Mia nodded and Devon offered a quick bow to Grayson before he left, Fletcher trailing after him.
The door closed, leaving Grayson and Mia alone.
She twisted toward him, not quite meeting his gaze. Her voice was a bare whisper. “Are you angry?”
“No.” He was furious, actually, but not with her.
There was a brief pause, then she said, “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
He’d been fates-blasted terrified. He set the jar of salts near the flickering purple candle. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes lowered to watch her fingers twitch in her lap. “There was no reason to tell you.”
“No reason?” He stared at her, hand dropping from her back to fist against the bed. “You couldn’t breathe.”
She gazed toward the closed cell door, her eyes distant. “They happened all the time, in the beginning. The panics were triggered constantly because I was always so afraid. Then you came. Whenever you were near, they stopped.” She ducked her head, long dark curls slipping over her shoulder, hiding her face. “I never wanted you to know. You’re so strong, and I—” Her voice cracked.
Grayson gripped her upper arms, turning her so she faced him. “Mia, you are the strongest person I know. The bravest. Nothing will ever make me think otherwise.”
She grimaced. “I’m not brave.”
“You are.” He hesitated, then asked quietly, “Did they start again after Tyrell?”
Her gaze cut away, color in her cheeks. “Yes, but what happened . . . that’s not the only reason.”
She didn’t have to specify what she meant. That horrible night, Tyrell had beaten her—and Grayson had told her he was leaving for Mortise.
Silence stretched. He still held her arms, and he found himself thumbing the sleeves of her nightgown. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “Anything I can say that will ease your mind while I’m gone?”
She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as she wrapped an arm around his back. “Just promise me you’ll come back,” she breathed.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I will.” No matter what it cost him, it was a promise he would keep.
When he left her cell, it was an hour before dawn. He moved at a rapid clip to his room where he shoved on his black gloves, belted on a few more daggers, and palmed a small leather kit Liam had given him on their first day of training.
When he turned to face the door, he felt a moment of hesitation. A whisper that pleaded caution.
He pushed both aside, because he could not afford them.
It was the Black Hand who strode from his room, melting easily into the shadows of the corridor. He was the most feared prince of Ryden, the youngest son of a tyrant king and the queen of poisons.
No one saw him until it was too late.
There were two guards outside his father’s room.
Grayson used the Zennorian blow darts from Liam and watched as the two men slumped to the floor, hands swiping uselessly against the small needles in their necks. The poison wouldn’t kill them, but it paralyzed them, rendering them incapable of shouting a warning. Their rolling eyes, slowly glazing, could barely focus on him as he stepped over their bodies, pocketing the leather kit that held more darts and the bamboo cylinder that shot them.
He crouched before the door and drew out a set of lockpicks. In a breathless moment, the door clicked open and Grayson melted inside.
Grayson hadn’t set foot in the king’s apartment since he was a child, but the dim, pre-dawn light spilling through a crack in the mostly-drawn curtains guided him around a table and pair of armchairs. There were no other guards in the room.
He heard the low snores of his father, but that was the only sound. Good. His mother was a lighter sleeper, so he was grateful she was in her separate suite. It would make this easier.
Grayson found the door to his father’s inner sleeping chamber also locked, but he made short work of that and eased inside.
He let his eyes adjust as much as possible to the darkness, straining every sense to assure himself there was nothing else in the space—no traps, no last guard.
He sensed no one other than the man sleeping in the large bed.
His father, it seemed, had grown complacent.
Grayson ignored the tautness of his nerves as he withdrew a dagger and crept up to the bed, using the silent tread his father had beaten into him.
King Henri was sprawled on his back, one arm curved under his pillow, the other draped over his belly. His chest rose and fell in rhythmic breaths, his mouth partly open and surrounded by his beard. His brown hair, just beginning to gray at the temples, was an untidy mess that fell over his forehead. The sheets were shoved down his bare chest, as if even the coolness of Ryden’s night air didn’t dare touch him.
