Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  Her words shot a thrill through him, but doubts still shadowed his thoughts. “If you weren’t stuck in this cell . . . Fates, I’m the last person you’d ever choose.”

  Mia’s eyes flashed with steel. “You don’t know who I’d choose. After everything that’s been taken from me, how I feel still belongs to me. I won’t let anyone take that away—not even you. I love you, Grayson. I always have.”

  He watched her, not breathing. Slowly, he slid one hand free from her grip. Hurt swept her face, but then he cupped the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

  The fates may condemn him for this, but he couldn’t bear her tears.

  Grayson lifted his chin and brushed his lips against hers. The brief contact sparked every nerve in his body. Heat swelled in his chest and his heart kicked. Everything in his world narrowed to her. The feel of her soft mouth on his, the heat of her neck seeping through his leather glove—the way she melted toward him, as if the fates themselves were pulling her closer.

  When he drew back from the gentle kiss he held his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut. “I love you, Mia,” he whispered. “Always.”

  She held her forehead to his for another heartbeat before easing back, lifting the hand from her lap.

  Confusion filtered through him, until her fingers reached the edge of his glove. He tensed, fingers clenching on instinct. “Mia . . .”

  When their gazes locked, he couldn’t breathe. Her soft brown eyes were full of warmth, acceptance, and love. “You don’t need to hide from me,” she whispered. “I love you. Every part of you.”

  He didn’t stop her this time as she tugged his gloves away. His pale hands were riddled with scores of old scars and the burns on his fingers were an ugly smear of purple and red, but Mia wrapped her fingers around his without hesitation. The feel of her skin on his sent a jolt through his entire body.

  She lifted his hands to her face, his calloused fingertips brushing her cheeks before she pressed his palms against her smooth skin. He could feel her smile against his bare hands and her soft breaths were caught by his thumbs resting on her lips.

  Mia leaned in for another kiss and Grayson grinned. He’d never felt so freed as he did now, locked in this prison with her.

  Chapter 36

  Clare

  Clare stepped into the princess’s bedroom and stopped short. Wilf stood with his enormous back to her, head bent as he fiddled with the room’s only window. Silver moonlight outlined him sharply and the dim lamplight played over his heavily muscled back. At her surprised intake of breath, he shot a look over his shoulder, his usual scowl in place.

  Clare tensed and cinched the neck of her robe around her throat. “What are you doing?”

  His thick brows dragged down. “Bennick ordered nightly sweeps of the room.”

  She frowned. “I know. I thought Venn did it before he left.”

  Wilf shrugged one shoulder and turned back to the window. The double-paned glass rattled a little as he tugged on the lock. Clearly, he wasn’t going to say anything more.

  Clare remained in the doorway, watching him as he finally left the window and strode to the bed. Vera had already turned down the blankets, but Wilf flipped them completely, gaze cutting over the sheets. He knelt, bracing one hand on the bed as he scanned the space beneath. She should probably be grateful for his thoroughness, and if it had been anyone else, she would have been. But despite Bennick’s assurances that Wilf was trustworthy, standing in the room alone with him caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

  Finally, Wilf pushed to his feet. “Clear.”

  She continued to clutch the folds of her robe together as she cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  The skin around his eyes tightened; maybe he sensed the doubt in her words. He grunted and strode for the door. Clare sidestepped to let him pass and the moment he was gone she closed the door, her palm pressed against the smooth wood as her attention dropped to the lock. She hesitated only a moment before twisting it, the tension in her shoulders easing a little at the comforting click. It would make sleep easier, since Wilf was the one standing guard all night.

  Clare took a moment to make her own inspection of the room, lingering at the window. She checked the lock, but it was engaged. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She was paranoid—she knew that. But Serene’s enemies were becoming bolder. The attack on the orphanage had revealed a carelessness for life that sickened her. Whether it had been the assassin or the rebels, it showed desperation. People wanted to kill Serene before she left for Mortise, and they only had three weeks left to do it.

