Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  He’d learned his lesson; he wouldn’t draw his father’s eye toward Mia unless absolutely necessary.

  Grayson twisted away from Fletcher with another curse. Mia whimpered as he lowered her onto the bed, and that small sound of pain cut him. He needed to cool her down.

  He was aware of Fletcher leaving the room, closing the door and locking it, but his focus was on helping Mia. He killed the fire in the stove before removing his second glove and rolling Mia’s sleeves up her arms, letting the slight chill in the air brush her heated skin. He used the tepid water in the washbasin to wet a rag and then sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

  Grayson had barely touched the wet rag to her temple when she grabbed his wrist, fingers digging into his skin. Her face twisted as she wept, shuddering with a pain he didn’t know how to soothe. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry I let go.”

  His heart spasmed. She was delirious. She probably didn’t even see him. Not really. He strangled the cloth in his fist. “You’re going to be fine,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and her mouth trembled. “It’s my fault,” she gasped. A rapid spill of words followed, but Grayson couldn’t understand her. Zennorian, Mortisian, Devendran, Rydenic—the languages twisted together, garbled and nonsensical. But her agitation was building, her sobs shaking her body.

  He grasped her wrist, squeezing hard as he leaned over. “Mia, stop. You’re here with me. You’re safe.” Promise throbbed in his words, but she wasn’t comforted.

  Her nails dug into his skin, her eyes clinging to his. “I killed you,” she gasped.

  “You didn’t kill me, Mia. I’m right here.”

  She shook her head, choking on her tears. “I deserve to die.”

  “No.” Grayson’s stomach rolled at the self-loathing and agony in her pained words. His hold on her tightened. “Mia, what—?”

  “I killed her!” Her brown eyes were blurry with tears and fever, but her fervency hit him hard. “They all died. Everyone died.” A spill of incoherent words followed and she thrashed her head away from him.

  Grayson’s heart thudded. She wouldn’t release his wrist, so he grabbed the cloth with his other hand and began to bathe her face and neck, desperate to soothe her. But he couldn’t stop the torment in her mind. She continued to cry and often broke into muttering. Not everything was a confession; some of her words were softer, and even though he couldn’t understand most of it, he knew she was lost in the past. The details she shared were disjointed, giving him a glimpse into her life that he didn’t have enough context to actually understand. He only knew she was hurting and he couldn’t stop it. When she cried out for her mother, Grayson grit his teeth and thumbed her tears away, pleading with the fates to give her rest. Anything to take away her pain.

  Perhaps a half hour later the cell door opened and Fletcher strode in, lifting a pouch. “I told the physician my wife had a fever,” he said, moving to the square table to prepare the medicine.

  Before Grayson could decide to thank him, the door to the back room opened and Mama stumbled out. Her eyes snapped to him and she whitened. “Wha—what’s going on?”

  Mia flinched at Mama’s voice.

  Grayson fisted the wet rag, his jaw cracking as he faced the older woman. “Get out of my sight. Tell your husband neither of you are welcome here tonight.”

  “But—we have orders from the king!” she protested.

  “Your orders were to care for Mia,” he said darkly. “You failed. Tell the king if you wish. Pray that I do not.”

  Mama paled further. She snatched a few belongings and fled the cell, shutting the door behind her.

  Grayson returned his attention to Mia while Fletcher resumed his work with the medicine.

  After a moment of silence, Fletcher whispered, “I didn’t know.”

  Grayson didn’t look away from Mia. Her cries had quieted to low moans, though tears still leaked from her eyes. “Didn’t know what?” he asked distractedly, his voice gruff.

  “I didn’t know she was ill.” The softness of Fletcher’s tone didn’t hide the man’s emotions. Regret was there, as well as concern.

  Surprise filtered through Grayson and he glanced up. Was it possible the impassive guard cared for Mia? He wasn’t sure what to think of that.

  He’d waited too long to respond, so he cleared his throat. “Thank you for the medicine.” Fates knew it wasn’t something the physicians would have given him. For being a prince, he had little power in the castle.

