Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  The mere thought made his gut churn, but he nodded and set his hands on her shoulders.

  The physician worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning and then stitching the wound. Bennick ordered himself to be objective. To remember all the times he had watched his men get stitched up by a surgeon.

  But this was Clare. It was different. Entirely different.

  Thank the fates she remained unconscious.

  When the physician finished, he sat back on his heels. There was a bead of sweat at his temple, but that was the only sign of distress he had shown in all these tense minutes. “The bleeding was severe, but the damage was not. Infection is a danger. I need to clean the area again and when she wakes she’ll need something for the pain. Recovery may take a couple of weeks and I’ll need to monitor her closely for fever.” He looked at Bennick. “You can breathe, Captain. You haven’t lost your career. She’ll be all right.”

  Bennick still couldn’t breathe. He would never forget the terror of these moments. He also realized he was still touching Clare’s arm with one hand. He couldn’t seem to pull away.

  The door burst open and Wilf barreled in, his face whiter than Bennick had ever seen it. The man’s expression was fierce as he eyed Clare. “Is she . . .?”

  “She should be fine,” the physician said. “The immediate danger has passed.”

  Wilf’s huge shoulders slumped, relief flashing over his face. He wrenched his gaze to Bennick. “Tell me the one who did this is dead.”

  “He’s dead.” If only he had been the one to kill him, maybe he would feel better.

  Venn eyed Wilf. “You were supposed to wait in the hall. Didn’t the guards mention that?”

  “One might have tried to stop me.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  Wilf grunted.

  Princess Imara peeked into the room, her knuckles whitening on the frame as she clutched it. “She’s all right?”

  “Yes.” The physician rose. “There are a few wounded guards. I will tend them and return soon.”

  Imara pursed her lips. “I should tell Lord and Lady Paltrow that Serene’s all right. They’re beside themselves.” The princess and the physician left, both promising to check in later.

  After the door closed, Wilf turned and set his hands on his hips. “What by all the blasted fates happened?”

  Venn took the lead, with Vera chiming in about the note she and Ivonne had been left with.

  Wilf’s brows tugged together. “Foolish girl. But smart, too. Delayed reinforcements. Clever.”

  Bennick grit his teeth. While he was thanking the fates Clare had sent Venn for him, he could not help but want to curse her, too. She should have waited for him. She never should have gone out there.

  But she was selfless, and she’d thought her brother was in danger. She thought she could save him.

  Instead, Eliot had used her. Manipulated her. He had put her in danger, and she had nearly died.

  Bennick knew he would never be able to forgive Eliot Slaton for that.

  Bennick slumped in a chair pulled up to Clare’s bed. One hand was wrapped around hers while the other braced his ducked head.

  Vera slept curled in a chair in the corner of the room. Ivonne and Imara had remained for quite a while after Clare had been settled into bed, but eventually they had each left. Dawn could only be a couple hours away now.

  No one had said anything about Bennick staying at her bedside. He’d only left once, briefly, while Vera and Ivonne changed Clare out of her ruined dress and into a white nightgown. He’d scrubbed his bloodstained hands until they burned from the lye soap and then he’d returned to sit beside her.

  He was so closely attuned to Clare’s breathing, he knew the moment she woke.

  He lifted his eyes and saw her blink at the ceiling. “Clare.”

  Her head turned toward his soft whisper and she cringed as her injured body stretched.

  He leaned in and squeezed her fingers. “Try not to move.”

  Grogginess swam in her eyes as she gazed at him, the dim light from the lamp making her rounded cheeks appear even softer than usual. She swallowed. “May I have some water?”

  He reached for the glass and pitcher on the nightstand. He measured out a bit of the powdered medication the physician had left, and he watched it dissolve into the water, turning it a bit cloudy. “This is for the pain,” he said softly.

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Nearly morning.” He cradled her head in his palm and tilted her up gently, pressing the cup to her lips. She drank only a little and then settled back against the pillows.

  He set the glass aside and placed one hand against the top of her head, fingers smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “You terrified me,” he admitted in a whisper.

  Clare’s pale lips pressed together. “I’m sorry.”

  Their fingers interlocked on the quilt and Bennick let out a slow breath. “We don’t need to talk about that right now.” He hated that she had put herself at risk tonight, but he didn’t want to lecture her. He was too fates-blasted relieved she was alive. Besides, it was clear in her eyes that she was berating herself enough.

  “Did Eliot leave?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes drifted closed.

  Silence stretched in the shadowed room. His thumb traced slow circles on her hand.

  When she spoke, her voice was thin. Pained. “I can’t believe he manipulated me like that.”

  Bennick squeezed her fingers. He knew the pain of a loved one’s betrayal, though his father’s sins had never put his life at risk. “I’m sorry.”

  She peeled open her eyes. “How many died?”

  “Three guards. Five rebels. A few escaped.”

  Her throat clenched as she swallowed. “Eliot figured out I’m a decoy. The others probably guessed it as well.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

  “It will complicate things, though.”

  “Maybe. But right now, I need you to focus on healing.”

  She pursed her lips. “How badly am I hurt?”