  Clare moved to the bed, quickly righting the tousled covers before she tossed her robe aside and eased between the sheets. Silence covered the suite, and though she was tired, she didn’t lie down. She kept the lamp on, casting the room in a soft light. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she surveyed the room. It had been a stranger’s room two months ago, but now it felt like hers. Her journey to Mortise was becoming increasingly real, and there was a pang in her chest when she thought about the possibility of not making it back. She was grateful Bennick had arranged the meeting at the orphanage so she could see her brothers again, but she hated to think that would be the last time she held them.

  She needed to survive. She would survive.

  Exhaling, Clare leaned over and extinguished the lamp. The light blinked away and darkness pooled.

  The window exploded as a dark form hurtled through it, shattering the glass and spraying shards everywhere.

  Clare scrambled back across the bed, horror seizing her lungs and stopping her breath as she watched the dark form straighten and become a man. His clothes were black and a dark hood covered his face. He lunged for her, a dagger flashing in his hand.

  Clare rolled away from the plunging blade, kicking blankets aside as she dropped over the side of the bed. She landed hard on her feet and bolted for the door. She jerked the handle, but it didn’t open. Fates, she’d locked the door after Wilf had left.

  The attacker sprang for her—she sensed more than she saw it—and there wasn’t time to twist the lock. Clare shoved away from the door and the thud of his knife embedding in the wood sent a shudder through her.

  That would have been her. A second more at the door, and that blade would have been in her spine.

  Ice shot through her veins and Clare ran for the side table, where Eliot’s dagger rested in its sheath. She was nearly there when she was snagged from behind, a rough hand strangling her arm. She pivoted and slammed her balled fist into his sternum, right where Bennick had taught her.

  He grunted, hot breath searing her ear, but he managed to haul her back with a steel arm banded around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides. With his free hand he reached for Eliot’s dagger and terror flashed through Clare.

  Break free. It was Bennick’s voice in her head and it cut through her fear. She grasped her training like a lifeline and bucked against the assassin’s hold, clawing his legs and arms—any part of him she could reach. He hissed, breath seething against her skin, abandoning Eliot’s knife to wrap both arms around her. He crushed her back to his heaving chest and Clare’s ribs groaned, but she remained focused. She dropped her weight as Bennick had taught her, making the assassin stagger. He overcorrected and Clare took advantage of his unsteadiness by throwing herself to the side. They fell, bouncing away from each other.

  Clare gasped as pieces of glass from the broken window pierced through her nightgown and tears scalded her eyes. Slices tore up her arms and crimson blood caught in the moonlight, streaking the shards of glass embedded in her skin. She choked on a scream, aware that the assassin was also hissing in pain. He scrambled back, his clothing offering a little more protection than her thin nightgown—he even had gloves.

  The door shuddered as a huge weight rammed into it.

  Wilf.

  Clare hitched in a breath and forced herself to move, even though the broken glass found new, harsher ways to b
ite her. She had no doubt Wilf would manage to bring the door down, but even with his bulk it would take a moment.

  Clare scrambled to her feet, glass crunching under her slippered feet as she sprung up a second before the assassin did. She kicked his knee from the side and he staggered. She darted for Eliot’s knife, but the assassin hadn’t fallen—he grabbed her arm and threw her back to the floor.

  She hit hard, the broken window shards cutting into her body once more. But she couldn’t let the pain slow her. She tried to ignore the blood slicking her fingers and the bits of glass that clung to her skin as she snatched up a jagged piece of glass. She could feel the assassin coming for her, crouching over her. She rolled, swinging the glass shard. The sharp edge cut into his reaching arm and he growled.

  Clare tightened her hold on the piece of glass, ignoring the bite of pain as the edges cut into her palm. Her makeshift weapon was slick with her blood and his, but she didn’t drop it. She cut toward his face but the assassin dodged the swipe and caught her wrist, forcing her shaking arm down until it ground painfully against the glass-strewn floor.

  Clare’s breath escaped in sharp pants, adrenaline shooting through her, making her body tremble and her pulse roar. The assassin bent over her and she squirmed, kicking out at him, but his knees dug into her sides as he straddled her and he somehow got both of her wrists snared in one hand above her head.