  Fletcher grunted, avoiding the thanks. “You should get the hair off her neck. And take off her shoes and stockings.”

  Grayson took the man’s suggestions, and by the time he’d finished baring her feet, Fletcher arrived with the cup of medicine. Once she’d taken it—albeit reluctantly—Grayson pressed a kiss to her hot temple, his lips throbbing with the scorching heat of her fever.

  “She needs rest,” Fletcher said. “If the fever still rages in an hour, give her more tea.” The guard eyed him, his hand on the door handle. “The night guard will be here in an hour. I’ll be outside until then, if you need anything.”

  Mia drifted in and out of sleep, but even when awake she wasn’t fully conscious. She relaxed marginally when Grayson kept the cool cloth pressed against her skin, so he continued the motions even though his muscles strained. He held her close, kissed the top of her head and her hot cheek. His throat ached from whispering to her, an endless spill of soothing words that probably meant nothing to her. The fever continued unbroken into the night, and though time was difficult to gauge in the cell, Grayson thought it could only be a handful of hours until dawn when Mia finally settled into a deep sleep, her brow no longer radiating a feverish heat.

  Grayson didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until a feather-light touch brushed his jaw. He pried his eyes open. He’d slipped onto his side at some point, so they lay facing each other. His right arm was stretched out and Mia’s head rested on it. The whole limb was numb, even his fingers, but he didn’t care—Mia was awake. The lamp burning on the table across the room cast imperfect light, but Grayson easily met her unclouded gaze.

  “You’re back,” she whispered, her words rasping a little. Her hand cupped his cheek, the other resting on the bed between them.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice roughened from sleep.

  “Tired.” Her throat bobbed. “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know. Several hours.” He studied her shadowed face, his chest squeezing when he realized their noses were only a breath apart. They’d never laid together like this. One of his hands curled over her waist, his thumb resting against her belly. The intimacy of this moment stunned him. For all the times he’d embraced her, she’d never seemed this close. His focus dropped to her lips. They were pressed together, soft, pink, and so near his own.

  Grayson had learned years ago to breathe through the pang of desire. He knew how to look away, to curl his fingers instead of stretch to reach her. And yet the need to kiss her pulled on every part of him and he didn’t shift away.

  She was perfect. Beautiful.

  Which was why he could never do this.

  He didn’t deserve her friendship, let alone anything more. His scars were not just skin deep. The wrongs he’d committed in his father’s name stained him. He was the Black Hand. He’d killed. He wasn’t worthy of her. And he was afraid. What if he told her his feelings and she rejected him? Terror kept his mouth shut.

  That didn’t mean the temptation wasn’t there, riding him so hard right now he couldn’t breathe.

  Mia’s lips parted.

  His eyes flashed to hers and he knew she’d caught him staring. Heat spread over his face and he lowered his gaze.

  “May I have some water?” she asked softly.

  It meant moving away, but that was probably for the best; it was hard to concentrate when he was hyper-aware of every breath she took. He lifted his fingers from the curve of her w
aist and eased his dead arm out from under her head. She resettled against the pillow while he rolled to his feet, shaking out his hand that sparked with needles of pain as sensation rushed back.

  When she finished drinking, he set the cup aside and sat on the edge of the bed. She caught his free hand and twined their fingers, pressing their palms together. It was the first time in years their hands had touched like this, skin to skin. He almost always wore gloves.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she whispered, thumbing his hand.

  His throat clenched. He didn’t want to ruin this moment, but they needed to talk. Normally he could curb his curiosity about her past, but after what she’d said in the throes of fever, he couldn’t remain silent. “You asked for your mother,” he said quietly.

  Mia stiffened. “What?”

  “During the worst of your fever, you cried for your mother.”

  Mia dropped his hand. Her chest rose and fell too quickly as she stared at him.

