Sharing A Bed

A faint twitch pulled at Evander's brow. He stared at his cousin across the wide expanse of the heavy oak desk. With his uncle comatose and unable to perform the traditional ceremonial escort, someone had to fill the role.

Evander harbored no doubts about Oriana's intentions. If given the choice, she would pick him without hesitation. He knew her tactics inside and out. This impending marriage to a dying man was just another elaborate, calculated performance. She wanted to circle back to him. She wanted to force his attention.

She likely arranged Percival's visit for that exact reason. Afraid he might refuse outright, she sent someone to soften his stance first. Percival had always held a soft spot for Oriana, mostly because of the sweets she used to bake for him.

None of it mattered. Evander had no intention of participating in this farce.

A maid stepped into the quiet sanctuary of the study, placing two cups of steaming tea on the table before slipping out. Percival picked up his cup, blew across the hot surface, and took a cautious sip.

When his cousin remained silent, Evander let his sneer show. "Has no one else in the royal family been considered? I lack the time and the inclination."

Percival blinked, pausing with the teacup near his mouth. "But—"

"What?" Evander's tone sharpened.

Percival scratched the back of his neck, looking awkward. "Her Majesty did suggest you for the honor. Since you are unmarried, she thought you would be the most suitable."

A short, dry laugh escaped Evander. He knew it. They were begging him.

"But," Percival added quickly, his voice dropping, "Oriana explicitly refused."

Evander froze.

"She told Her Majesty it would not be appropriate to trouble the Crown Prince," Percival continued, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature. "So the Queen summoned me instead. She said I could go in your place."

She refused him.

Evander stared at the steam rising from his cup. He had spent days irritated at the prospect of being dragged into her grand scheme. Yet, hearing her flat rejection brought no comfort. Instead, a tight, suffocating irritation expanded in his chest. It gripped his ribs, unnamable and heavy.

Percival watched him, catching the subtle shift in his demeanor. He forced a grin, trying to ease the tension. "She probably figured you were too busy with state affairs. Escorting a bride is a hassle. I have nothing going on. I am free every day."

Evander remained silent. The air in the study thickened.

Percival shifted in his seat, the teacup suddenly feeling scorching hot in his hands. He set it down and stood abruptly. "Evander, I have other matters to attend to. I should go."

Evander gave a low hum, not bothering to rise.

Percival took a few steps toward the heavy door, then stopped. Something tugged at him. He turned back, his expression earnest. "Evander... about the past. Oriana was innocent in those conflicts. You blame her, but it is not fair. Things have come this far. She—"

"Percival."

Evander's voice dropped to a cold warning. His jaw tightened. He cut his cousin off with a brutal glare. "Did you not say you had somewhere to be?"

Percival lowered his gaze. "...Yes." He swallowed the rest of his words and hurried out of the wing.

The morning of the wedding broke with clear skies. Sunlight spilled through the grand windows of Thorne Manor, painting the polished floors in warm gold. Oriana stood by the glass, breathing in the crisp air. She felt no nerves. She harbored no anxiety. No typical bridal anticipation fluttered in her stomach. A deep, anchoring calm enveloped her.

Maids bustled around her, layering her in intricate silks and securing her ceremonial jewels. They whispered praises, styling her hair and adjusting the heavy fabric until every detail was perfected. She let them work, an unmoving centerpiece in the flurry of preparation.

Tradition required a male relative to escort the bride from her family home. But Thorne Manor lacked proud men. The endless bloodshed of the battlefield had stripped the estate of its sons, brothers, and fathers. The only male left in the main bloodline was a five-year-old boy.

So Percival stepped in.

When he arrived at her chambers, he offered his arm with a solemn bow. Oriana took it, letting him lead her down the grand staircase. Outside, the royal procession waited. The joyful noise of the crowd washed over them. Musicians played bright tunes, horns rang out, and drums kept a steady, thrumming beat. Lavish crimson banners snapped in the breeze.

Amidst the overwhelming noise, Percival leaned close. "Oriana," he whispered. "Evander is ill. He will not be attending the ceremony."

Oriana paused. Not out of sorrow, but mild surprise that Percival chose this moment to bring him up.

"He fell sick after I returned from the palace," Percival continued, misreading her silence. "He has not recovered. The palace ordered it kept quiet."

Oriana let out a soft sigh. The intended slight washed right over her, leaving no mark. She turned her head, offering Percival a gentle smile.

"Percival," she said, her voice steady against the roar of the crowd. "I stopped caring about His Highness a very long time ago."

He stared at her, wide-eyed.