  Horror washed through her when his free hand brushed the floor, snagging a curved piece of glass. The point was sharp and wicked—a glass dagger that could easily slit her throat.

  Another crash against the door, the boom of impact reverberating throughout the room. Shouting rose, but the pounding of Clare’s heart drowned it out.

  The assassin snarled beneath his hood and pure evil shone in his eyes, the only part of him Clare could really see. His grip flexed on the shard of glass, a growl in his throat as he brought it toward her face.

  Clare screamed in frustration and fear, bucking against his crippling hold. But he didn’t go for her vulnerable throat. At the last second he shifted his hold on the thick piece of glass, aiming for her heart.

  When the tip pierced her chest, Clare’s back arched off the floor, her shriek ringing off the stone walls. An inhuman roar came from the other side of the door, but Clare’s pulse was louder in her ears as the assassin forced the glass deeper, the curved tip tearing toward her heart.

  Help would come too late. Realization flashed a second before the assassin grunted, making a final shove.

  Clare’s eyes snapped wide and her breath hitched—faltered—then guttered out. The tension in her body eased and she slumped against the floor, tears leaking slowly from the corners of her eyes.

  Wilf threw himself at the door again and wood cracked.

  The assassin jerked to his feet, leaving the glass shard in her chest as he bolted for the window. A rope dangled, tied off somewhere above. He planted his feet on the window ledge, glass snapping underfoot as he swung out on the rope and scaled the castle wall.

  This time when Wilf threw himself at the door it splintered and gave way. The giant man staggered through the opening, his mouth set into a grim line as he caught the darkened room with a sharp look, his eyes skipping past Clare’s inert body to fasten on the swinging rope. He lurched for the broken window, more focused on catching the assassin than helping Clare. Maybe because he’d seen the glass sticking out of her chest and knew she couldn’t be helped.

  But Wilf wasn’t alone.

  Bennick ran into the room, drawing up short at the sight of her. Clare could only imagine what he thought, seeing her stretched out on the floor, surrounded by glittering shards of glass. Her nightgown was torn and streaked with blood, and moonlight caught the glass shard buried in her chest.

  Bennick stumbled. It looked as though the air had been punched from his lungs. “Clare.” Her name was a strangled gasp, and though she wanted to say something—anything—she couldn’t.

  Vera came in behind Bennick, and her hands clapped over her mouth.

  Bennick dropped to his knees beside Clare, ignoring the glass that crunched beneath him. His hands trembled as he touched her face, his fingertips brushing her tears. He was pale, and not just from the white cast of the moon. It seemed like all his blood had drained. “Clare?” Desperation and despair warred in his ragged voice, and somehow Clare knew he’d been the one roaring on the other side of the door. She didn’t know why he was here, but her stomach fluttered as he bent over her, fingers laid against the side of her neck, seeking a pulse.

  “She’s dead,” Vera gasped, her hands still pressed over her mouth. Her shoulders shook with her tears. “Fates, no!”

  Bennick’s fingers were hot against her skin. He held them there for a silent moment before stiffening. “She’s alive.” He threw a look over his shoulder. “Go for help. Now!”

  Vera spun away and Bennick leaned back over Clare. His blue eyes swam with fear, grief, and anger. “Don’t you die,” he growled. “Stay with me, Clare.”

  Practiced fingers explored the wound, fingering the edges of the glass. His jaw hardened and blood now coated his skin. He snatched one of the small blankets folded on the end of the bed and pressed it carefully around the glass, trying to stop the flow of blood.

  A shudder wracked Clare and something about that involuntary movement broke through her stiffness and shock. She found her voice, though it cracked. “Take it out.”

  “I can’t.” Bennick wasn’t looking at her—he was focused on the wound. “Don’t move.”

  “It hurts,” she gasped.

  His shoulders tensed. “I know. But I can’t take it out. It could cause more damage. The physician will be here soon.”