  Grayson swallowed, forcing himself to continue despite the sudden chill between them. “You spoke other languages. I didn’t understand most of it, but you talked about your mother. A sister. Learning to swim. Playing with a dog. A painting you gave your father—”

  “Stop.” Tears sparked in her eyes, wavering in the lamplight.

  He couldn’t stop. The need to know burned inside him. “You had a life before this. A good one. What happened? How did you get here?”

  Mia shuddered, drawing her knees up to her chest. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Grayson leaned in, every protective instinct he had roaring to life. “I need to know what happened to you.” It was killing him not to know.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He grit his teeth. “It matters, Mia. You said you deserved to die.”

  She cut him a look—panic, grief, guilt, and shame swam in her eyes. When she spoke, emotion strained her words. “Please, Grayson. Don’t ask me about this.”

  He refused to let his gaze drop. “You know other languages. Your accent is foreign, but I can’t place it. Your skin isn’t like mine. Are you from Zennor? Mortise? Devendra?”

  Her tongue darted over her cracked lips, pleading in her eyes.

  Grayson laid a hand on her raised knee, feeling the tremble that ran through her body. He softened his voice. “You were seven years old when you came here. Did my father take you away from your family? Did he kill them?”

  Her breath caught.

  He forced himself to continue, despite the moisture building in her brown eyes and his rising nausea. “You said everyone was dead. My father killed them, didn’t he? And he brought you here. Why?”

  Mia still wasn’t breathing. Her body shook, her expression frantic.

  Grayson tightened his hold on her bent knee, steadying his voice. “Whatever happened, you don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to be here.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.” He hesitated, and his voice lowered. “You said you killed someone.”

  Mia paled, but said nothing.

  “You said you killed me, and then you said you killed her.” Pain flared in her eyes and Grayson’s brows slammed down. “You’re not a killer, Mia. Whatever happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “You don’t know that.” They were the same words she’d spoken a moment ago, but they were so much weaker this time.

  He ducked his head, catching her wet eyes. “I know you. You would never kill anyone.”

  Mia’s shoulders tensed and she glanced away, her voice pinched. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  The words punched him in the gut, because they were true. Grayson ground his jaw so tightly, his teeth ached. “Then tell me. I can help.”

  “No. You can’t help me.”

  He wanted to argue, but how could he? What had he ever done for her, really? He stole moments with her, gave her gifts when he could, but what did it matter? He couldn’t free her. Couldn’t protect her from the evil his father had already wrought. He couldn’t take Mia home, wherever that was. And she was right; he didn’t know anything real about her. He didn’t know where she came from, why she was here, or what tortured her. He didn’t know what she dreamed about or hoped for. And he couldn’t fault her for not confiding in him, because fates knew there were things he hadn’t shared with her—things he’d never share.

  Grayson’s hand fell from her knee and he turned so his back was to her. He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, arms slung over his knees. Tension coiled in his shoulders and the silence burned his ears.

  Mia exhaled softly and he felt the bed dip as she shifted closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s fine.” His voice was carefully even.

  Mia moved to sit beside him, her arm threading slowly through his. She leaned against him, her temple pressing against his hunched shoulder. “I didn’t mean that.”

  His eyes remained trained ahead, his words low. “It’s the truth. I can’t do anything for you.”

  “No.” She twisted until her free hand cradled his jaw and she forced him to meet her steady gaze. “You’ve saved me a thousand times and in a thousand ways. Without you, I would never have survived these years.”

  Truth rang in every word, her conviction palpable. Her thin fingers felt delicate against his skin and her touch warmed every part of him. When he could no longer take the sweet torture he eased away, throat bobbing hard. “I brought you something.”

  Her brow furrowed as he reached for his nearby satchel. He drew out the brown egg-shaped object and Mia took it carefully, examining the prongs and ridges with squinted eyes and curious fingers.

  “It’s a pinecone,” Grayson said. “They’re everywhere in the mountains. They fall from the pine trees.”

  She lifted it to her nose, inhaling the earthy scent. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” She picked up his hand and kissed the back of it. With his gloves off, he could truly feel her lips against his skin. The satin touch seared all the way to his thudding heart.

