“I heard that!” Avestan shouted with no heat.
Captain Rufe clapped an arm over his chest, the twinkle in his eyes and the wry twist of his lips adding a touch of mockery to the salute. “Now that I’ve done my duty, delivered the rings, and ensured neither groom fled the chapel screaming, I’ll take my leave.”
“You don’t have to,” Draylon began.
“Oh, but I insist. Too many married men hanging around for my tastes. Someone might see me and decide I’m to be next.” Rufe spun on his heel and stalked toward the door.
Was Captain Rufe really afraid of marriage, or was there something else going on, like having to watch the man he loved marry another?
Avestan rose to his feet, letting out a belly laugh. “No one even lays odds on our dear Rufe saying vows.”
Yarif hadn’t even noticed the cleric slipping away in the ceremony's aftermath.
At least the unsolicited vow of protection offered some assurances, but if the emperor ever considered Yarif better off dead, neither one of these powerfully built men could save him.
As always, Yarif must look after himself.
Even as a married man.
Chapter Thirteen
YarifstrolledbesideDrayloninto the half-empty banquet hall. Many courtiers had fled before the battle and had yet to return. Others had been banished or imprisoned.
Or worse.
Such things couldn’t be dwelled on now. Yarif forced a gracious smile likely no one believed, wending his way through tables of well-wishers or those attending for the food and gossip.
The emperor and crown prince waited at the high table. There went any hope of getting even a bite of food into Yarif’s twisting stomach now.
Pol escorted Adrina and Emile, dressed in the finery they seldom wore, to the far end. Yarif’s attempt at a reassuring smile likely came off as tired and insincere. He took his place across from them next to his new husband.
The emperor rose. The murmured conversations in the hall ceased. “By imperial decree, I give you your new king and consort, King Draylon Aravaid and King Consort Yarif Aravaid.”
The murmurs were no longer quiet. “Silence!” the emperor roared. “Your former king was found guilty of treason and met his punishment.”
Found guilty? There had never been a trial.
“Rather than banish his children,” the emperor continued, “we have assured them a continued place in this royal household. Tonight, we celebrate this momentous occasion.” He lifted his cup in a toast. The way he staggered said he’d already raised his cup many times today. “To the happy couple.”
Several attendees repeated the words, though totally devoid of emotion. Yarif took a tiny sip of wine so as not to appear rude. At least they served the vintage Draylon introduced him to. If one must sit through an uncomfortable dinner with uncomfortable people, keep the wine flowing. On second thought, maybe he needed more than a sip. Yarif drained his glass, then motioned to a server for a refill.
Draylon leaned in to whisper, “Pace yourself, darling. I’ve been told about your temper and tendency toward blunt honesty. I do not want to hear what you might say to my father while in your cups.” One side of his mouth twitched upward. “Well, yes. I would, but Father tends to throw those who offend him into the dungeon, and I’d hate for you to spoil your beautiful clothes.” Draylon ran a finger along Yarif’s collar, brushing the skin in places.
Yarif shivered despite willing himself not to. “I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.” Staring at Draylon, Yarif deliberately stabbed his roasted venison with a knife.
“Better your meal than my father.” Draylon smirked, then stabbed his own portion.
The emperor was too engaged in conversation with the crown prince to notice Draylon and Yarif. Avestan raised his gaze for a moment, gave a smirk of his own, and winked.
Yarif leaned close to Draylon, murmuring, “Did I tell you of the ancient Renvallian wedding custom of the groom punching his father-in-law in the face?”
“No, you didn’t. Interesting custom.”
“Oh, yes. Guaranteed to bring good luck.” Yarif toasted with his wine again.
“Other than wanting to punch my father, how are you doing?”
Yarif had just enough of today to let his guard down a bit—at least with Draylon. “I’m not sure about this whole wedding thing, but I believe I’ll like your brother.” A woman sat alone at a table, others giving her a wide berth. Tall and imposing with light brown hair cut short in military style. she didn’t engage in idle chatter but kept her gaze slowly moving over the diners, as though assessing how much each might be worth. She paused when she reached the emperor. Something about her… Yarif leaned, brushing his leg against Draylon’s in the process. “Draylon, who is the woman sitting at the third table?”
