Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  “I’m sorry, Clare. I know you’re still upset with me, and that’s all right. But you can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

  Tension lined her shoulders. “You don’t have a right to tell me how to live my life.”

  “Then think of the boys.”

  “I am.”

  “They can’t lose you.”

  “I’m protected.”

  He huffed a hard laugh. “I don’t trust them to keep you safe. The princess’s bodyguards. Markam.”

  Clare jerked at the loathing in his voice—as if Bennick’s name were a curse. “You don’t know—”

  “I know him.” The animosity pouring from him was so potent it rolled in waves against her.

  “How?” Clare’s voice was suddenly weak, because her mind had already linked the reason. She’d seen this anger in her brother before, and only one man had ever inspired it.

  Eliot stared down at her. Though she knew the words before he spoke them, they still stabbed her. “Markam is the one who flogged me.”

  Her stomach rolled and her heart thudded in her chest, her ears, her temples—every part of her throbbed. “No.”

  Eliot ground his teeth. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Bennick wouldn’t have done that.” He couldn’t have.

  Her brother’s face flushed. “You think I’m lying?”

  Denial screamed inside her. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone who . . .”

  “Who what?” Eliot’s face darkened. “Didn’t deserve it? You think I deserved that?”

  “No!”

  He shoved closer, nostrils flaring. “He nearly killed me!”

  Clare had pictured the one who’d tortured her brother. She’d imagined the monster as she’d tended Eliot’s wounds and fought to save him from the ensuing fever. She’d seen the evil eyes and twisted sneer as she’d worked over Eliot’s torn back, his howls of pain piercing her to the core.

  That monster wasn’t Bennick—couldn’t be Bennick. He’d saved her life. Comforted her. Made her heart trip with only a look.

  “Is he the one who hit you?” Eliot asked tightly. “A training accident, maybe?”

  “What?” She touched her bruised cheek, flushing as she remembered the kiss Bennick had placed there. “No!”

  Eliot grabbed her wrist, tugging her close. She clutched his shirt to steady herself. His voice blistered with warning. “I saw you walking with him today. If I see him near you again, I won’t stand by.” He tightened his hold on her wrist and it strained her injured arm; she gasped at the shock of pain that flared beneath the bandage.

  “What’s going on?” a deep voice demanded.

  Clare wrenched away from Eliot, wrist stinging as she whirled to face Cardon. His scarred cheek was drawn tight and his shoulders were tense, a strong hand wrapped around the hilt of his sheathed sword. A vein in his temple throbbed when he saw her rubbing her reddened wrist. Darkness fell over his hard expression and he took a threatening step toward Eliot. “Who are you?”

  Her brother stiffened, lifting his pointed chin in something almost like challenge. “Slaton.”

  Cardon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a soldier?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clare touched Cardon’s tense arm. “I’m all right.”

  He glanced at her, his eyes still hard. “Did he hurt you?”

  “I’m fine,” Clare insisted, throat aching with unshed tears. “Please, Cardon. Let him go.”

  His jaw flexed, but he focused back on Eliot. “You won’t approach her again.”

  Eliot swallowed hard, flint in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Leave.”

  Clare’s eyes burned. She nearly said it then—admitted Eliot was her brother. But she couldn’t betray him. His career would be totally ruined if anyone learned he was the son of a traitor.

  Eliot spun on his heel, his back stiff as he strode away.

  Cardon slid in front of Clare, blocking her view of Eliot’s retreat. His voice was flat. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Her chest ached. Everything ached. “Please. I don’t feel well.”

  His features tightened, but he took her arm and guided her toward the castle. “Did he hurt you?” Cardon asked again, tension thrumming through the words.

  “No,” she whispered.

  It was a lie.

  Eliot had carved out her heart.