"Eyes are meant to look forward," she told him, imparting the hard-won wisdom of her previous life. "Not back."

She patted his arm affectionately, smiling bright and unburdened under the morning sun. "Let us be happy today. It is my wedding day. And the next time we meet, remember your manners. You must address me as Aunt."

Percival swallowed hard, a myriad of complicated emotions crossing his face. He nodded, leading her toward the waiting carriage.

The royal procession dispatched from the formidable Grimwood Manor was awe-inspiring. Guards in pristine armor lined the streets. The carriages gleamed with gold trim. Horses stamped their hooves, their manes braided with silk ribbons. The scale of it all staggered Oriana. It was grander and more meticulously arranged than the procession she had walked in her previous, tragic life. It felt as though Grimwood Manor had poured every ounce of its formidable power into honoring this union.

The wedding ceremony at Grimwood Manor was brief and solemn. Given the groom's condition, the officiant bypassed the lengthy rituals, focusing only on the essential vows. Once the final words were spoken, attendants led Oriana deep into the estate.

They guided her through massive stone corridors. Grimwood Manor felt different from the royal palace. It was built like a fortress. Guards stationed at every intersection stood with hands resting on their sword hilts. Their expressions were sharp, their postures rigid. They guarded a man who, even in slumber, commanded loyalty and attracted enemies.

Oriana stepped past the heavy oak doors into the vast, silent bridal chamber.

The room was elegant, draped in immaculate white silk and rich crimson accents. Soft candlelight flickered against the stone walls. It was a stark contrast to her previous life. Back then, Evander had left her alone in a sparse room to entertain guests. He never returned. She had waited through the night, the heavy ceremonial crown pressing down on her skull until she could barely breathe.

She carried no such burdens tonight.

She walked toward the center of the room. Lying motionless on the massive, carved bed was Duke Gideon.

Oriana stopped at the edge of the mattress, letting her gaze trace his features. The Belmont bloodline was renowned for its aesthetics, but Gideon broke the mold. Evander possessed a polished, delicate refinement. He looked like a poet's muse.

Gideon was something else.

His features were incredibly sharp. High cheekbones, a strong jawline shadowed with dark stubble, and a straight, aristocratic nose. He exuded a raw, lethal aura. He looked rugged and dangerous, like a broadsword resting in its sheath. Even in deep slumber, the man radiated an imposing weight that commanded the room.

A tall, battle-hardened man stepped out from the shadows near the bed. He bowed low, his movements crisp and disciplined. "Gareth Fane, at your service, my lady."

Oriana recognized him immediately. He was Gideon's fiercely trusted lieutenant. He wore a gold silk patch over his left eye, a festive substitution for his usual leather one.

"His Grace has been asleep for over half a year," Gareth explained respectfully, his single eye watching her with guarded politeness. "He requires daily medicine. We bathe him regularly to ensure his comfort."

Oriana listened in silence. She knew the tragic extent of the Duke's condition. The kingdom whispered about it relentlessly. A man once revered as a god of war was now pitied, his mighty reputation reduced to hushed, sorrowful gossip.

Gareth noted her silence and misinterpreted it. He assumed she shared the kingdom's pity. He figured a young, beautiful noble lady would want nothing to do with a comatose husband. He cleared his throat, offering her a careful, polite out.

"We have prepared a separate, comfortable chamber for you, my lady," Gareth said. "It is just across the hall. You will not be disturbed there."

Oriana looked away from Gideon and met the lieutenant's gaze.

She shook her head slowly.

Her voice, when she spoke, was incredibly soft, yet it carried the steady calm of a gentle spring breeze. "The Duke and I are legally husband and wife."

Gareth stiffened, unsure of her meaning.

"As such," Oriana continued firmly, "there is no such thing as separate chambers in this marriage."

She paused. Her clear gaze drifted back to the formidable man lying silently on the massive bed. The candlelight cast soft shadows across his rugged face. She let profound gentleness seep into her tone.

"From tonight onward, I will share his bed."

Gareth froze. His mouth parted slightly. The battle-hardened warrior stood rooted to the floor in shock. He had expected disgust. He had expected fear or cold indifference. He had not expected resolute devotion.

Oriana offered the stunned lieutenant a faint, reassuring smile. "It is getting late, Sir Gareth. I am going to freshen up for the night."

She turned away, gathering the skirts of her heavy ceremonial gown, and walked toward the adjoining washroom.

Because she walked away at that exact moment, she missed it.

She missed the faintest, almost imperceptible movement on the massive bed behind her.

At Gideon's side, resting against the heavy brocade quilt, his fingers twitched.

Just once.