Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

  “Why do you hate Bennick?” Her voice rasped with emotion she did not want to show. But if she could keep him talking, someone might come. If the storm hadn’t been so loud, someone would have heard their screams. But all it would take was for someone to find Wilf’s body in the hall . . .

  Her heart constricted, and new tears stung her eyes. First Ivonne, then Wilf, and possibly Vera—then Clare would be next.

  The Rose finished smoothing her hair over the pillow, and then he set the flat part of the blade against her lips. His brown eyes stared into hers. “That’s a long story, and I’m afraid we don’t have time for it just now.” Keeping the knife in place over her mouth, he reached to the side, and when he straightened back in her view, he held a long-stemmed rose, droplets of rain rolling over the petals. “I picked this one for you. Lord Francin grows beautiful roses.”

  Her eyes watered, and the red rose blurred as he dipped it toward her. The damp, velvety petals brushed her nose and her nostrils flared. The overwhelming perfume flooded her senses, making this horrible nightmare all too vivid.

  “I’ll leave two notes with you, I think,” the Rose mused. “One in your left hand for Serene, assuring her I have not forgotten her, and the one in your right hand will be for Bennick. And I’d like you to help me compose it.”

  He pulled back the rose, setting it against his own nose. He breathed in deeply, mouth curving. “What would you like to tell him, Clare? What final message would you give him? Wait—I know. Perhaps: Bennick, I died thinking you would save me, but you failed.”

  “Stop it,” Clare whispered, her breath clouding against the blade held to her mouth.

  He grinned, continuing in a falsely high voice—a mocking imitation of her own. “I cried for you, and you didn’t come.”

  “Stop it!”

  The blunt side of the knife pressed against her lips, stopping her protests. He tapped the rose against her sharply rising chest. “You think he won’t appreciate your final words? Should we leave him with nothing?” The soft petals dragged against her cheek now, guided by his steady hand. His awful smile was unbroken. “This is a beautiful moment for me. I’ll kill the woman he loves, and then the princess he has dedicated his life to serving. He will truly hate me then, almost as much as I hate him.”

  The Rose smiled, the blade still sealing her lips. “I’ll be sure to tell him you loved him—even though he failed to save you. It’s sure to hurt him. He’ll blame himself for leaving you.”

  His words were all the more terrible because she knew they were true. Bennick would blame himself. He had blamed himself before, and if he came in here and found her dead . . .

  He would have to tell Mark and Thomas.

  Fates, she couldn’t just lie here and let the Rose kill her. She would fight. She would—

  She gasped as the edge of the knife nicked the soft skin above her lip as the blade was shifted, the tip now resting over her pounding heart.

  The Rose grinned. “Goodbye, Clare.”

  Chapter 39

  Clare

  Clare was trapped on the bed by the press of the Rose’s body and the tip of the blade that rested against her chest, ready to plunge into her heart.

  There was no point being careful any longer. Her ankles were tied together, and so were her wrists, but she still kicked and punched, bucking against him in her effort to throw him off.

  The Rose laughed, his hand clamped around her shoulder, his knife still resting against her heart. She felt the moment his grip on the knife shifted. She knew he was about to kill her, and she could do nothing to stop it.

  Without sound or warning, the Rose was knocked off of her.

  She jerked up from the bed, struggling to track the blur of movement as Bennick shoved the Rose onto the floor and then slammed a fist into the assassin’s surprised, gaping face.

  Bennick kept hitting him. Blood splattered and cartilage cracked. The Rose choked. He lifted the knife, but Bennick knocked it out of his hand. The assassin clawed at Bennick, but each blow Bennick delivered jolted the Rose’s entire body. Finally, he slumped, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Bennick’s fists didn’t stop.

  Clare’s stomach clenched, her vision wavering as her eyes burned.

  “Bennick,” a rough voice barked.

  Clare whirled, her throat tightening when she saw Wilf standing with one shoulder propped against the doorframe, a hand pressed against his bleeding side. He was pale, with sweat beading his forehead, but his voice was firm as he spoke again. “Bennick.”

