Tied to the Throne

chapter forty eight

Nikolai P.O.V

It had been hard for everyone. Having to deal with Arabella being, well, stabbed, and her having to be on bed rest for the past eight days. Of course, the loss of our baby. She has only just started to come to terms with the fact that she cannot blame herself, and I was more than greatful that she was alive. And it wasn't just our family dealing with this hardship. A war had happened, many men had died fighting, fighting for this country. There was a noticeable feeling of grief and sorrow throughout the quiet streets.

But as the days passed, I couldn't get over what Salvatore had said to me on the battlefield.

"I am not the only one with blood on my hands," he starts, making my eyebrows furrow, "She is not as innocent as you think, you know."

It could mean nothing, he could have just been saying words to get in my head. But it is just leaving an awfully bitter taste on my tongue.

What could Bell have done?

Arabella P.O.V

To be here, alive, is a feeling nothing else can give me. To know that if there is some God, or something else out there bigger than me, bugger than us all; to know that whatever it is, gave me another chance.

Maybe it was luck.

Maybe it was fate.

Maybe it was some kind of magic.

Whatever it was, I will thank it everyday.

To be here, with my husband by my side, seeing him smile when he looks at me. It almost makes me forget about what I did.

What I did.

"Please, don't make finish this Will, I love you-" scared screams cut off with gut wrenching sobs.

I look down and see my hands covered in crimson, coated thick.

"Arabella! You have to, please. Bels..." His voice filled with guilt and tears.

"You have to do this Bels," his voice is unclear, shaking and the sobbing is evident in his tone.

"No- no, I can't! I won't! Please don't make me," I shout back, pleading with him.

He doesn't give me words, but rather a pleading gaze. Begging.

" Will..."

I'm not a bad person. Right?

I don't even remember doing it. It's just been coming to me in small bits and pieces. It's been happening ever since I saw him again. William. My brother.

The flashbacks - memories I've been having, they're hazy, they're confusing. But from what I can gather, I killed my brother.

But he had asked, begged me to.

I can't be a bad person, right?

I was doing what he asked me to do. Sure, I don't fully remember everything, I don't know why. But why would he want me to kill him?

My dad had told me he left to go 'exploring' when I was 16. He said Will would come back in a month, maximum two. But he never did. So, we all assumed he had died.

We were really close, he was only a few years older than me, and he was one of my only friends. So when he left me, I was heartbroken.

Why would I not remember me killing him? Why would my dad lie? Why-

"Bell?" A deep voice pulls me out of a deepening spiral of 'why's' and 'what's'. Nikolai's voice.

I only reply with a small noise of acknowledgment, eyes still glued to the white wall.

"Are you okay? You just seem, I don't know, off?" his voice sounds hesitant, trying not to step over any lines accidentally.

I'll go insane if I keep all this to myself. Right? I mean Nik is the perfect person to  talk to this about, because he's had to go through this before. Right? He was some warrior thing before we married. He must know how to deal with this feeling.

Whatever it was.

Guilt, confusion, fear, disappointment.

I don't know.

Nikolai P.O.V

Oh no. She's been silent for like five minutes. What could possibly be wrong?

Is she thinking about the miscarriage? Is she in pain?

Oh shit.

What if she's still mad at me for how awful I treated her when she asked to come with me for the war. I mean I was a dick, all she wanted was to be next to me, to make sure I didn't die and leave her alone.

But, I did already apologise. Many times. Maybe she was still hung up on-

"I think I might have killed my brother," she says, her voice trembling.

What?

"What do- What do you mean, 'might have'?" I ask, struggling to process her words.

She hesitates, her gaze drifting as she searches for the right words. "The memories are blurry, and I can't really piece together what happened—"

Her voice trails off, and my mind goes numb, overwhelmed by a steady, disorienting hum. Questions flood my thoughts: When did this happen? Why? How?

"I'm not a violent person; I would never—"

"Stop," I interrupt sharply, needing to break through the chaos of her rambling.

I look at her, and her eyes are clouded with unshed tears. Her hand clutches the cold, white sheets tightly, the IV needle protruding awkwardly, making her discomfort more evident. She meets my gaze, her eyes wide and filled with a profound guilt and disappointment that deepens the furrow in my brow.

I don't what her going down the same path I went down when I was younger. I cycle of guilt, anger, confusion. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Let alone my wife.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing thoughts. "Okay, let's start from the beginning. What do you remember?"

She blinks, as if trying to refocus. "I remember him on the floor, surrounded by blood. I was holding him, he was just asking me to, to kill him? I think. But all I remember is him begging, and blood everywhere... I don't know what happened after that."

I nod, trying to piece together the fragments of her story. "Where were you? What happened right before the blackout?"

Her expression turns pained as she struggles to recall. "We were in the living room. I think there might have been a knife? I know I must have done something, but I just can't remember."

I can see the frustration etched on her face, and I know this isn't just about guilt. It's about fear and confusion too. "We need to find out exactly what happened."

Her eyes lock onto mine, a desperate plea for understanding. "I want to remember, but it's like there's this fog in my mind. I'm scared. I don't want to believe I could have done something so terrible."

I take her hand gently, trying to offer some comfort. "We'll figure this out together. But on the plus side, You can't have like actually killed him, right? I mean you saw him at that ball, you've talked to him before."

"But, I saw me, I saw him. I killed him, he shouldn't be alive, I-I don't-"

"Okay, okay, how about you write to him and ask to talk to him about it? He must know something?"

My solution seems to please her enough for her to calm down a bit, and for her breathing to slow down, and eyes to clear up.

She nods slightly.

What the fuck.

Why would she think she killed him if he's alive?

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