days later, he was standing in the enormous throne room at Beaulieu, watching as Gray went toe-to-toe with Rowen, who had appointed herself as the wedding planner. Normally, the steward would have done the job, but after Rory had announced his intention to crown Gray to conclude the ceremony, the grumbles had increased exponentially, leaving some, like the curmudgeonly steward who had spent nearly his entire career in service to Sabrina, to either accept the changes or leave. At first, Rory hadn’t been certain they could even pull off such an intricate and complex event without someone who had any experience, but Rowen had scoffed at Rory’s concerns.

  “I’ve spent my whole life at court,” Rowen said. “I know how to plan an event.”

  And it turned out she did, at least when Gray allowed her to do her job properly.

  “I’ve discovered the problem here,” Anya told Rory under her breath. “You didn’t give the Prince enough to do, thus he had enough time and energy to interfere with Rowen.”

  Rory shot her a look. “I gave him plenty to do.”

  “The Prince used to run an entire farm with practically no help. I don’t think either of us is good at estimating what he’s capable of handling.”

  It was difficult to argue with that, or with the fact that Gray was here, and despite ten council meetings this week, and shadowing Marthe in her role as General of Fontaine’s armies and Rory keeping him occupied for hours each evening in bed, he apparently had plenty of energy to argue over floral arrangement placement with Rowen.

  “If only the Prince had been able to apply himself so successfully to finding the person who used Sabrina’s lair,” Anya said, and Rory had to nod his agreement. No matter how they’d searched, it was hard to find someone who clearly did not want to be found. The room, buried deep in the catacombs, had been guarded night and day, and nobody had even attempted to approach. They were no closer to finding the culprit and they were about to lose their best tool—the day after the wedding and Gray’s coronation, the room was to be demolished entirely.

  “The biggest one should go in the front, right over the dais,” Gray argued. Rowen didn’t say a word, only nodded. Rory already knew that she was going to put the floral arrangements wherever she wanted, no matter what Gray said. Rory had agreed with putting her in charge for a reason; she knew what was needed and how to accomplish it.

  Which was why this was an enormous waste of time when they could actually be going over the complicated ceremony—the entire reason why they were in the throne room today.

  “Darling,” Rory said, approaching the pair, “why don’t we leave these minor arrangements to Rowen, and go over the ceremony itself. The etiquette is rather complex, and well …” Rory gave him a look that was both fond and exasperated. “Well, we know formal etiquette is not your strongest skill.”

  Gray glanced over at him, eyes warm—quite possibly just as warm as Rory’s own. “No? I’m hurt, sweetcheeks.”

  Rory blushed. It was one thing for Gray to try this new nickname out in private, in their bed, but to do so in front of Rowen, Anya, and the handful of nobles who had chosen to witness the rehearsal? Entirely another.

  “Darling,” Rory repeated between clenched teeth, still amused and still fond, despite the nickname and despite a hundred other things that should drive him crazy but somehow, never did, “we are wasting time.”

  Gray smiled broadly, like wasting time was his favorite thing and not at all the opposite. “Well, then, lead the way, Your Majesty.”

  A slight improvement over sweetcheeks.

  Truthfully, in less than twenty-four hours, Gray wouldn’t be required to use that particular honorific for Rory any longer. Not that he had ever been particularly diligent about its use. But after his own coronation, there would be no need, because he and Rory would be equals, both Kings in their own right.

  It hadn’t quite caused any outright riots just yet, but it wouldn’t matter if it had. Rory was adamant and completely sure that this was both the best choice for him personally, and for the kingdom he ruled over. He’d given a speech to the court, which was something he was finally getting the hang of doing, detailing why it was a necessary step. It must have been fairly convincing because afterwards, the grumblings had mostly died down. Along with the steward, the Duke of Rinard had left Beaulieu, followed very shortly after by Count Aplin, and Rory knew he wasn’t alone in hoping that was the last they’d seen of those two—and that the reason they’d been unable to catch the magical practitioner was because they’d already departed and would hopefully never return.