  Bennick delivered a last punch and then rocked back, his chest heaving as he stared down at the Rose’s battered face.

  “We need him alive,” Wilf said, darkness in his tone.

  A shudder wracked Clare’s body, and Bennick’s eyes snapped to her.

  His expression was hard, fury still churning in his eyes. Rain drenched him from the storm outside, curling the ends of his hair and spilling droplets down his face. His curled fists were splashed with blood. Every muscle in his body was tensed and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The horror of everything that had happened since the Rose stepped into the room smothered her. The terror, the shock, the pain.

  The first tear leaked from her eye, and Bennick was in front of her in an instant. His hands skated over her body, checking for injuries.

  “I’m fine,” she gasped, her gut aching as memories flashed through her mind. The Rose’s smile. The weight of his body, pressing down against hers.

  The terror that came with knowing she was about to die.

  Bennick’s eyebrows drew together, his hands still moving, still searching for any sign of harm. His eyes lingered on the blood streaking over her mouth, and his jaw tightened. He drew a knife from his belt and cut the ties binding her ankles, and then he carefully unwound the wire of the garrote, freeing her wrists.

  Blood rushed back into her fingers, sending needles of pain through her hands. She flinched, and Bennick froze. Then his thumbs spread over the deep lines left in her skin. The wire had only drawn blood in a few places, but Clare could feel anger vibrating through Bennick’s gentle touch.

  He remained crouched on the floor in front of Clare, his voice hard as he glanced at Wilf. “Check Vera.”

  Wilf pushed off the wall, but immediately swayed and slumped back, blinking slowly. His skin was turning gray. “I . . . don’t think I can.”

  Footsteps pounded through the hammering sound of the rain, charging toward them down the corridor.

  Clare tensed, and Bennick’s fingers curled around her forearms, but it was Venn who swung around the doorframe. His dark hand gripped the jamb, his chest rising and collapsing with each harsh breath. His long ponytail was wet, strands of loose hair plastered to the sides of his face. His sweeping gaze cut to Vera, and panic exploded in his eyes. He choked out her name and darted forward, falling to his knees beside her. His shaking hands cupped her face, brushed back strands of blond hair, slipped to her neck to search for a pulse.

  “Venn?” Bennick asked, his voice edged.

  Venn didn’t look up, and for every second he didn’t speak, Clare’s heart refused to beat.

  The tension in his shoulders suddenly dropped and he bowed his head. “She’s alive.” He muttered what sounded like a Zennorian prayer to the fates, but all Clare could hear was a rushing in her ears.

  Vera was alive.

  Clare was still alive.

  And somehow, even Wilf was still breathing.

  Fear and relief crashed inside her, tightening her lungs and making her body tremble.

  Bennick’s hold on her tensed.

  The commander dodged into the room, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes before he turned to Wilf. “Was it the Rose?” he asked as he checked the wound.

  “Yes.” Bennick’s voice was dark.

  The skin around the commander’s eyes tightened. “Is he dead?”

  “Not yet,” B
ennick said, lethal promise in his voice.

  “Why wait?” Venn snarled, not looking up from Vera.

  “We need answers,” Bennick said.

  Commander Markam raised his head. “He’s a professional assassin. He won’t tell us anything. We should kill him now.”

  Bennick looked past the commander, to where two soldiers hovered in the doorway. “Secure the prisoner. Don’t take your eyes off him.”

  The guards moved to obey, and Clare couldn’t help but watch as they bound the Rose, who was still unconscious, his face swollen and bloody.

  Beside him lay the long-stemmed rose he would have shoved down her throat.

  Her gut twisted and her eyes stung.

  Bennick’s hands cupped her face, forced her to look at him instead of that horrible rose. “You’re safe,” he whispered firmly. “He will never touch you again.”

  If Bennick had come even a moment later, she would be dead.

