Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1)

by Heather Frost

  His eyes lightened. “Clare. Where shall we begin?”

  Chapter 13

  Grayson

  Grayson snatched Mia’s wrist, stopping her fist before it could strike his jaw.

  Her breath flew out, round cheeks red with exertion. She tugged at his hold, pulling against his gloved thumb and forefinger like he’d taught her.

  Grayson locked his fingers and twisted. The sharp but controlled motion flipped her around, slamming her back against his chest. Her dark curls swept under his nose, the soft scent almost as distracting as the fact that her back now pressed against his front.

  During their fierce bout of training, his breathing hadn’t altered.

  Until now.

  Lungs hitching, Grayson forced himself to focus on the mock fight. Not the thudding of his pulse. Not the brush of hair skimming his jaw. Not the feel of her heart thudding against his own chest, or the warmth of her skin he could feel even through his gloves.

  Before she could spin away, Grayson clamped his other hand around her free fist. With his arms crossed over her and strangling her wrists, he had succeeded in immobilizing her in a caging embrace.

  His pride swelled when she dropped all her weight, a move that had succeeded in throwing him off-balance before. But then, that might have been more due to her nearness than anything else. Today, he forced himself to focus. He grunted, his arms flexing to hold her upright, keeping her locked against him.

  She ground her heel into his booted toes and he felt a spark of pride, even though his hold didn’t budge.

  He had been training her since they were children. They focused on quick, violent ways for Mia to take an attacker by surprise and buy herself enough time for the guard on the other side of the door to reach her. They didn’t train with weapons. Not only was Grayson unwilling to risk a weapon being turned against her in a fight, he also knew his father would not approve of Mia having a weapon.

  Henri Kaelin didn’t approve of her at all.

  Grayson would never forget the day his father had learned about Mia. Grayson had only been nine years old, but the memory of that day was sharp.

  Mia had been singing to a doll he’d made her out of a meal sack, the inked-on face terribly crooked. Mia had named the doll Tally.

  King Henri’s large frame had suddenly filled the doorway. Grayson scrambled to his feet, heart pounding against his ribs as he came to attention. Mia lurched to her feet as well, clutching Tally to her chest.

  Perhaps Fletcher had told the king that Grayson had befriended a prisoner, or maybe the rumors were true and Henri could read minds. In that moment, Grayson’s fear overwhelmed his questions.

  Henri had eyed the doll, his lip curling in disgust. “Did you make that for her?”

  Grayson’s face burned. He wanted to lie, but there was no point. “Yes.”

  Henri cut a look at Mama, who stood in the corner. “How long has this been going on?”

  The woman shifted her weight, hands twisting together. “Several months, Your Majesty. I thought you knew.”

  A muscle in the king’s jaw thrummed. He focused back on his son and his expression was terrible.

  Grayson lowered his eyes, his pulse racing. The muscles in his neck jerked when Mia’s eyes brushed the side of his face. He felt her fear and it mixed with his own. He could taste it as he swallowed. “Please,” he whispered. He didn’t know exactly what he was asking for. Mercy. Forgiveness. He just didn’t want to lose her.

  Henri’s hard expression didn’t change and everything inside Grayson shriveled. “Take the doll,” his father ordered.

  Grayson’s throat constricted, fingers twitching at his sides. Slowly, he turned to Mia.

  Her rounded eyes darted over his face and whatever she saw made her breaths come sharper. Her grip on Tally spasmed and she slid back a step.

  It hit him as strongly as one of Peter’s punches—Mia was frightened of him.

  His hand faltered.

  His father growled. “I said take it.”

  Grayson grit his teeth and snatched the doll from Mia, trying to ignore her strangled cry.

  Henri’s tone was clipped as he thrust a finger toward the glowing stove. “Burn it.”

