Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  “Not always. But if this was the assassin, it’s the first time he’s come to do the job himself, rather than rely on poison.” Venn frowned at Bennick. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” He cut a glance at Clare. The skin around his eyes tightened. “I need to report this to the king.”

  “I could go—”

  “No,” Bennick overrode Venn. “Stay with her.”

  Though her mind was truly fuzzing now, Clare flinched at Bennick’s tone. “Please stay,” she whispered.

  His body remained hard, his face unreadable. “I’ll return soon.”

  She wanted to beg him, but he was already striding out the door.

  Venn sighed and busied himself with hanging a blanket over the window to ward off the chill in the air.

  Clare drifted, only partially aware of Vera returning and helping to strip off her ruined nightgown. The blood was bathed away and then she had a new gown and Vera tucked her into bed, mindful of her bandages.

  Sleep claimed her, but Clare came in and out of wakefulness. At one point she saw Vera curled at the foot of the bed, asleep, and Venn draped a blanket over her, his eyes softening as he did. But each time Clare peeked at the room through slitted eyes, the one person she desperately wanted to see remained absent.

  Bennick didn’t come back.

  Chapter 37

  Clare

  The wooden training dagger stabbed into Clare’s ribs. She shoved away from Bennick, her side burning and her breaths sharp as she whirled on him.

  He matched her glare with coolness. “You’re dead.”

  Clare’s hands balled at her sides, her lungs heaving for air. The mostly-healed wound over her heart twinged with pain. “At least give me a chance to fight back.”

  Nothing in Bennick’s hard expression changed. “An assassin won’t go easy on you, Clare.”

  She grit her teeth. It had been over a week since the assassin had attacked her in the princess’s room, and although she’d only resumed training with Bennick three days ago, something had changed. It was Bennick squaring off before her, but an insufferable mask of detachment covered his face and never slipped. Their training had intensified. They worked on the field for three hours now, since Bennick was insistent that they make up for the time she’d lost while recovering from her stabbing. Clare dreaded this time a little more each day, and that hurt went deeper than the throbbing bruises that covered her. Irritation tightened her skin. Impatience had been building for days, but today it flared, nearly swallowing her.

  Bennick spun the mock knife, flipping it over his fingers, his gaze level. “Again.”

  Clare swiped a wrist across her sweaty forehead, her breathing still ragged. “I want a break.”

  He shook his head. “We’re not resting today. We only have a week left.”

  She ground her teeth. “I need to rest.”

  Bennick bent, scooping up the wooden knife he’d twisted from her hand a moment ago. He tossed it at her face and she caught it on instinct, before it hit her nose.

  She scowled, fingers clenching over the wooden weapon. “I’m not fighting you.”

  “That will make it easy for me to win.” His wooden knife shot out.

  Clare stumbled as she dodged his attack. A growl vibrated her throat. “Stop!”

  “No.” Bennick advanced again and she was forced to retreat.

  She knew the men on the field were probably watching them, but she was sick of being stabbed and she knew Bennick wasn’t going to allow her a chance at winning. What was the point of losing again and again?

  She didn’t debate. She turned on her heel and marched away, toward the stable that sat on the other side of the field.

  “Clare!”

  She ignored his shout. She wouldn’t let him give her another bruise or make her feel like a weak fool.

  When she heard his footsteps pounding after her, she instinctively lifted the hem of her skirt and slipped into a run, still strangling the practice knife.

  His footsteps pounded after her and she knew she couldn’t outrun him. She was already winded from training, each sharp breath tugging at the tender flesh over her heart, and though Bennick was also breathing hard, he gained quickly.

  Clare had just cleared the training yard when he grabbed her elbow, hauling them both to a stop. “What was that?” he demanded.

  She shoved against his chest, but his grip remained tight on her arm. “My first defense is to escape danger, remember?”

  Bennick’s eyes narrowed, the heat from his body pressing against the small space between them. “You think I’m a danger to you?”