  Her stomach rolled. The shock that had held her while the torrent of emotions swirled inside her chest finally broke. Tears leaked from her eyes and she sucked in a ragged breath. A sob clawed up her throat, her body shaking. Bennick’s intense expression cracked, grief flashing in his eyes as he gathered her in his arms and sat on the bed, one hand pressing against the back of her head. She buried her face in the curve of his neck and clutched his shirt with knotted fingers, dragging him impossibly closer as she cried.

  She didn’t care what Venn, Wilf, or even the commander thought of her clinging to Bennick. Not in this moment. She wanted to be held. She wanted to feel safe. She wanted to forget what it had felt like to almost die.

  Voices spoke over and around her, but no meaning penetrated. All she knew was the strength of Bennick’s arms banded around her. His hold was unyielding, and the rumble of his voice was comforting, though in her tears she couldn’t quite make out the words he spoke. His heart thudded steadily under her cheek, the predictable rhythm grounding.

  It took several long moments for the worst of the shaking to pass. Her breathing was still unsteady and tears still fell from her eyes, but the cries that had wracked her entire body slowly subsided. Bennick still held her, one palm smoothing up and down her back. “I have you,” he whispered in her hair, his breath warm against her temple. “You’re all right.” There was an edge to his words, as if he was trying to convince himself as well.

  When Clare finally eased back on the bed, Bennick’s hands remained on her shoulders—as if he could not fully let her go. Moisture continued to leak from her stinging eyes and her throat ached. Her head pounded, though she wasn’t sure if it was from crying or from when the Rose had smashed her head against the floor.

  Bennick’s eyes narrowed on her forehead, and she wondered if the swelling was more visible now. His jaw clenched and he lifted a hand, thumb brushing just below the tender spot. His eyes drifted, and she could feel the sting from the small nick above her lip.

  His eyes burned. “I will kill him.” The vow was spoken in a rough exhale.

  She didn’t doubt him.

  A glance around the room showed that they were alone, and her gaze snapped back to Bennick. “Are Vera and Wilf all right?”

  His eyes were still scanning her face. “Yes. The physician said Wilf is lucky. Nothing vital was hit. Wilf said he only lost consciousness because he hit his head when the Rose attacked him. And Vera stirred when Venn carried her out. She’ll be fine.”

  “Thank the fates,” she breathed, her eyes squeezing shut.

  Bennick’s fingers stroked against the side of her face, prompting her eyes to open. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  She shook her head. “No. A little bruised. Nothing serious.”

  “The physician will check on you once Wilf is settled.” His throat bobbed, and he stood. Clare swallowed back her flash of fear, because it was clear he wasn’t leaving her. He had only moved to the washstand and was pouring water into the shallow bowl. He lifted a folded cloth and dipped it in the water, then squeezed out the excess water with one hand. The quiet dripping sounded strangely loud in the otherwise quiet room; a mere echo of the rain glancing against the roof and windows.

  Bennick returned to the bed, and Clare’s eyes were drawn to his wet hand. His knuckles were already swollen from beating the Rose, and though the blood streaking his fingers did not all belong to him, she could see some cuts oozing crimson.

  “Your hands,” she gasped.

  He barely glanced at them as he sat on the edge of the bed, his body angled toward her. “I’m fine.”

  She snatched hold of the hand clutching the wet cloth, her fingers tracing over his hurts. “This will take days to heal.”

  “I don’t even feel it.” She peeked up at him, and the flare of emotion in his eyes stole her breath. His voice deepened—roughened. “I would have killed him with my bare hands if Wilf hadn’t stopped me. I can’t believe he got so close—that I let him distract me.”

  “Distract you?”

  Bennick slid his hand from hers and cupped her cheek. His focus was on her upper lip, where he gently dabbed the wet cloth. “The Rose cut the prisoners free. Some of them confirmed it. He caused a distraction, knowing there would be fewer guards on you.”

  Fates, she’d nearly forgotten the prisoners. “Did you find them all?”