  Chapter 29

  Clare

  Clare walked silently beside Venn through the servants’ passage, headed to her lesson with Ramus. Venn had sensed her mood and wasn’t bantering as he usually did. Clare hadn’t spoken much to anyone since yesterday afternoon. She couldn’t believe she’d stood with Bennick on the training field yesterday, holding his hand and feeling happy. It seemed impossible now, after her argument with Eliot. It wasn’t just what he’d told her that made her body ache, but the words he’d hurled at her. You abandoned them.

  When Cardon had escorted her back to the castle yesterday, Clare had begged Vera to cancel her lessons before she closed herself in the princess’s room. Every limb felt heavy, each breath too fast and thin. Tears that had been stinging her eyes since her conversation with Eliot finally burst free.

  She’d cried for everything. She cried for herself. For Mark and Thomas. For Eliot and the pain he’d suffered—and inflicted. She’d cried about the horrible truth she’d learned about Bennick. She’d cried about the unfairness that had brought her to be the decoy; the terror of being hunted by killers. And through it all, the homesickness gaped inside her, swallowing her whole.

  Bennick had come by the room several times, but Clare asked Vera to keep sending him away—to tell him she didn’t feel well. She couldn’t see him. Didn’t want to see him. And that cracked something inside her chest. Because Bennick had become her comfort at the castle, and Eliot’s admission had taken even that from her.

  After Vera had left, Clare had pulled the tin soldier from her pocket. She always tried to keep it close; it was important because Mark had given it to her, a symbol of love and protection. She hadn’t pulled it out in a while because a different soldier, one with blue eyes and a ready smile, had taken a vital place in her life.

  But now she realized both soldiers were dented. Neither one was perfect. She’d been a fool to think otherwise.

  She pushed away her memories when Venn held the door to a narrow passage. She couldn’t think too much or she’d begin crying again.

  They were still inside the thin hallway when Bennick found them.

  “Clare!” His voice rang on the close walls, his boots clipping rapidly against stone as he hurried to catch up.

  Venn halted, and though Clare could have kept walking, she didn’t. She kept her spine straight as she turned to face Bennick.

  Bennick drew to a stop in front of her, eyeing her with a frown. “Vera said you were unwell.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly.

  His forehead creased, worry in his gaze. “You seemed fine when I left you at the stable.”

  “It came on suddenly.”

  “Are you still feeling ill?”

  She thought of what Eliot accused her of and what he’d told her about Bennick. Her stomach clenched. “Yes.”

  Bennick shot a glance at Venn, but focused back on her. “Is something wrong?”

  Clare said nothing, her gaze finding a spot on the gray wall behind him.

  Tension thickened the air and Venn shifted uneasily. “I think I’ll leave you two alone.” He slipped away, but Bennick didn’t watch him go. He was staring at Clare.

  The moment they were alone, Bennick broke the short silence. “Cardon told me you met with Slaton yesterday.”

  She froze. The hint of disapproval in his voice was enough to confirm he knew her brother. The small hope that this was a horrible misunderstanding vanished. Fury threaded through her veins, warming her blood.

  She could feel Bennick reacting to the coiled tightness inside her. His body hardened. “Did he hurt you?”

&nbs
p; She kept her eyes fixed on the black button shining at the collar of his uniform. If she looked directly at him, she knew she’d snap. “No.”

  His throat visibly clenched. Muscles rippled and bunched as he ground his teeth. “You wrote him a letter.”

  “How—?”

  “You left it on the table. I sealed it.”

  Anger flashed, thinning her mouth. “Did you read it?”

  “No.” His hands fisted. “How do you know him?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does.” He leaned in but she turned away before their eyes could meet. Bennick made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  She folded her arms, a feeble shield. “I don’t think I can.”

  He flinched.

  She crushed the guilt that tried to rise.

  Silence stretched between them, turning brittle. “You didn’t know,” Bennick finally whispered. “Before yesterday, you didn’t know. And he told you.”

  “It’s true, then? You were the one who . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  His words were tight. “I punished a soldier. I was his captain. It was my responsibility.”