  “You hurt me.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “No, you’re not!” Clare jerked her arm again and this time she broke free. More likely he’d let her go, but she ignored that as she stepped back. “I know an assassin could kill me in a second. You don’t have to beat it into me.” He cringed, but she wasn’t done. “A week ago I was lying on the floor, bleeding, an assassin on top of me. I know how terrifying that moment is. I could see my death in his eyes, and it didn’t matter how hard I fought him—he still stabbed me.” Her voice cracked, and she hated that.

  Bennick thrust a hand through his hair, throat bobbing. “Clare—”

  “No.” She made her voice hard, forcing back the break that threatened. “You’re not training me, Bennick. You’re humiliating me. And I’ve had enough.” She turned and stalked away, spine straight. She still held the blasted wooden knife; she threw it aside.

  Bennick followed. Of course he did. They were nearly to the stable when he finally spoke, his voice low and tense. “I’m sorry I’ve been hard on you, but I need to do my job. I am training you.”

  She laughed, the sound brittle. “Training me how to lose? I don’t need that.”

  He grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop.

  She ground her teeth. “Let go of me, or I’ll break your wrist.”

  “Try,” he challenged.

  Clare searched his face for a shred of warmth, any glimpse of the man she’d come to know, but there was none. He was gone. The man who joined her for her first ride because he knew she was terrified, the man who had shared quiet smiles with her, kissed her bruised cheek, reunited her with her family, and held her in a way that almost made her believe . . .

  Whatever she’d thought was growing between them, she was wrong, and something inside her cracked.

  Bennick’s eyebrows slammed down as he peered at her. “You’re crying.”

  “I’m not.” But her eyes burned and she knew she couldn’t blink the moisture away. If she blinked, those tears would fall.

  “Clare—”

  “I’m the decoy,” she said lowly. No one was around them, giving her the freedom to speak. “My job is to die for Serene.” Bennick stiffened, but she wasn’t done. “No matter how hard you train me, I’m going to die. You seem to be the only one who doesn’t understand that.” She pulled free and walked away.

  Clare reached the corner of the stable when Bennick caught her arm. He towered over her as they stood toe to toe, overwhelming her space and her senses. His body blocked some of the sunlight, but his face wasn’t hidden in shadow. His searing eyes snatched her gaze and stole her breath.

  His jaw firmed, his eyes so intent they nearly blazed. The coldness was gone, replaced by raw emotion and heat. “You’re not going to die, Clare. I won’t allow that to happen. I’ll defy the fates if I have to, but I will keep you alive.”

  Promise throbbed in every word, making Clare’s heart trip. Tension lined Bennick’s shoulders, and when his focus dropped to her lips, her lungs froze.

  He moved slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop him as he cupped her face with both hands. His thumbs brushed the corners of her mouth as he drew her in. His mouth caught hers and Clare’s lips melted against his, absorbing the foreign warmth and feel of him. His lips were a fascinating mix of hard and soft as they slanted over hers. His hands tightened, drawing her closer.
Her pulse roared in her ears and she could feel every thump of her heart.

  It was over too soon.

  Bennick pulled back, both of them breathing thickly, his eyes wide.

  Clare’s lips parted, but words were impossible. So she gripped his uniform and dragged him back, her mouth falling across his. He smelled of sun, sweat, and spicy soap.

  Bennick’s hands sank into her hair. One hand cupped back of her neck and the other spread the length of her face, his fingertips brushing her temple, and his thumb tilting her head up. She didn’t realize they were moving until her shoulders bumped against the stable wall—Bennick had guided them around the corner, hiding them from the stable entrance and the training grounds.

  Clare held him, kissed him, drank him in until she thought her heart would jump out of her chest. She’d barely dared to dream this could happen—she could hardly fathom it was happening now.

  She was kissing Bennick Markam. He was kissing her.

