Chapter Text
“Throw him in jail and be done with it.”
Bellamy stares at the request in front of him, chest burning with anger. He should throw Lord Wallace in prison. The man thinks his bloodline entitles him to a free pass, and this is the very thing Bellamy fights so hard to prove wrong. But he will never throw Cage behind bars to catch plague and die, even if he deserves it. Even if he’s drowning in debt to the Crown and won’t even pay his taxes.
“Have you been to his manor? It would put your throne room to shame,” Pike continues, pacing in front of the table.
“No, I would rather not pay him a visit,” Bellamy mutters under his breath.
“You are the king,” he reminds him.
“Funny, you aren’t talking to me like I’m one,” he snaps, and quiet falls over the room.
Murphy, forever his best and worst friend, chooses now to join in the conversation. “He’ll never do anything to Wallace because whatever he does to him will hurt her.”
Her, never her name. He’s careful like that. Four years since he last saw her, and still, Murphy knows to keep walking on eggshells. Pike, on the other hand, doesn’t.
“Clarke?”
Bellamy bristles at the sound of her name.
“Your Majesty, what happens to her is none of your concern. She has her family—”
“Leave,” Bellamy grunts.
Pike steps back, looking as if he’s been slapped. “What I mean to say is that she will be fine.”
“I said leave.”
He doesn’t need to be told a third time.
Bellamy’s blood still boils as he stares at the document. It could be so simple. Throw the bastard in jail. Give the title to someone he actually trusts.
So simple… except for the fact that he’s still in love with Lord Wallace’s wife.
“She’ll be ruined,” he whispers. Her impressive bloodline will be forgotten, and she’ll be cast out. Bellamy doubts her mother will help her. After all, it was her mother that forced her into that marriage in the first place.
“You could always bring her back to court,” Murphy offers, but it’s not a real suggestion. She would have no one here. The rest of the court would shun her for the sins of her husband.
“I want him dead,” Bellamy hisses. It’s not the first time he’s said or thought this. For a time, he thought himself and Cage to be friends. Bellamy wasn’t exactly anyone’s preference for the heir… bastards rarely are. But Cage helped him navigate court life and made it a little easier to be a prince. What Bellamy thought was kindness was actually Cage studying him, learning what makes his future king tick. When he finally crossed the line, Bellamy ordered him to leave court. But Cage wouldn’t lose so easily. He took the one thing Bellamy wanted more than anything: Clarke.
“Well, at this rate, he may drink himself to death,” Murphy offers. Even that isn’t a comfort to him. Bellamy knows what Cage is like when drunk, and he lies awake most nights knowing that Clarke is trapped under that roof with him while he drinks himself into a stupor.
“Too slow.”
“Please tell me you aren’t actually planning to kill him,” he warns. “Just drag his ass back to court and scare him. He’ll get back in line.”
It’s not the worst idea in the world. Four years is a long time, long enough for a normal person to have moved on from heartbreak. Everyone else assumes he no longer gives Clarke a single thought. If he does this right, he may even fool Cage.
Bellamy pushes up from the table and goes toward his desk in the corner. The note is direct, leaving no mystery as to why Wallace is being summoned after four years away. It’s not a request. It’s an order that will be obeyed. If it’s not, his guards will drag Cage kicking and screaming to court to show him who is the King and who is nothing.
“He will bring her,” Murphy says as he reads over the summons.
Bellamy sucks in a long breath. “How is she?”
“Fine, I think. Still not pregnant, last I heard. Rumor is that she’s barren.”
Bellamy stands up and crosses out of his study. “Make sure it gets there by tonight,” he orders. Once the door has shut behind Murphy, he steps into his bedroom and closes the door. If Murphy is smart, he’ll cancel the evening’s feast or tell everyone the King is ill. Because there is no way Bellamy can face court right now.
Another bottle smashes somewhere behind her. A few years ago, she would flinch at the sound. But it’s become background noise, like the brook just behind the manor. Men scream in celebration, her husband the loudest of them all.
Clarke just sits there, perfectly still, smiling sweetly as the women talk around her like nothing else is happening. She hates each and every one of them. Hates them for trying to be her friend, hates them for whispering about her fertility, hates them for every passing comment about the “Bastard King.” The purest blood of Arkadia gathers in this manor every week, reveling in their noble ancestry while drinking themselves numb.
“Lady Wallace,” a voice purrs right beside her ear. Emerson is drinking something stronger, no doubt finding it in Cage’s study. Clarke tilts her head back and blinks at him. “You know, red is my favorite color on you.”