  “No!” Mia shot forward, her fingers digging into Grayson’s arm. He flinched, though her grip didn’t really hurt. Not physically. “Please give her back,” she begged, voice pitched high and frantic. She tried to grab Tally, but Grayson lifted the doll out of reach. She kept dragging at his arm, but it was useless—he was taller. Stronger. “Grayson, please—”

  “Now,” his father barked.

  Grayson looked at Mia and caught the sheen of tears burning in her eyes. He strangled Tally in his fist. I’m sorry. He choked on the words, unable to say them. He tore away from her, lurching toward the stove. A horrible keening broke out behind him and he cringed as he yanked open the small door. The heat scalded his hand, his face.

  “Grayson, no!”

  He threw the limp doll into the fire.

  “Tally!” Mia’s agonized scream rang in the small stone room and ripped through him. She fell to her knees, her hands slapped over her mouth. Her entire body shook and her shoulders rolled inward as she hunched into a ball.

  Grayson’s chest burned, as if the flames that ate Tally now devoured him. He staggered toward her. “Mia—”

  “Don’t,” Henri snapped, steel in his voice. “Do not go to her.”

  The space between Grayson and Mia gaped. Her cries tore up his insides and grated on every raw nerve, but he didn’t move closer.

  “You are a prince of Ryden,” Henri said coldly. “You don’t show emotion.” The king eyed the girl crying on the floor and his lip curled in disgust. “We’re done here.” He turned sharply, motioning for Fletcher to open the door. When he reached the doorway, he glanced back.

  Grayson hadn’t moved. His frame vibrated with fear as he faced his father. “Please,” he whispered. “Let me stay.”

  Henri’s eyes burned Grayson in a silent study. When the king finally spoke, his tone was level. “You can return when you beat Tyrell in a duel.”

  Dread knifed him. “But that’s impossible! He’s better than—”

  “You will do it,” Henri said. “Or you’ll never see this girl again.”

  Grayson had done it.

  It took him nearly two months and countless injuries, but he’d done it. Terror had gripped him the first time he’d stepped back into Mia’s cell, covered in sweat and blood from the fight he’d just won. He didn’t know if she’d even want to see him after what he’d done to Tally—to her.

  The moment he’d stepped into her cell she’d thrown her arms around him and hadn’t let go.

  Henri continued to set new goals for him, but he didn’t restrict his visits to Mia. He had learned to follow orders quickly, so it wasn’t necessary. There was an unspoken arrangement between them. Grayson would obey, and the king would ignore Mia, as well as keep her existence from the rest of the Kaelin family. So Grayson had become the Black Hand. He had done everything his father ever demanded of him, and he would continue to do so. He would do anything to keep Mia safe.

  Even train her to defend herself, though the thought of her in a fight terrified him. It didn’t matter that she was quite good; he still couldn’t stomach the idea of her being forced to defend herself. But while Grayson could give her precious little, he could teach her the skills that had been beaten into him.

  Mia breathed raggedly, her back swelling against his chest. “Is there a particular reason you’re not letting me win?”

  Grayson’s brows drew together, his crossed arms tightening over her chest. “I never let you win.”

  She snorted, her chest rising and falling against the cage of his arms. “Because of course it’s believable that I can beat you nine times out of ten.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “You are very good.”

  Even though he was looking at the back of her head, he knew she rolled her eyes.

/>   His smile hiked. “Perhaps in the beginning I let you win.” At eleven years old, her beaming smile had been blinding. He’d have done anything to see it. “But not anymore. You’re stronger than you think.”

  She shook her head a little. “Even if you don’t let me win—and I’m not saying I believe that—you at least make it possible for me to win.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, color still high on her cheeks. “But something’s bothering you, because winning wasn’t an option today.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Grayson, you’ve never held me this hard before.”

  He instantly released her.

  Mia stumbled at the abrupt loss of his support and his hands flashed out to steady her. “Sorry.” He cursed himself. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” But she was rubbing her wrists and the skin was red.