In sleep, he looked nothing like the monster he was.
Grayson lowered his dagger until the sharp edge lay against Henri’s throat.
At the light touch, Henri’s snores ceased. His eyes snapped open, his body tensing.
Grayson’s voice was an even whisper. “I trust I have your attention?”
Confusion, fear, fury—they all swirled in Henri’s eyes before his own indifferent mask slid over his features, banishing all emotion from his gaze. “You do.”
“Good.” Grayson increased the pressure of the knife against his father’s throat and Henri’s breaths thinned in response. He kept his voice pitched low. “I had hoped to make an impression.”
Beneath the blade, Henri’s throat flexed. There, finally, Grayson saw the spark of something he had counted on—the one thing that would keep Henri from outright killing him or punishing Mia: intrigue.
He had captured his father’s curiosity.
Grayson’s fingers twitched against the handle of the blade. For a brief moment, he thought about pushing deeper, drawing blood—maybe even ending his sire’s life. But that would only end in his own death, and probably Mia’s as well.
He eased back, spinning the blade in his hand. His mask was still firmly in place as he looked down on his father. He had never pinned Henri with this dark, soulless look. He had never worn the Black Hand’s mask so fully in his father’s presence.
And he had never seen such excitement on the king’s face. Such pleasure.
Grayson’s stomach churned, but he kept his gaze cold and his voice remote. “In one hour, you will meet me in your office.”
The edge of Henri’s mouth curled in a slow smile. “I look forward to it.”
Grayson turned on his heel and strode from the room.
He had won the first round.
He hoped it would be enough to help him survive the second.
Chapter 4
Grayson
“You didn’t kill the guards,” Henri said from behind his desk.
Grayson used the heel of his boot to kick the door shut behind him, sealing them in the king’s office. “They weren’t my targets.”
Henri’s smile thinned a little at the vague threat. The king sat in a cushioned chair behind his wide desk, his hair combed and a golden crown on his head. The low ceiling and crowded bookshelves made the room feel tight and stifling. There were no windows this deep in the castle, and even though lamps on the walls flared with light, it wasn’t enough to drive out the oppressive feel of the place. Grayson had always hated his father’s study, but the dark stain on the rug made him hate it even more. His lungs tightened at the sight of it, the memory of the life he had taken in this very space, but he had to shove away all emotion.
He was the Black Hand. To lose that mask now would be a deadly mistake.
Henri studied him, curiosity strong in his gaze. “Still, it would have sent a stronger message if you’d killed them. But no matter. For their incompetence, I slit their throats.”
Grayson didn’t flinch. He knew the king was testing him. “Do you really wish to discuss your dead guards?” he asked levelly.
“No.”
He was not surprised his father was alone. To bring in even one guard would show fear, and Henri Kaelin was not that kind of man. The king would be armed, though, and the two guards outside could easily be summoned. Grayson needed to tread carefully. This path he walked was a knife’s edge—if he didn’t push far enough, this would all be for nothing; if he pushed too far, the king would kill him.
Henri leaned back in his chair, his expression speculative. “I sometimes forget you’re a Kaelin. Then you do something like this. Something none of your brothers would dare.”
“As I said, I wanted your attention.”
“You have it.” The king’s head tilted to the side, as if studying Grayson from a new angle would shed new light on him. “What do you wish to discuss?”
“I have three demands.”
“Indeed?” The king laced his fingers. “I’m most curious to hear them.”
“I never want Tyrell near Mia again. Ever.”
Henri’s thick eyebrows lifted. “Interesting. What is your second demand?”
“I want Mia’s caretakers removed.”
“You don’t approve of the couple I chose to look after her?”
He ground his teeth. “They abused her.”
The corner of Henri’s mouth twitched, and a new wave of hatred swelled for his father. “And your third demand?” the king asked.
Grayson’s lungs tightened. This was the one that mattered most. “When I get back from Mortise, I want you to release Mia, and give your word that no Kaelin will ever harm her, or cause harm to come to her.”