Clumsily, his hand lands on her shoulder. Most of it stays on the fabric, but his thumb glides along her chest just above the lace. This is the reason she stays in this circle with women she hates. The second she leaves, one of Cage’s shadows follows her, hoping to get a taste of what’s his. So, she stays in the safety of numbers until everyone is gone. Then, her only threat is Cage.
“Darling,” she calls out, and Emerson’s hand slides off her. She isn’t the only one scared of Cage Wallace.
He stumbles past his friends and braces both hands on the back of the sofa behind her. The same reek of alcohol from Emerson radiates off her husband, and the hairs on her arm stand up. That’s only warning she gets before he jerks her face towards him and slams his lips into hers, earning loud cheers from the other men in the room.
She forces a smile onto her face as he pulls away. His eyes are unfocused and dark. “Did you miss me?”
“Always.”
The band of drunks disbands behind him, some slipping into the other room to play cards, others wandering back to their wives and grabbing ahold of them just like Cage has done with her.
She surveys the room, seeing the signs of an evening about to end. The window is open with one of the drunks leaning out of it to vomit. Emerson has found someone else to grope in the corner. And a bottle hasn’t smashed into the ground in five minutes.
“They need this,” he slurs right into her ear. “He’s bleeding them all dry. Taking our birthrights and giving them off to the other bastards of Arkadia.”
Clarke hums along, not saying a damn thing. But inside, her blood boils. Each kiss he presses down her neck burns. His fingers trail down her throat, and her breath catches when he slides over the chain of the necklace. The one Bellamy gave her all those years ago. Out of habit, her fingers clasp the small pendant, trying to protect this one piece of him from Cage.
Cage’s attentions stay on Clarke as the party dies down. Their guest rooms are filled with the ones that passed out before making it to their carriage. A few others linger, but Cage isn’t patient enough to wait for them to leave. He drags her by the wrist up the stairs, grip hard enough to add another bruise to the collection.
He’s quick, at least. All she has to do is lie there, dress half undone, as he fucks her. Cage is snoring beside her as soon as it’s over, and she pries his shoes off before getting up from the bed. If she were a good wife, she’d turn him so he’s on his side. But maybe tonight will be the night he chokes on his own vomit and leaves her a widow.
Clarke tiptoes toward the door but stops when a flash of red catches her eye.
On Cage’s desk sits a stack of letters, most requesting payments. But it’s the one at the top, the newest one with a seal she would know anywhere, that makes her heart stop.
A letter from the King.
He doesn’t greet them. Social niceties say he should, but he is sending a message: Cage is nothing. Bellamy lets Pike greet him instead as he watches from his study’s window.
There are a handful of people out on the grounds for the welcome, mostly from the older nobility. Cage disembarks the carriage first, all smiles. When he turns back to the carriage, Bellamy’s stomach drops.
Clarke steps down, aided by her husband, and her eyes scan the small crowd quickly. Her pink lips move, but her eyes don’t stay long on Pike. They dart up, past the crowd and toward the second story of the castle.
He doesn’t move.
She’s looking at the wrong wing, looking toward his old rooms from when he was still a prince. Her face falls.
Cage pulls her forward, and she takes his arm. She forces a smile at Pike, and then her eyes return to the castle, moving faster than before.
Bellamy swallows hard when those bright blue eyes finally find him. Each hair on his arm stands up as he meets her gaze, heart thundering in his chest. Four years is too long to go without seeing those beautiful eyes.
The moment is over too soon. They’re ushered inside, and the spell finally breaks. He lands hard in his chair and takes a long swig of wine.
She’s crying as she hugs Wells. For years, she’s tried to convince Cage to let him visit the manor, but he always refused. Said his wife shouldn’t have friends who are men, regardless if he’s like a brother to her. So, as soon as Cage leaves to speak with Bell—the King— Clarke tracks down Wells and hugs him like her life depends on it.
“How are you? Is he taking care of you? Has he ever—”
“I’m fine,” she sniffles into his shoulder. He pulls her tighter.
His wife and children went out on a walk as soon as Clarke arrived, giving them a few minutes to themselves. His two sons look just like him, and it hurt to meet them for the first time. Four years. His wife had been pregnant with the first just before she was dragged away from court by her mother. Now, that child is nearly four and with a younger brother copying his every step.
Wells and Clarke always said their children would grow up together. That Clarke would be his children’s doting aunt, and that Wells would spoil hers. Now, she’s missed years of his little ones’ lives, and she still can’t get pregnant.