  “Yes. They didn’t get far in this storm.” He tilted his head for a better view of her cut and a muscle jumped in his cheek as he resumed his work. His touch was so gentle, it was barely there. “I left Venn to help the commander finish securing them in the stable, and to look more closely at their story about a Devendran cutting them free. The whole thing felt wrong, and then I saw the fallen guards and . . .” His hand against her cheek trembled, and he lowered the cloth. His voice was hoarse, his eyes haunted. “I thought I was going to be too late.”

  Clare leaned in, her lips gently settling against his. It was the barest kiss, barely there, but it was everything. It centered her. Strengthened her. Warmth slid through her veins, driving out some of the chill that still clung to her. Some of Bennick’s tension seemed to drain as well, and when she pulled back, his breathing was even again.

  She slowly pried the rag from his hand and, using a clean corner, began to dab at his torn knuckles. His hand flexed, as if he might pull away. But perhaps he knew she needed to do this—needed to take care of him.

  Or maybe he needed this, too.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. The words didn’t seem adequate, but her throat closed off, stopping all other words.

  Bennick was silent for a long moment. When he did speak, his voice was worn. “Sometimes I wish you had never worked at the castle. That you had never been forced to become the decoy. The fates know my life never would have been complete without you, but . . . I hate that you’re here. Constantly hurt or in danger.”

  “None of this is your fault. You saved my life, Bennick. So many times, you’ve saved me.” She gently squeezed his swollen hand, still held in hers. “You helped me find myself. You love me, and that is worth any risk.”

  The skin around his eyes tightened, but he said nothing.

  Clare lifted his other hand and began to tend the abused flesh. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, and sweat broke out on her palms. She forced her voice to remain flat as she asked. “Where is the Rose?”

  His hand tensed in her soft grip. “He’s been secured in one of Lord Francin’s cellars.”

  She swallowed, her pulse skipping. She still could not believe that the Rose had been Lord Finch. Even now, after seeing her own death in his soulless eyes, she could still see his easy smile. How he had danced so smoothly with her at the Paltrow’s ball. How he had pointed out two young women watching them. My sisters, he’d claimed. Clearly a lie. Something to put her at ease, perhaps, but he hadn’t known those girls. They had simply been watching their princess dance.

  Her insides churned, thinking of how he had held her hand. Kissed it. Even tonight, he had smiled at her, knowing he wo
uld kill her tonight.

  She eyed Bennick, remembering everything the Rose had said about him. How much he clearly hated him. She also couldn’t forget the image of Bennick losing control as he had. She’d never seen him so furious. So violent. Her lungs were suddenly too tight. “Will you interrogate him?”

  “We need to know who hired him,” Bennick said.

  She bit her lower lip. “I don’t think you should be the one to question him.”

  Bennick frowned. “Why not?”

  She hesitated, unsure of how to convey the sheer hatred that had burned in the Rose’s eyes. And she wasn’t about to mention the way Bennick had attacked the Rose. “He hates you, Bennick. So much. I . . . I’m scared of what he’ll do.”

  The skin around his eyes tightened and he ducked his head so their eyes were level. “I don’t know why he hates me. But I’m not afraid of him. And you don’t need to be afraid, either.” His free hand lifted, fingers ghosting against her cheek, then slipping into her hair.

  Tingles exploded along her scalp, and ice bolted down her spine.

  All she felt was the memory of the Rose’s hand in her hair.

  She jerked back, a shiver wracking her body.

  Bennick froze. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Tears sparked in her eyes, tightened her voice. Fates, she hated this. Hated feeling so fragile. Hated that her skin crawled at what should have been a soothing touch.

  Bennick stared at her, his eyes burning. She knew there were a thousand things he wanted to say, a hundred assurances he wanted to give. But his mouth compressed and his eyes shuttered. The tension dropped from his shoulders and his expression seemed to close out every emotion.

  Clare almost felt sorry for the Rose.

  Chapter 40

  Bennick

  Pain blasted across his knuckles as Bennick hit the Rose again. The thud of flesh hitting flesh, the assassin’s grunt—the sounds were as familiar as a heartbeat now.