The silence between each beat of his heart stretched into infinite agony, and he fought with every fiber of his being to maintain control of himself. He should have known from the beginning that she had never loved him with the same wild and fierce passion that he'd reserved for her. He should have known that her allegiance to him had only ever been borne out of his ability to best her in the battle for monarchy, and that his position as the sire of Solvarr and this unnamed filly came from his prowess rather than any sort of affection she held for him, no matter what she had proclaimed in the Cove. He should have known.

Should have.

I didn't know, she claims and he bristles, jaw clenching and muscles tensing as he leans away from her. Somehow it was worse to know that she hadn't even bothered with the pretense of a contest in his absence, only settled for the closest thing to her as if that insolent dolt was worthy of her. To even be able to touch her he'd had to face down Bjorn and Ironclad and Bacardi. It hurt to know that he hadn't been forced to endure the same. That Bacardi was more worthy of her time than Solomon had ever been. He shuddered and fought to control the dual tempests of his grief and temper.

"So after, then," he manages in barely more than a whisper. His gaze flicked away from her and to the filly that still lurked on the edges of their gathering, her pretty gaze curious. She gives him the strength to continue on, and he swallows hard before turning back to her with ears pinned tightly against his poll. "Since he didn't bother to tell you," he says, his voice harsh as he implies Bacardi's position in this tableau of fuck-ups, "I came for you as soon as I was strong enough to... You-"

He swallows again, hating himself for admitting even this much to her now that he understood how little she cared. Telling her how much he cared, how much she had meant to him seemed superfluous at the moment, and yet he couldn't stop himself. "You two were the first ones I wanted to see."

Silence stretched interminably between them and is halfway to demanding that she introduce him to the daughter he had yet to meet when his bruised heart wins control and his voice recedes to a mere whisper. He loathes the vulnerability in his voice, and the way it shakes, and yet he cannot stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

"Would it have changed anything?" He says quietly, his shoulders shivering with anxious energy. Green eyes meet hers, desperately searching for the truth in their depths. "Or am I already too late?"

Solomon