  “You’ll be fine, in time. The physician said the damage could have been far worse.” He’d repeated that to himself the whole time he’d scrubbed Clare’s blood from his shaking hands.

  She released a slow breath. “We won’t be leaving for Halbrook tomorrow, then.”

  “No. We’ll be delayed by a couple of weeks.”

  Clare winced. “Newlan won’t be pleased.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She pursed her lips. “Dangerous words, Captain.”

  He leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers so suddenly, he was as startled by the kiss as she was. The feel of her lips, the heat of her breath—they punched through him, reassuring him that she was alive. He pulled back and leaned his forehead against her temple, eyes pinched closed. “You truly terrified me,” he admitted.

  “I’m sorry.” Her fingers sank into his hair, keeping his head against hers.

  He held her, his breathing finally normalizing. She was alive.

  But she wasn’t safe. She wouldn’t be, so long as she was Serene’s decoy.

  Chapter 21

  Eliot

  “We have to report that Serene has a decoy,” Michael said. “It changes everything.”

  Eliot grimaced, rubbing a hand over his aching forehead. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. It had been two days since that horrible night where everything had gone wrong. He could not forget the sharp betrayal in Clare’s eyes. He could still see her bleeding on the ground, practically begging for him to leave her.

  With Markam.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. And, again, it wasn’t the first time he’d said that.

  The sounds of the small-town common room seemed louder when neither of them were speaking.

  Eliot had not touched his food. He hadn’t been able to eat since that night. He and Michael had fled, stolen horses, an
d they’d been hiding in the woods and at roadside inns ever since. Everything had devolved into a nightmare. Their perfectly laid plan had failed. Clare hated him. She had nearly died, and Eliot had killed the man who’d thrown the knife—a fellow rebel. He hadn’t known the man, but his hands still shook when he thought about it.

  And the worst part of all was that Serene would never be vulnerable again, because they’d just keep using Clare like a puppet.

  “She’s alive,” Michael said gently. “You heard the news, clear as I did. The princess’s tour was delayed, but she’s healing.”

  “Clare never should have been hurt.” Eliot raked a hand through his brown hair. “Bloody fates, she shouldn’t be anywhere near this mess. She shouldn’t be a target for Serene’s enemies. It isn’t right.”

  “No, it’s not, but there’s nothing we can do to stop them from using her. So we need to report that a decoy exists.”

  Eliot lifted his eyes. “We could take Clare from them.”

  “Even if we could get past their defenses, you heard it from her own mouth—she has no desire to leave.”

  “I could persuade her. If I’d had more time . . .”

  Michael shook his head. “She doesn’t trust you now.”

  He clenched his teeth and stared at his untouched food. “I won’t let the rebels use her again. I was a fool to go along with things as I did.” He shot his friend a glare. “And you didn’t have to tell her I was being tortured.”

  “I wanted her to feel the gravity of the situation. Your note didn’t sound desperate enough.”

  Eliot thrust a hand through his messy hair. Guilt had been creeping in long before the disaster at the Paltrow’s ball. He’d had misgivings about using Clare from the start, especially when he had crouched near an open window in Tarvin and watched as Michael had grabbed Clare and forced her up against an alley wall. He had seen the terror in his sister’s eyes.

  He had helped put it there.

  He scrubbed his face with both hands. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

  “You wanted to see if she would choose you.”

  That only increased his guilt. He had agreed to do all of this for such selfish reasons. The fact that he’d been drunk when he agreed only made him feel more disgusted with himself.

  He’d wanted his sister to choose him.

  And she had, in a way. She had risked her life for him. And then she had rejected him, choosing to stay with Markam to be used as a target.

  That hurt on nearly every level.

  Michael’s lips compressed. “The rebels need to be told Serene has a decoy. It’s the best way to keep Clare safe.”

  It was an argument they’d been having for two days, but Eliot nodded now. “Yes. We need to tell them. But I don’t want them to know it’s my sister. They would want to use her.”

  Like he had already used her.

  Michael leaned in, his voice serious. “I know you’re upset. I don’t blame you for that. But there’s no going back. We are known traitors now. We can never return to Iden.”

  That was like a punch to his gut. He thought of his brothers, Thomas and Mark. Fates, he’d never see them again. At least not up close. He couldn’t be a part of their lives.

  And Clare didn’t want him anywhere near her.

  “We’ve lost everything,” Michael continued. “The only way to make this sacrifice worth it is to ensure the alliance fails.”

  “Our position is painfully clear,” Eliot said tightly. “What’s your point?”

  Michael’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. You joined the rebels because of me.”

  Eliot’s lungs emptied in a slow breath. “Not just for you. I joined for me—for my family. For everyone Newlan has hurt.” He shook his head. “You’re my brother, Michael. Mortisians killed your family at the border, and after you became a soldier for Newlan, he wants to betray you—betray their memories—by allying with the enemy? No. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to play with our lives anymore.”

  Michael nodded slowly, and Eliot took his first bite of food in days.

  Several minutes later, their contact arrived.