Henri stared at him, unblinking. The silence lifted the hairs on the back of Grayson’s neck, but he would not retract his request. He would not speak first.
Finally, the king shifted in his chair, his long fingers steepled in front of his mouth. “Are you sure you want that?”
The question was so unexpected, Grayson was frozen for a moment. “Of course.”
Henri’s firm gaze was unwavering. “What exactly do you think will happen if I set her free? Do you think she’ll stay here, in the castle? That she’ll choose to live with you?”
“She will be free to do whatever she wants,” Grayson said, his voice too tight.
“Yes, she would be free. Free to leave you.”
A creeping chill invaded his veins, but Grayson refused to give in to the dread that clutched him. He stiffened his spine, ignored the tension gathering in his shoulders. “What Mia chooses shouldn’t concern you.”
Henri snorted. “You can be as grave-faced as you want, but I know the truth. You think you’re in love with the girl, that she loves you. But have you forgotten? You’re the reason she’s here. If she knew the truth, she would hate you.”
Irritation and something Grayson didn’t want to name burned the back of his neck. “She already knows, and it doesn’t matter to her.”
“Oh, is that what she told you?” Henri shook his head, the crown glinting in the lamplight. “I’m doing you a favor by keeping her here.”
“How?” Grayson demanded. “She deserves her freedom.”
“Perhaps. But if she’s free, she’ll leave you. Surely you’ve considered that?”
Grayson said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
He hadn’t considered that. He hadn’t thought past her immediate freedom. Getting Mia out of that cell, away from his family—that was all he could think about. But what did that actually look like? There was no way she could remain here, surrounded by the vile evil that was his family. No one would choose that. He wouldn’t let her choose that. She deserved so much more.
The truth hit him hard.
If his father said yes . . . if Mia got her freedom . . . Grayson would lose her forever.
A smile played at Henri’s lips. He knew what Grayson was coming to understand. Knew how much it was hurting him.
He relished Grayson’s pain. And when he spoke, his voice was horribly soft. “I can see the fantasy you spun. You thought you would open that cell door and she would embrace you as her hero. That she would refuse to leave you because she loves you as deeply as you love her. You might have even thought to marry her. Have children with her. Create a life together. But why would she stay? A life with you is just another prison for her. She knows you’re the enemy. I can guarantee she’s never forgotten that.” He snorted. “You are so easily manipulated,” Henri said. “Especially by her.”
“Mia has never manipulated me,” he snapped, his cool mask cracking.
Henri chuckled. “She’s manipulated you into this moment perfectly. Why else would you have risked your life by threatening me, when you’re asking for something you don’t even want?”
“I want her freedom.”
“Do you, though? The panic in your eyes says something different.”
Grayson’s jaw locked. Fates, his father twisted everything. “Mia didn’t ask me to come. She has nothing to do with this. We’re here because I predicted your actions and you didn’t disappoint.”
“Ah, your own exercise in manipulating me.” Henri nodded once. “Very good, Grayson. I’m impressed. And I must say, I like this version of you. This is what I bred you to be.”
He hated everything about his father’s words, including the possessive tone. The hairs on Grayson’s body lifted, but he shoved back his discomfort and lifted his chin. “Then I’m sure you’ll appreciate this. I reached you once—I can do it again. I can also reach your heir, and your wife.”
The taunting smile vanished and Henri stiffened, his eyes shuttering. His voice took on a dark edge. “While I appreciate your ruthlessness, I do not appreciate threats.”
“Then let us bargain instead.” Grayson stepped closer, planting his hands on the desk as he leaned in. He kept his eyes trained on his father, his voice flat. “Give me what I want, and you will never have to fear my blades. I will be all you want me to be; do all you want me to do. I will no longer hold back or hesitate. I will be as ruthless as you trained me to be. I will use my blades to preserve your life even as I annihilate your enemies. I will be the Black Hand. The Scourge of Ryden. I will assassinate Serene and anyone else you ask me to. I will topple kingdoms for you.” His eyes narrowed. “You know I’ve held back. That you’ve had to push me for each step. But I am ready to commit everything to you. All you need to do is give me what I ask.”