  His lips dragged over hers, the ball of his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. Every part of her was warm, but where they touched, she burned. Her palms caught the heat radiating from his chest as her fingers slid over the ridges of his shoulders. He shivered when her fingertips touched the skin of his neck, and a groan came from deep in his throat.

  Her mouth curved against his in an unstoppable smile. His lips settled against the raised corner of her mouth, their chests rising and falling furiously together.

  “Fates,” she breathed.

  His eyes flashed to hers, lit with an intensity that made her stomach twist pleasantly. “Clare.”

  Her body thrummed. No one had ever said her name that way, that deeply. She lifted her hands to his face and stroked his stubbled cheeks with her fingertips, watching with fascination as he responded to her touch. Bennick’s eyes fell closed as her thumb slipped over his mouth, the pad lingering on his full bottom lip. “I think we might be in trouble,” he murmured.

  He was right. In so many ways, he was right. “No one can know,” she agreed. “If the king found out, there’s no telling what he’d do.”

  “There is that,” he allowed. “But I meant the kind of trouble that comes from me not being able to think of anything but kissing you.”

  She really needed to stop smiling. The situation was quite serious.

  Bennick set his lips against her forehead, a kiss so gentle her knees shook. His mouth glided to her temple, pressing another kiss at her hairline. He exhaled slowly, his breath shooting tingles over her skin. “You’re the worst kind of distraction.”

  A grin stretched her lips. “Really?”

  He nodded, his bristled cheek brushing hers. “From the very beginning.” He pressed one last kiss against the underside of her jaw before levering back. “I’m sorry for intensifying your training, I just . . .” He looked skyward, neck stretching as his throat bobbed. His hands were braced on either side of her against the stable, tension pulling his muscles taut. “I hate that you’re a target. I can’t stop thinking about every attack, every time I’ve failed to keep you safe.” His voice was strained. “I thought you were dead. You were lying on the floor, covered in blood, with that piece of glass in your chest, and you weren’t moving. And I wouldn’t have even known you were fighting for your life unless I’d come to check on Wilf. You could have died, and I wouldn’t have known.”

  She touched his hard jaw, bringing his eyes back to her. “It’s all right, Bennick. I’m all right.”

  His head turned, his lips brushing the center of her palm. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard,” he whispered against her hand. “It was wrong of me to take my fears out on you. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Standing with him like this, it was hard to remember her anger. She cleared her throat and tapped a finger off his jaw. “You should probably step back. Anyone could see us.”

  He lifted a rebellious brow. “I don’t think I care.”

  “Bennick . . .”

  He sighed and retreated, his hands sliding off the wall as he moved back.

  Clare swallowed at the loss of his nearness. She remained against the stable wall, her flushed skin still humming from his touch. Her lips felt swollen, and when she pressed them together, Bennick watched her with a look so deep it made her toes curl.

  He shoved a hand through his hair, swearing softly. “I am really, really in trouble.”

  Chapter 38

  Eliot

  Eliot finished another drink. Blood pounded in his ears as he slammed the empty tankard on the table and roared for another. It was his fourth, and still he couldn’t get the taste of betrayal out of his mouth.

  The images were burned into his mind. Clare and Markam, kissing.

  Eliot had been watching over his sister, trying to be a decent brother even though she hadn’t listened to him. And what did he see when he came to check on her? Markam pressing his sister against the stable wall, his hands all over her.

  Eliot bit out a curse, scrubbing a hand over a bristled jaw that needed a shave. Fates, he still couldn’t believe what he’d seen. Clare’s betrayal was crushing and enraging all at once. She knew those hands that ran over her body and made her shiver had tortured him, yet still she’d kissed him. Eliot had told her the truth, and she’d turned away from him—embraced Markam instead.

  Not the full truth . . .

  Eliot smashed the whisper of guilt before it could swallow him. He hadn’t tried to kill Farrell. The drinking had been excessive—he would admit that. But why did Farrell have to spring on him? And why had Markam even spared his life? It would have been more merciful to kill him. Instead he lived on, scarred back, ruined reputation, riddled with guilt that would never leave. The only thing that dulled the guilt was anger. Anger at himself, but mostly at Markam.