  Tears dripped from her eyes, rolling into her ears. “I tried to fight, but I couldn’t stop him.” The haze of pain was making her words slur. “I—I did what you said, in our first lesson. I pretended I was dead.” She shifted her weight and pain flared all over her body. She fought a whimper.

  A muscle in Bennick’s cheek jerked. “Easy,” he murmured, the gentleness in his voice at odds with the fire in his eyes. He tracked her tears and moved one bloody hand to cup the side of her face. “Don’t try to talk,” he whispered. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you.”

  He continued to soothe her with gentle touches and quiet words until the physician arrived, with Vera and Venn at his heels. They were all pale and the physician trembled as he knelt beside Bennick. He thought Clare was Serene, and he knew what Newlan might do to him if she died under his care.

  Time blurred. The physician spoke to Bennick more than Clare, and the only time she really focused was when pain sharpened. When the older man began to pull on the shard of glass, Clare’s body lifted too, and Bennick and Venn both pinned her down as the shard was gingerly extracted. Sweat slicked her body and beaded on her forehead and she couldn’t stop from crying out. Her breaths shuddered when the physician cleaned the wound and then meticulously stitched it. Vera held the lamp, the flame shaking in her hands.

  Bennick and Venn helped to pluck the smaller pieces of glass from Clare’s arms and hands, and Bennick took one of the physician’s bandages and wrapped it around her bleeding palm—the one she’d hurt while wielding her own shard of glass.

  When the physician was done, he asked Bennick and Venn to lift her onto the bed. Bennick scooped her up before Venn could even shift his weight, and he cradled her against his chest. Clare could feel his heartbeat, thumping madly against her cheek. The medicine the physician had given her dulled everything, but she was aware of how tense Bennick was. His jaw was locked as he laid her on the bed, every muscle pulled taut while he listened to the physician’s instructions for her care. She needed rest—no rough activity for a week. “Thank the fates she survived,” the physician concluded, patting a handkerchief over his sweating brow.

  While Vera walked the physician out and went in search of a new nightgown for Clare, Venn turned to Bennick, his voice low. “Wilf went after
him?”

  “Yes.” Darkness lived in Bennick’s tone. Tension bled from him and his fists were tight at his sides.

  Venn swallowed. He caught Clare watching him and eased out a wan smile. “You did well, Clare. Good job staying alive.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was soft, her eyes stuck on Bennick. Something was wrong. He was avoiding her gaze. Or maybe she was still in shock? Regardless, her heart tripped when he stalked away from the bed, moving for the window. He was nearly there when Wilf swung inside.

  His large form dropped to the floor, his dark eyes narrowed on Clare. “She’s alive.” No inflection, no real emotion.

  “Did you find him?” Bennick demanded.

  Wilf straightened. “No. Lost him on the rooftops. He was fast. Covered himself well; he was average build and height, but I couldn’t tell anything beyond that.”

  Clare watched Wilf. Her jumbled thoughts couldn’t help but wonder if the assassin had really escaped, or if Wilf had let him go.

  Bennick’s nostrils flared and he grit his teeth, his focus on Wilf. “I already ordered the gates locked, but I want you to organize a search of the castle and grounds.”

  Wilf tipped his head and strode from the room, not sparing Clare another glance.

  Venn took Clare’s hand gently, drawing her attention. “Did you see him, Clare?”

  “No, he . . . wore a hood.” She wet her dry lips, her eyelids growing weighted. “His eyes . . . there was nothing but hate in his eyes.”

  Venn’s mouth drew into a line. “Did you notice anything else? Did he have an accent? A weapon?”

  “This,” Bennick said stiffly. Clare and Venn both watched as he jerked the knife out of the door. He examined it, his voice hard. “There’s nothing unique about it. Just a plain dagger. You could buy one like this on any corner in Iden.”

  “Not Mortisian?” Venn asked, surprise lifting his tone. “That’s new. Could this have been rebels?”

  “They attack in groups,” Bennick said, still examining the knife, though clearly it wouldn’t reveal any secrets.