  His stomach dropped, as did his hands from her shoulders. “Mia—”

  “I’m fine. You don’t need to apologize. Bruises happen in training, remember?” Her head tilted as she eyed him, her voice losing the humor of before. “What’s wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. A woman had been executed yesterday, her only crime that she loved her husband and hated the ones responsible for taking him away. Her husband had been crushed by her loss, and yet he was still on his way to a work camp—a slow and brutal death. Grayson had to leave in the morning to ruin more lives, and he would always be his father’s weapon. There was no escape. No end.

  And then there was Mia. It was horribly wrong that she was here. That she suffered. That she would live under constant threat, just so Grayson remained obedient.

  Perhaps he had let his emotions influence their training. He needed to make sure that didn’t happen again.

  Grayson swallowed roughly. “I’m fine.”

  Mia’s brown eyes gentled. “You can tell me the truth.”

  Never. His sins were not hers to bear. “I’m fine,” he repeated. He shifted back a step, feeling her closeness too much. He cleared his throat. “I have to leave again.”

  Her lips pursed. The only sign of her anxiety was her fingers falling to twist in her skirt. “How long will you be gone?” It was the only question she asked now. The first time he’d left her, she’d pressed for details. He’d hedged, not wanting to show her the darker side of him.

  After he’d returned, she must have seen the haunted look in his eyes. She hadn’t asked again.

  “Two weeks,” he told her. “Maybe three.”

  She glanced away, her throat bobbing. “So long?”

  Grayson eased closer and wrapped his gloved hands around her nervous fingers, making them drop the folds of her skirt. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  She searched his face. “You’ll be careful?”

  “Of course.” He brushed a stray brown curl from her cheek and hooked it behind her ear. “Is there anything you need before I go?”

  Mia gave him a firm look. “You worry too much about me, Grayson Kaelin.”

  His mouth quirked. “You’ll make me gray before my time,” he agreed.

  She huffed a short laugh. “I think I see some right here.” Her fingertips brushed his temple and pleasant tingles raced over his scalp.

  He expected her hand to fall immediately, but it didn’t. Her touch drifted down from his temple, the soft pads of her fingers tracing an old scar that crossed his cheek before sliding to wrap around the nape of his neck. With gentle pressure, she laid her palm against his suddenly hot skin and drew his head down so their foreheads rested against each other.

  Grayson’s heart raced as their breaths mingled, the smell of jasmine swimming around them.

  Her thumb slid over the hollow under his ear, the simple stroke raising every hair on his body. “Promise me you’ll come back.” Vulnerability cracked her soft words.

  Every protective instinct he had surged to life. He eased back, lifting his free hand to cradle her face, their gazes holding. “I’ll always come back to you, Mia.”

  She held his fervent stare for a moment, then wordlessly folded her arms around him, drawing him in for an embrace.

  Grayson’s arms tightened around her, an ache rising in his chest. He prayed he’d have the strength to let go.

  Chapter 14

  Clare

  Bennick’s arms banded around Clare, pinning her arms to her sides and hauling her back against his chest. “Break free.”

  His exhales thrummed warmly against her neck and his hard body expanded against her back as his lungs filled. Even after weeks of training, she still wasn’t used to being so close to a man. It made her skin tight and she was hyper-aware of herself. She prayed he hadn’t noticed how much she was sweating.

  She dropped her weight and Bennick shifted his stance to balance them both. Before he could stabilize, she stomped on his foot and shoved an elbow into his ribs.

  His grip loosened and Clare took the opportunity to tear free. She planted a foot on the ground and spun her other foot, aiming for his gut.

  Bennick caught her leg and grinned, his blue eyes shining. “Excellent.”

  Clare’s balance wavered but he released her before she could topple. Breath fanning out, she swiped loose hairs away from her hot face. “I didn’t hit hard enough.”

  “No, but you’re getting more confident.” He spun a finger. “Turn around, I want to show you something.”

  Clare pivoted, trying not to tense as Bennick locked his arms around her chest. They’d been training for three weeks now. She should be used to his nearness, the surrounding feel of him pressed up behind her, but she wasn’t. If she could feel his every breath, he must feel hers. It only made her breaths come faster.