  Eliot had met John several times. He had coordinated the attack at the Paltrow’s ball, and he looked harried now that things had failed. He slid into the chair next to Eliot, dispensing with all niceties. “I’m grateful you two survived. We have a new plan we’d like you to take part in.”

  “We have some information that might change things.” Michael looked to Eliot, waiting for him to explain.

  His stomach cramped, but he spoke anyway. “The princess has a decoy. That’s who was there during the attack.”

  A scar on John’s forehead nearly disappeared when his brow furrowed. “A decoy?” He cursed. “That throws off everything. How are we supposed to know if our next attack is even worth it?”

  “I would know the decoy again,” Eliot said, hit with sudden inspiration. “If I was close enough, I would know her. Give me a position close to the strike, and I can tell you if the kill should happen or not.”

  If he was close to Clare, he could protect her. And if he got close and it wasn’t Clare . . . Well, he would happily slit the princess’s throat. She was a traitor to Devendra, and a selfish coward for hiding behind Clare.

  John eyed him. “Are you sure? You would face the brunt of the danger.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The man tipped his head. “Thank you for your offer. Let me reach out to the others. I’ll be in contact soon with your next orders.” His eyes narrowed. “The princess will not make it to Mortise. We’ll make sure of it.”

  Chapter 22

  Mia

  Mia was reading on her bed when Tyrell entered her cell. It was his fourth visit, and he stalked in without a word—as had become his habit.

  His first visit had been a shock and, truthfully, most of it was a blur. His second visit, he had wanted to talk, and she’d spent most of the hour refusing to answer, her back pressed to the far wall. Annoyance had sparked in his eyes, and he’d finally gone silent.

  He’d spent his last visit sitting at the table, sharpening some daggers while she’d pretended to read. He’d barely spoken to her, not that she’d relaxed. Her body’s reaction to him wasn’t something she could control. The locking up of her muscles, the freezing of her lungs—it was just something that happened the moment he stepped into her cell.

  And even though she didn’t back away from him like she had that first day, she was always careful to keep space between them.

  The door thumped closed behind him and Tyrell strode to the table—but this time, he didn’t sit. He turned to face her, his arms crossed.

  The break in pattern shot a chill down her spine, but she forced herself to look up from her book.

  He stood with his hands on his narrow hips, his expression smooth. “We’re training today.”

  Her insides hollowed. “What?”

  He shrugged. “Clearly, Grayson gave you some training. You fought me quite admirably the first time we met.”

  Her bruises may have faded by now, but Mia would always remember how he’d hurt her. She refused to forget. And her heart thudded painfully at the thought of training with him. It would be too real. He would grab her. Touch her.

  Panic swelled in her chest, and she fought to crush it. “I will not train with you.”

  “You don’t want to lose your skills while he’s gone.” Tyrell took a step back, holding his hands out to the side. “Besides, don’t you want a chance to hit me? I promise I’ll let you get in at least one hit.”

  “No.”

  He rolled back on his heels, his jaw tightening. “I’m not doing this with you anymore. The silence. It’s driving me mad. If I have to come down here, we will interact. But because I’m generous, I’ll let you choose what we do today.” He lifted a finger. “You can read aloud a book of my choosing.” A second finger rose. “You can sit at the table and carry on a conversation with me.” Three fingers were
lifted now. “Or you can train with me.” The corner of his mouth twisted up at the corner. “We’ll do all of these things eventually, but you get to choose today.”

  Her skin felt too tight. “We will never train, because I refuse to touch you—or let you touch me.”

  There was a horrible silence, and Tyrell’s expression didn’t change as he stared at her. Fear flashed through her body, igniting every nerve. Her words were a challenge. She knew that. And she also knew how easily he could overpower her. Hurt her.

  But, fates, she would hurt him back.

  Tyrell’s eyes measured her, and then he dipped his head. “Very well. No training today, then.”

  “Not ever.”

  He ignored that. “So what will you choose? Reading aloud a book of my choice, or conversation?”

  Surprised he hadn’t retaliated against her stubbornness, Mia swallowed back the flash of victory and tried to focus on his question. “What book would you make me read?”

  Tyrell chuckled. “So suspicious.” He reached behind him and plucked a thin book from a back pocket. He handed it to her, and Mia’s face flushed at the highly inappropriate title. She threw it back at him and he laughed as he caught it. “Very well. Conversation it is.” He swept a hand toward the table, a silent invitation.

  Mia nearly refused, but what was the point? Eventually, his patience would snap. She was a little surprised it hadn’t already, with how she’d been treating him. So she clutched her book to her chest, slid off the bed, and skirted around him on her way to the table and took a seat.

  Tyrell clucked his tongue as he sank into his chair across from her. “You’re quite moody. I suppose that’s why you and Grayson get along.”

  The back of her neck prickled, but not with fear. No, it was annoyance.

  Fearful little thing.

  She heard King Henri’s words in her mind, and she hated them more than ever.

  Not anymore, she vowed. Even if terror flooded her body, she would not give Tyrell the satisfaction of knowing it.

  She lifted her chin, meeting his stare even though her hands shook on her lap. “I don’t see the point of these visits.”