  Rowen led them through the lengthy ceremony, and thankfully, Gray had only a few questions and remarks for her until they reached nearly the end of the marriage rite. “And now,” Rowen said, pulling a length of cloth from behind the podium they stood in front of, “Prince Graham will bestow upon King Emory a length of valuable tapestry from his kingdom of Ardglass, as a symbol of his commitment to this union.”

  Gray blanched and stared at the cloth like it was a coiled serpent, poised to strike. “What is this?” he demanded.

  Rory barely held back a resigned sigh. It had been his idea to add this particular flourish to the ceremony, and he’d known that Gray wouldn’t like it—at least on the surface. Gray still held a lot of complicated feelings towards the country of his birth. “This is a part of the Ardglassian commitment ceremony,” Rory began to explain, hoping that the bored, informative tone he adopted would calm Gray down and not inflame him further.

  “I know what it is,” Gray said, gesturing to the cloth. “I meant, why is it being included as part of our ceremony? We are being married in Fontaine, and approximately ten minutes after this, I will be crowned a king of Fontaine. Do you think we should further remind everyone that I was born to be a king of a neighboring country?”

  Rory had struggled with whether they should include it for exactly those reasons—but then he’d realized that those concerns could be reframed, and therefore seen in an entirely different way. Gray’s lineage should be seen not as a detriment, but as an advantage. The court was concerned that Rory had no experience, and had never been trained to be a king. Well, here was someone who had been trained to be a king. It was one of many reasons why Rory had become convinced that Gray needed to share his throne.

  “I think we should, yes. We can hardly make everyone forget it, and why should you not celebrate your country on the day of your wedding?” Rory said, but the glower on Gray’s face only grew.

  “I need to talk to you,” Gray said, and the edge to his voice made it abundantly clear that it was not optional. “Privately.”

  “One moment,” Rory said, and followed Gray over to the edge of the throne room. The massive room, with its enormous vaulted ceilings, was a feat of engineering and virtually guaranteed that even a hushed whi
sper could be heard, but Rory wasn’t going to remind his betrothed of that particular fact.

  “Are you insane?” Gray demanded.

  “The last time I checked, no,” Rory responded quietly.

  “Then why do you insist on possibly jeopardizing your throne with these stunts? We’ve just barely got the court calmed down over me sharing your throne. And now, you’re going to stir up all this talk all over again by adding this to the ceremony.” Gray crossed his arms over his chest and Rory was reminded of how Rowen must have felt, feeling absolutely sure the flower arrangements were in the right place, but having Gray argue with her anyway—for no real purpose except to argue.

  “Are we doing this or not?” Rory finally asked. “Because when I suggested this plan to you and then I proposed, I meant to commit to it, without flinching, no matter how difficult the path got. You are from Ardglass, that’s something you could not possibly change, even if you wanted to, and you shouldn’t want to—even if the reminders can be painful. You are who you are because of what happened, and I love you for that strength. It brought us together and it should be celebrated, especially on our wedding day.”

  Gray stared at him, expression inscrutable. “You really believe that.”

  “I do. I believe in it,” Rory said firmly, “and I believe in you.”

  “I don’t want to bring you to ruin,” Gray admitted softly, brokenly, his eyes haunted. “I love you too much to do that.”

  Rory reached out and took his hands, squeezing them tightly in his own. “You could not possibly. And I prefer to see that we bring each other strength, not ruin. I could not do this without you, and I like to believe you could not do this without me. So let us do this without flinching, without hiding away those parts of ourselves that might make others talk.”

  Gray did not say anything for a long, drawn-out moment. His expression went from sad to resigned to finally one that Rory at least wanted to believe was hopeful. “And,” Rory added, “Anya has spent many evenings embroidering this cloth that came from Ardglass. It has great significance to her, and I believe she hopes it will hold the same for you. It is a gift, from the remnants of a kingdom that you gave the best chance to succeed, and they wish to thank you for it.”