  Bennick took her hand and splayed it against her abdomen, his hand resting atop hers. Her breath caught. He’d been touching her throughout the lesson, but the weight of his fingers stretched along hers felt new. She could feel the calluses on his skin and even though she was overheated, she fought a shiver.

  Perhaps it was her imagination, but Bennick’s voice seemed deeper than before. “Feel the pull of your muscles here. Twist your shoulder inward as you turn.”

  Clare swallowed and twisted as he’d instructed, trying to ignore the racing of her heart.

  Bennick’s mouth dropped to her ear. “Did you feel it?”

  His hand was still resting on hers, his breath warming her neck. Her skin prickled and her cheeks heated. “Yes.”

  “Good. Remember the power there.”

  Too soon, his hand withdrew. Clare tried to be discreet as she rubbed the sweat from her palm against her skirt before Bennick’s arms tightened around her again.

  “Break free.”

  She followed the order, this time pulling her body up in a ball to throw him off balance. She even managed to land her elbow in his ribs as she twisted, and his grunt was genuine. One of these times, she’d manage to actually free her arms like he wanted and he’d get an elbow in his face.

  Hard to say if that would make her grin or splutter an apology while blushing furiously.

  “Good!” Bennick said. “That was better.” He caught sight of her red face and his forehead creased. “You’re flushed.”

  “I’m not.” The denial spilled out, only adding to the burn covering her face.

  He eyed the sun, which burned at its zenith. “Let’s take a break.”

  Clare took a step back, turning away from him as she fought to regulate her breathing. Training was exhausting. Her body was bruised from the mock fighting and sore from repeatedly taking up the different positions Bennick showed her. Her legs ached from all the lunges and kicks, and new blisters kept finding their way onto her hands. Yet this hour of the day remained her favorite.

  “Here.”

  Clare spun, arm swinging on instinct.

  Bennick jerked back with a curse and water sloshed over his hand from the tin cup he held. The cup he’d filled for her.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”


  His lips twitched as he passed the cup to his other hand so he could shake out his wet fingers. “My own fault. I should know better than to sneak up on you now.”

  There were moments in training when Clare felt attuned to Bennick, able to mirror his movements and act in perfect unison with him. Then there were these moments. Clare had never considered herself clumsy, but when he caught her off-guard with his nearness, or a sudden half-grin . . . She’d stumbled into him, tread on his foot, and now she’d almost hit him across the face.

  Bennick held out the cup, no longer fighting his smile. “Would you like what’s left?”

  She took the cup, grateful for something to do. “Thank you.” The water was tepid, but gloriously wet. It soothed the dryness in her mouth and throat.

  Bennick looked toward the gray stone castle that towered over the training yard. She took advantage of his distraction. Her eyes swept his face, noting the slightly crooked nose and stubbled jaw. She glimpsed a hint of sweat gathered along his hairline, but his scent hadn’t changed—sunshine, leather, and spice. It wasn’t fair; her dress was sticking to her back, her breathing was still fighting to slow, and all the lilac oil in Serene’s rooms couldn’t have helped her. His blue eyes were much more impressive than the commander’s, his hair lighter, but she could see the resemblance now that she knew to look. It was still hard to reconcile the fact that he was the commander’s son. Her brief conversation with Venn this morning had only whet her curiosity to learn more about their relationship.

  Bennick took the empty cup from her and took it back to the water barrel. After gulping down a drink of his own, he returned and waved for her to sit.

  She sank gratefully to the ground and braced her arms behind her, the strands of sparse grass at the edge of the field tickling her palms. Soreness radiated from her shoulders, legs, and arms, but it wasn’t as painful as the first few days had been. Her body was adapting.

  She tilted her head back, relishing the cool spring breeze. She appreciated the braided crown that kept all but several loose tendrils of hair off her neck. She closed her eyes and felt the flush slowly leave her skin.