“I hear rumors, you know,” he whispers as he pulls away. “About how he treats you.”
“That’s the last thing I want to talk about. Tell me everything I’ve missed.”
Wells doesn’t push. He delves into court drama, filling her in on all the scandal for over an hour. Not once do they mention Cage’s name or why they’ve been invited back to court after all this time. And it is the best conversation she’s had in four years.
Her next stop is to see Raven. Then, Monty and Jasper. And she laughs, truly laughs, for the first time in a long time.
Dinner is a quiet affair. Bellamy doesn’t show, which has become typical if the whispers are to be believed. It’s both a disappointment and a relief not to see him. Her body is still humming from the way he looked at her through the window. She’s not sure she could handle being in the same room as him for an entire meal.
“What did he say?” Clarke whispers once they are back in their rooms.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Cage snaps.
“I would like to know if I’m about to be cast out into the street,” she blurts out. The responding slap is instant and hard, knocking her off balance. The wall catches her, adding another bruise her pale skin. But she doesn’t cry. “I’m sorry.”
“The bastard won’t do a thing to us,” he hisses. “He’s trying to scare me, but he’s bluffing.” Clarke swallows her snide remark about him being a terrible card player and unable to tell when anyone is bluffing, but it’s hard.
Cage starts carding through their invitations, as if nothing is wrong. He flings one in Clarke’s direction without even looking up. She grips it tight, worried he might take it back. But he’s too excited over all the requests he’s received and is out the door without another word to his wife.
It’s only when the door closes that she lets herself look at the invitation. It’s from Lady Octavia.
Clarke never met Bellamy’s sister. She was kept far from court before he took the throne. And like her brother, she didn’t make an appearance at dinner tonight either. All she knows about the girl is what Bellamy told her years ago, which isn’t even remotely helpful now. She was a child then. Octavia is an adult now.
The real question is what she would want with Clarke.
“Lady Octavia should be right with you.”
“Thank you,” Clarke says. He counts each of her footsteps, holding his breath. This sounded like such a better plan an hour ago. In his defense, Octavia encouraged it. Insisted, really. This is the only way he would get Clarke alone without Cage finding out.
Bellamy steps out into the archway. Clarke has her back to him, head tilted up as she examines a painting. She’s wearing the same blue dress from this morning, and her hair is loose at her shoulders.
He takes a step forward, and she turns at the sound. Their eyes meet, and his body freezes. The two of them just stare at each other from across the room, a far cry from the sweet, nervous glances they would share after they first met. Her blue eyes are dark with heartbreak and longing, and he can’t look away.
“Clarke,” he whispers. That’s when she starts to cry. Bellamy darts across the room, taking her face in his hands as he wipes the tears away as fast as he can. He could never handle her sobs. Worried himself sick over her after her father died. Held her until the tears stopped. Told her stories to keep her mind busy, to keep the tears at bay. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart.”
“Is it?”
No, it’s not.
“It will be.” She blinks back more tears, peering up at him with a question in her eyes. Before he can stop himself, he kisses her. Not soft and tentative like their first, but hard and desperate like it may be their last. That’s when his tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
“Bell,” she whispers, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard in four years.
“You were supposed to be my wife,” he chokes out.
“I wanted to be. I still do.” His forehead rests against hers. His eyes fall shut as he tries to catch his breath. “I never wanted to—”
“I know.” Witnesses to the rushed wedding told him that Clarke sobbed the entire way down the aisle. Even begged her mother. It’s an image that haunts him every night when he tries to sleep. “Love, I know.”
His thumb trails up and down her cheek, savoring the soft skin. She’s watching him as he opens his eyes. Bellamy kisses her again. Slower, hungrier. Slips his tongue between her full lips and pulls her flush against him. Clarke makes the softest, happiest sound, and his heart soars.
He walks her backwards until she’s against the wall. His lips trail to the corner of her mouth, and she hums the way she used to when he would do that.
“Bell.”
His lips are dragged down to her neck. Her fingers wind their way into his curls.
This is how it was supposed to be. Every night and every day. Clarke at his side. Never parted from him. And they would have had this. He was about to propose.
But her mother wouldn’t hear of her only child marrying a bastard, even if he was to be king. And Cage wanted revenge. So, her mother dragged her kicking and screaming from the man who loved her more than anything, and Cage got the love of Bellamy’s life.
Clarke tugs him back up to her lips, and in the second before their lips touch, their eyes lock. Bellamy comes to a decision.
She will be his again.