Page 87 of King's Warrior

Oh. So maybe they didn't intend the lack of greeting as a slight after all.

Emma stepped back, linking her arm through Rufe’s but glancing around to ensure no one saw. “Welcome home.” Her smile dimmed. “I’m very sorry about your brother.”

Emma, who heard all the gossip and usually knew more about the estate than even Father. “Tell me the truth, Em. Do you think Ronnie’s death was an accident?”

Emma glanced around once more before leaning in and whispering, “No. I don’t. He hated hunting.”

Rufe climbed the stairs, resting his hand on a banister he’d slid down as a child. A banister he’d slid down with Ronwith. Why did death let him put aside the bad times and recall the good?

The servants were likely busy elsewhere at this time of day, explaining why he didn’t meet any. Emma had bustled off to work on dinner preparations.

Rufe stood at the open door to his father’s study, watching the robust man, relatively untouched by time, recording in a journal. While many of Rufe’s features came from his mother, there’d been no denying his parentage, as he’d inherited his curly dark hair, wide mouth, and intense, dark eyes from his mother’s then-lover.

Father didn’t notice Rufe’s arrival, too engrossed in his work. A hint of darkness shadowed his eyes. He’d lost a son. His heir. Did he believe the “hunting accident” was a ruse, as Emma did?

Rufe placed his bag on the floor and tapped gently on the doorframe. Father glanced up, tired eyes lighting when his gaze fell on Rufe.

“Rufe!” Father leaped from his chair, crossing the room in a few long strides to envelop Rufe in a hug, erasing all doubts about his welcome.

Father’s arms felt warm and safe, carrying Rufe back to days gone by. He’d been blessed with a good father who always accepted his son, even though Father hadn't been married to Mother at Rufe’s birth. Their shared child expedited the ending of their arranged marriages, and they married each other shortly after his arrival. Ronwith made an appearance a few seasons later.

“Father,” Rufe said, voice choked, suddenly regretting his decision to stay away so long.

Father held on, rocking Rufe back and forth, a soft sob escaping. “Rufe, I’m so glad to see you. Your brother…”

“Shh… I’m here now.” What else could Rufe say to a man who’d recently lost a child?Everything will be all right?Rufe avoided lying whenever possible. While grief tore at his own heart, Father likely felt gutted, wondering if he could’ve prevented the death.

Rufe never fooled himself into believing his father couldn’t be ruthless and go after what he wanted—like Mother—but he never denied his actions or expected others to clean up his messes. He never used his position of power over others. He didn’t need to, preferring to win their respect instead.

Now he stood, broken by loss. Would Rufe have even come home if not for Avestan and Draylon?

Father pulled back, letting his tears show, and held Rufe at arm’s length. “Damnation, son, it’s good to have you home. I’ve missed you terribly.” Once more, he wrapped his arms around Rufe, squeezing him nearly painfully tight.

Rufe spoke words he’d never have considered before today. “It’s good to be home.”

The soft tap of footsteps came through the door behind him. Slender arms encircled him as the familiar scent of lavender teased his nose. Mother said nothing, merely held Rufe and quietly sobbed.

The Ferund family reunited in mourning.

Rufe pulled happy memories from the recesses of his mind, refusing to think of anything past Ronnie’s twelfth birthday when he’d become enamored of the privileges of becoming Duke one day. Rufe had loved Ronnie—perhaps still did—regardless of any faults.

He mourned the closeness they’d lost, how they could’ve been good friends, the nephews and nieces he’d never get to coddle. A small, selfish part of him also mourned the loss of his freedom, for Ronwith’s existence spared Rufe the responsibility of the family name and title.

If Ronnie’s death truly hadn’t been an accident, woe be to those responsible, for Rufe would show no mercy.

Chapter Thirty-four

Never had a more beautiful sight existed than Renvalle Castle, bathed by the morning sun, even to Niam’s exhausted mind. The journey from first sight to the front gate seemingly took forever.

He stood in the courtyard, holding tight to his mule to keep his balance. His muscles screamed from too much riding and sleeping on the hard ground. Draylon and Rufe had chosen such an existence. What a spoiled little princeling Niam must seem to them.

Draylon himself strode from the castle, long paces eating up the distance. Yarif followed behind until his eyes and mouth widened. He ran, clutching Niam in a nearly painful hug and murmuring “Cousin!” for Niam’s ears only, though all in attendance were likely crafting their own explanations for the king consort’s enthusiastic greeting.

Yarif stepped back, a blush tinting his cheeks.

Draylon stepped forward with a more guarded greeting. “Welcome, King Niam. Please, come inside.”

Murmurs of “He’s a king?” rose from two young ladies on the fringes of the courtyard. Niam likely appeared more of a stablehand in his worn clothing, with unkempt hair and a bushy red beard he’d lose at the first opportunity.

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