The silence that followed was deafening.
The word that broke it even more so.
“No.”
Aimilia held her breath.
“What was that, son?”
The way Nero said “son”… Aimilia had never paid much attention before, usually because the way Nero and Clelia always called Gavril “boy” always took precedence.
Nikias looked up, eyes burning and hands trembling.
“I said: no.”
It all happened so fast.
The glass shattered. Nikias’ head whipped through the air, straight for the wall Aimilia was crouched behind. She was frozen as his head hit the stone, his hand coming up too late to catch himself.
Nero dropped what was left of the glass, just the stem, so it joined the other pieces on the ground.
The blood was already pouring down Nikias’ face. The cuts were mostly on his forehead and cheek, moving into his hairline. It was impossible to tell the severity of them as the blood rushed down his skin, mixing with the wine that had been left in the glass, all of it falling and staining his clothes.
He had his right eye screwed shut, the side that had hit the wall, and he was breathing through clenched teeth.
He didn’t look surprised. He looked…
He’d been bracing for it.
He’d known.
Then he was jerked back, and Aimilia could see more of the room again. Nero’s hand was around Nikias’ throat, dragging him back to the side of the bed, glass crunching under Nikias’ legs as he scrambled, choking for air. One hand grabbed at his father’s and Aimilia could just barely see Nero, pale and panting at the effort all of this was taking.
If Nikias wanted to, he could overpower him.
Couldn’t he?
Nero hissed, “The words you were looking for, son, were ‘as you command, Father.’”
Nero didn’t say “son” with any fondness. He said it the way a man collared a dog.
“Father—”
“Do not let these last few months go to your head. You answer to me, and I will do what is best for Imperia, even if I have to drag you down the aisle black and blue.”
Nikias gave a slight, weak tug at the hand wrapped around his throat. He opened his mouth, making a wheezing, horrid sound. “I?—”
Nero’s grip tightened but he nearly fell off the bed, his other hand grabbing the post and being the only thing keeping him up as his strength was failing. Nero said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Nikias gasped out, “Yes—Your Majesty.”
Nero released him, flinging him to the ground again as he dropped back into his pillows, devolving into a coughing fit.
Nikias curled in on himself, coughing and choking as he breathed again, blood still running down his face.
His eyes were closed tightly, one of them swelling and sure to blacken.
His head was bowed, hair falling into his face and hiding most of it, part of it matting and sticking to his skin where it was wet with blood. His palms were flat on the stone, slick with wine and blood.