  “How could you?” Tears choked her. She hated that she was crying, but she couldn’t stop. Just like she couldn’t order back the rush of anger or the spike of painful betrayal. This soldier who had befriended her, protected her—he had tortured her brother. “How could you do that to him? To anyone?”

  His voice was clipped. “It was necessary.”

  Now she looked at him, their gazes colliding painfully. “You nearly killed him!”

  Bennick winced. “Clare—”

  “How could that have been necessary? He couldn’t move without shattering pain for weeks! The resulting fever nearly killed him, and his back—” She threw a hand over her mouth, bile rising. She didn’t have to describe it to him. He’d seen it.

  He’d caused it.

  Clare slumped against the wall and caught her bowed head in her hands. Her voice cracked. “You ruined his back. You tore his dreams from him—made sure he’d never advance from the city guard. How could you be so cruel?”

  Bennick was silent, but she could hear his hard breaths. He shifted away and she stole a look at him. Both of his hands were braced against the opposite wall, his head ducked and back rigid.

  Clare watched him as she whispered again, “How could you?”

  His head dropped further. His arms trembled and his broad shoulders hunched, straining his uniform. His voice was hoarse. “Who is he to you?”

  “Will that change anything?”

  He said nothing.

  Clare’s throat burned. “He’s my brother.”

  A shudder ripped through Bennick. His voice was thin. “I was only doing my job.”

  His words were empty and her insides felt just as hollow. She shook her head. “I thought you might deny it.” She swatted at her tears, bitterness swelling inside her. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

  He pushed from the wall and faced her, his cheeks flushed. Frustration tightened his words. “You don’t know what he did, do you?”

  “I know what you did. I saw it! I tended his wounds, and nothing you say will change his pain!”

  Bennick shoved a hand in his hair, his face haunted. Seeing his sudden grief didn’t make her feel any better. “I’m sorry.” The words throbbed with remorse. “I’m sorry for what you went through. What he went through. But—”

  “It was your job,” she flung at him.

  He cringed and she spun away, disgust ripping through her. She made it all of two steps before he snagged her wrist.

  Clare reacted exactly as he’d taught her. She slammed back into his chest, taking him off-guard. She elbowed him in the ribs and jerked her captured wrist against the weak point of his thumb and suddenly she was free.

  Before she could dart away he threw his arms around her chest, locking her arms down.

  But he’d trained her for this position, too. She dropped her weight, and when he stumbled she stomped his booted foot. He grunted, but wasn’t knocked off-balance. She pushed up on her toes and reared her head back, willing to knock her skull against his jaw despite the pain it promised her, but he jerked to the side.

  He knew every move she’d make—he’d taught her everything she knew.

  But he wasn’t in a position to stop every attack. Even with her arms pinned, she wasn’t helpless. She sank her fingernails into his thighs and he hissed into her hair. “Stop before you hurt yourself.”

  That only enraged her more. She dug her nails deeper, pinching his skin through his uniform, dragging a harsh breath out of him. His hold on her flexed, clamping around her elbows. He pulled at her, but her clawed grip didn’t break. “Clare,” he grunted. “You—”

  “Let go of me!”

  “You need to listen,” he ground out.

  “I’ve heard enough—”

  “He killed a man!” His shout cut through everything—the air, the struggle—her heart.

  Clare stopped thrashing. Blood drained from her face, making her dizzy. She panted for breath, nails still embedded in his legs. “You’re lying.”

  Bennick’s mouth was at her ear, quieter now. “I could have had him executed, but I didn’t.”

  Her fingers cramped, but she didn’t loosen her grip. “Eliot wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  “He didn’t mean to. It was an accident. He showed up for duty fates-blasted drunk. His partner, a soldier named Ferrell, didn’t want him to get in trouble, so they still went on patrol. Slaton wandered away only an hour into the shift and Farrell alerted another patrol. They searched everywhere, thinking Slaton might have been attacked. They found him in an alleyway, crouched down like he might be hurt. Farrell rushed forward and Slaton whipped around, striking out blindly.”