  He didn’t want to focus on Farrell. And he didn’t want to think about his last conversation with Clare, either. He’d yelled at her. Tried to make her feel guilty for leaving the boys. He hated that he’d thrown her words back at her, tried to make her hurt. But what else could he have done? She was in danger at the castle. She needed to be home, where it was safe.

  His fresh drink arrived. He tried to empty his mind as he tugged the mug to his lips with shaking hands. He’d just finished it when Michael slid into the chair across from him. His friend cocked a thick eyebrow. “You got an early start.”

  “Leave me,” Eliot rasped. How could his throat be dry after all he’d drunk?

  Michael caught the attention of a passing maid. “Two ales, please.” The maid left with a nod and Michael turned to Eliot. “Are you drunk enough to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Sometimes Eliot hated his best friend. “No.”

  Michael leaned back in his chair. Behind them, a man crowed as he won at cards. “Does it have to do with your sister?”

  A muscle in Eliot’s jaw ticked.

  “You’re angry she didn’t leave, even after you told her what Markam did.”

  A growl shredded up his throat. “Apparently I don’t have to tell you anything. You’ve guessed it all.”

  Michael’s mouth drew into a line. He rested his large forearms on the table, hunching over as he leaned in. “Paven reached me earlier this morning. He wanted to know if you’ve managed to convince Clare to join us.”

  “Clearly I can’t convince her to do anything.”

  Hesitation crinkled the corners of Michael’s eyes. “The danger she’s in will only increase when she travels to Mortise. As a rebel, she’d have protection.”

  “No.”

  “Eliot—”

  The ugly tangle of emotions in his gut exploded. “She betrayed me,” he hissed. “Her own brother meant nothing, but Markam? She was kissing him. I saw them. That’s why she hasn’t left the castle. It’s his fault. It’s always his fates-blasted fault!” He shoved his empty tankard across the table and scrubbed his hands over his face.

  Their drinks arrived. Michael thanked the serving maid quietly, then gripped his mug with b
oth hands. “I’m sorry, Eliot.”

  His head dropped, one hand shoved into his hair. “If she betrayed me for him, she’s not going to betray him for the rebels. Her feelings were clear.” The hated images sparked in his mind, their bodies pressed together, Markam’s hand plunging into Clare’s hair. Eliot’s stomach churned and he nearly heaved up the drinks he’d downed. “I don’t understand why she ever accepted the position. I know their lives weren’t perfect,” he whispered brokenly. “But doesn’t she realize what I sacrificed for them?”

  Michael looked away, giving Eliot a bit of privacy.

  It helped. He swallowed back the knot in his throat, blinked away the burn in his eyes, and lifted the fresh cup to his lips.

  When Michael’s eyes found his, they were grim. “I know it hurts. But she wants to be the princess’s maid. Nothing you can do will change that.”

  Eliot snorted a harsh laugh and rubbed his aching head. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You can’t drink this away.”

  His knuckles were white as he gripped his mug. “My sister shouldn’t have to serve her. Them. Fates-blasted royals. The king wants Mortisian ships and ports more than he wants vengeance for his people. And the princess! She’s a traitor to us, too. She’ll run right to Desfan’s arms like a hired woman, not caring that he’s responsible for spilling innocent Devendran blood. I don’t know how Clare can stomach being around them.”

  Michael leaned in. “I know you don’t want her to become a rebel. And maybe you’re right, she wouldn’t choose it. But what if she could be convinced she’s helping the princess, not endangering her?”

  “You want to trick her into becoming a traitor?” He shook his head. “She’s my sister, no matter what she’s done—I won’t put her in danger.”

  Michael fingered the edge of his tankard. “What if she thought she was protecting you?”

  Eliot stared. The thump of his heart was suddenly loud, pounding in his buzzing head.