  She didn’t share anything more about her past, and Grayson didn’t ask. When she drifted back to sleep, Grayson remained wholly alert. His pulse still kicked from her impulsive kiss and he didn’t know if the back of his hand would ever stop tingling. There were things he didn’t know about her, but he knew enough. She was good. Pure.

  And she had given him every good moment in his life.

  Slowly, he bent his stiff neck and pressed his lips against her warm temple. “I love you,” he whispered, saying the words for the first time.

  Mia’s breaths remained even, her chest rising and falling gently as she continued to sleep.

  Grayson knew he should move to one of the wooden chairs across the room, give her space, but that didn’t stop him from stretching out on the bed beside her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and tipped his forehead to rest against her shoulder, the tension in his body finally fading.

  Chapter 24

  Clare

  Nerves fluttered through Clare, knotting her stomach and tightening her lungs. She wore an exquisite gown of deep blue with silver accents sewn on, sparkling like a swirling trail of stars against the night sky. Draping outer sleeves gathered at her elbows and brushed against the full skirt, leaving tight inner sleeves to reach her wrists. Matching blue gloves covered her hands and the bodice of the dress was fitted. Powders and the now-familiar stain once again darkened her exposed skin so she could pass for the half-Zennorian princess. With her dark brown hair meticulously curled and piled on her head, Clare felt every bit the imposter.

  Ivonne helped Bridget pin the dress’s hem. Rather than make two identical gowns, Clare would change dresses with the princess when her part was done and the skirt could then be unpinned and fall the extra length Serene needed. Serene would also take the silver and diamond necklace currently pressed around the base of Clare’s throat. The expensive piece was a gift from Emissary Havim and his son, Amil, and it was decidedly u
ncomfortable—heavy, cold, and constricting.

  A moment later the temporary hem was in place and she was declared ready. As Bridget left to arrange the princess’s hair, Bennick strode into the suite.

  Clare stood in the doorway of the changing room and a flush bloomed in her cheeks as Bennick drew to a stop. His gaze tracked over her, taking in every detail of her appearance—the hair, the dress. And while he studied her, she couldn’t look away from him.

  Bennick always looked perfectly suited for his uniform, but the dark blue dress uniform lined in gold thread looked especially good on him. The clean cut of the fabric outlined his wide shoulders and narrow hips, his long legs and strong arms. His dark-blond hair was a little untidy, as if he’d run his fingers through it recently, and the stubble lining his jaw lent a rugged edge to his overall appearance. His sword was at his waist, as well as a dagger, but it didn’t drag at him. He wore the weapons like they were a part of him.

  What she felt for him was growing beyond friendship. She could recognize that, even if she didn’t entirely know what to do with it.

  Bennick’s crystal-blue eyes met hers and she struggled to pull in a full breath. She fingered the heavy diamond necklace encircling her neck, needing something to do with her suddenly trembling hands. “I feel a little ridiculous.”

  He took one of her gloved hands and kissed it as if she were truly one of the nobility. He peered up through his lashes. “You look beautiful, Clare.”

  Heat pooled in her abdomen. “Thank you.”

  Bennick smiled and extended an arm. She took it and together they made their way to the ballroom, Venn and Dirk trailing behind them. Dirk was the bodyguard Clare had interacted with the least, but the middle-aged man was soft-spoken and had a calming presence. Clare was grateful for his quiet peace tonight.

  Flutes and violins weaved music just loud enough to be heard over the murmuring voices, swishing skirts, and tittering laughter. Colors swam before Clare as she entered the large ballroom and a wave of heat slammed into her from so many bodies pressed together. The ceiling towered above them, torches and candles spread throughout the room. Heels clacked as the nobility wandered the floor, greeting each other and laughing too loudly. Pine boughs and long ribbons had been used to decorate the walls and tables and the smells of cakes, cheeses, and sliced fruit drifted in between the perfumes saturating every man and lady in the crush.