The king’s jaw tightened, but not in outright refusal. His thoughts were clearly spinning. “You promise complete devotion to me as opposed to killing me, my heir, and my wife?”
“It seems a good bargain.”
Henri’s eyes narrowed. “You have shown me a glimpse of what it would be like to be your enemy, Grayson. I thank you for that, because it makes me all the more eager to send you to Mortise. You truly are my masterpiece.”
His father’s words twisted inside him, tensing the muscles in his jaw. Grayson’s gloved fingers tightened against the desk he was still braced over, his elbows locked. “Will you give me what I want, or not?” he demanded softly.
Henri watched him for a long moment, then dipped his head. “Serve me well in Mortise . . . and I will release the girl.”
He hardly dared believe it. He swallowed, his tongue feeling thick. “You will?”
The king shrugged. “It’s no concern of mine if she breaks your heart. In fact, it might teach you a valuable lesson.” He leaned forward, and it took all of Grayson’s willpower not to flinch back. “You are incapable of love, Grayson. You are incapable of being loved. You are soulless and unredeemable. It’s who you are—carved into your very being, like the scars on your body. Nothing can change that.”
His pulse pounded in his temples, his emotions rioting. Euphoria, because his dangerous plan had actually worked. Despair, because even if he succeeded in Mortise, it meant losing Mia.
The thought nearly destroyed him, but he would not let it shake his resolve. He owed Mia everything. He would gain her freedom, no matter how much it hurt him. It was the very least he could giv
e her.
He pushed back from his father’s desk, the sweat gathered on his palms sticking to his leather gloves. He curled his hands to fists, his spine straightening. “And my other demands?” he asked. “Will they be met?”
The king considered this. “I will not replace her caretakers. They have done their job of keeping her alive, and that is all I require of them. As for Tyrell . . . I will keep him away from the girl. Consider it a sign of good faith. But I would like a sign from you.”
“I didn’t kill you this morning,” Grayson said tightly. “Isn’t that proof enough?”
Henri’s smile was cool. “Indulge me.” He nodded to Grayson’s right hand. “Remove your glove.”
Balking would undermine everything he’d done so far, so he did not hesitate to strip the glove from his hand, leaving behind pale, scarred skin.
Henri’s chin dipped. “Place your hand on the desk.”
Grayson did, pressing his palm flat. His heart hammered. He knew what was coming.
He had counted on Henri’s curiosity, his desire for Grayson’s full, dark potential—his greed to own him completely. He had also assumed that—if he was still breathing at this point of his fool-plan—there would be some kind of retribution for what he’d dared to do.
The king of Ryden could not leave any exchange feeling lesser.
If this was the price required for securing a better life for Mia, he would pay it.
Henri’s voice was smooth. “Take out the knife you put against my neck.”
Grayson’s left hand tugged the blade from its leather sheath.
“Put the blade through your hand. Slowly.”
Grayson did, gritting his teeth at the pain. But he didn’t make a sound apart from his altered breathing. His nostrils flared by the time the tip of the blade emerged through his palm and touched the desk. He gripped the hilt to stop his hand from shaking, his knuckles white, his eyes slowly lifting to meet his father’s gaze.
Revulsion ripped through him at the pure glee in Henri’s eyes. “Well done, Grayson. I believe you. There will be no more hesitation. No more forcing you to embrace your true nature. You are glorious.” He glanced at Grayson’s bleeding hand, noting the crimson sliding between his spread fingers. Then his attention turned to a stack of letters beside him. He flipped open the first one, not looking up as he said, “It’s fortunate the trip to Mortise is long. You’ll have plenty of time to heal.”
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 5