  Clare’s insides churned. No . . .

  Pain frayed Bennick’s words. “Farrell had a wife. Two young children. I had to look in their faces and tell them he’d never come home.”

  Clare’s eyes pinched closed and she sagged against his chest. Her fingers curled away from his legs, the sharp nails now digging into her palms. “Fates, no.”

  Bennick’s arms no longer crushed her—they supported her. “I had no choice. He killed his partner. He didn’t mean to, but he did.” Bennick twisted her in his arms until she faced him, her tears splashing between them. Every muscle in his body was tense as he looked down at her. “Soldiers were demanding his life, but I could see his regret. I couldn’t order his death and I didn’t want to imprison him for life.” His voice roughened. “I swear, I showed the most leniency I could.”

  Clare’s breath hitched and she buried her face in his chest. She cried and he held her, one hand cupping the back of her head, his chin brushing her hair. He murmured apologies as his palm rubbed up and down her spine, and every soothing word he spoke stung. Bennick wasn’t the monster she’d imagined from Eliot’s accounting. There never had been a monster. Bennick had saved Eliot’s life. Why hadn’t Eliot told her the truth? Or had his pain, guilt, and regret become so twisted it warped every detail of what had happened?

  Eventually, her crying eased. Her fingers knotted in Bennick’s uniform and she pressed her forehead more firmly against his chest. “He never told me.”

  Bennick’s chin shifted against the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Clare pushed gently away and he let his arms fall. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

  “Don’t apologize. You were defending your brother.”

  Her vision blurred with tears. “I wish he would have told me the truth.”

  Bennick’s fingertips grazed her unbruised cheek, deftly wiping the tears away. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just searched her face. “What can I do? What do you need?”

  She needed the world to stop spinning. Everything she’d known had been flipped once again. The hate toward Bennick was gone, leaving a pang of regret and a c
loud of pain. She needed space and time to process what he’d told her. Ramus would be waiting for her in the library, but she couldn’t imagine facing a lesson now. “I want to go to my room,” she finally said.

  Bennick didn’t offer his arm, but he escorted her up to the princess’s rooms. They didn’t speak until after he’d opened the door for her. Only then did he face her. “I’ll cancel your lessons today.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t afford to lose a whole day. At least not riding.”

  “I’ll cancel everything else, then.” His throat bobbed. “May I ride with you?”

  Clare’s stomach knotted. “I . . .”

  Hurt flashed in Bennick’s eyes before he lowered his head with a nod. “I’ll have Venn escort you.” He pivoted on his heel and walked away.

  Her voice wouldn’t work to call him back.

  Chapter 30

  Grayson

  Drenched in sweat, Grayson swung his sword at his attacker. The soldier knocked the blade aside with his own but cursed as he stumbled back, arms shaking from the staggering weight of Grayson’s continuous blows.

  A week had passed since having tea with Iris in her poison garden, but the tension in his body lingered. Between her threats and the constant danger Henri posed to Mia, Grayson felt strangled. He’d spent the last two hours on the training grounds, heedless of the sun beating down on him as he’d vented his anger on nameless soldiers because he couldn’t attack his parents. He needed a place for his volatile energy to go so it wouldn’t consume him.

  These days, Grayson seldom trained this hard or long. His dark hair hung over his sweaty brow and clung to his neck. He’d actually removed his shirt and gloves, something he rarely did because it exposed his scars. He’d lost himself in the fighting, because he needed the feeling of control that inevitably came in the familiar chaos.

  Grayson nicked the man’s hand and the soldier hissed, jumping back and kicking up dirt. Grayson continued to hammer blows on his opponent’s sword, but the man was weakening and it was time to end this.

  In a few focused seconds the soldier’s sword was knocked to the ground. His hands twitched up in surrender and Grayson lowered his sword, both of them breathing hard.