Inevitable

The weight of ten years pressed down on Easton Xander Mitchell, a king forged in sorrow. The whiskey in his hand felt like a poor substitute for the presence he craved, a ghost of a touch that had vanished a decade ago.

"Want another glass, King?" The bartender's voice was cautious, accustomed to the King's dark moods. Easton’s eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were distant.

"Scotch," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. He barely registered Theodore, his second-in-command, approaching. His grip tightened on the glass, knuckles white. His heart felt like the glass, ready to shatter, just as it had the day she was taken.

“Bro, how much have you had to drink?” Theodore asked, his tone resigned. Easton merely glared, the pain in his eyes a raw, open wound. It had been ten years since Noelle was cruelly snatched from him, and the ache was as fresh as yesterday.