His fury swelled.
The moment Mia was freed she threw her arms around his neck and he fell back onto his haunches, pulling her with him. He tried not to grip her too tightly because he didn’t want to cause her more pain, but she crushed herself to him.
The cell door prodded open. Grayson tensed, though it was only Fletcher. The old guard’s focus lingered on Mia’s shaking form and his mouth tightened. He shot a look at Tyrell. “Is he dead?”
“No.” Grayson firmed his hold on Mia when she shuddered against him. “Remove him before that changes.”
Fletcher grasped Tyrell’s wrists and none-too-gently dragged him from the room. He paused in the hall to close the cell door, sealing Grayson and Mia inside.
Mia’s hands fisted Grayson’s shirt and her tears splashed against his throat. Each one cut him like a blade.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice too rough to be comforting. “I’m here.” He kept repeating the words, but they weren’t enough. They’d never be enough. Because the horror she’d just gone through was his fault. All of it was his fault, because she wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him. Henri never would have locked her in this cell if Grayson had just embraced what he’d always been destined to be—a fates-blasted demon.
Mia clung to him as if her welts and bruises didn’t hurt at all, though he knew they must cover her body. It was clear she had fought Tyrell. Fought so furiously he’d had to tie her up.
From the corner of his eye Grayson saw the belt, still curled against the floor. As a child, Mia had been struck with a belt. Had Henri told Tyrell that?
He tightened his hold and Mia stiffened. He froze, fearing he’d hurt her.
“Oh, fates,” she breathed. Her fingernails dug into his arms and she pushed away. Her eyes fastened on a point beside them on the floor and he followed her gaze to the bloody dagger. He must have dropped it.
Mia’s mouth trembled. “Did he stab you? Where?” Her hands smoothed frantically over his chest and sides, and though her fingers found specks of blood, she couldn’t find a wound that accounted for the blood on the dagger.
She wouldn’t find any.
Grayson’s ears rang with the pleas of the old man he’d killed. “He didn’t stab me.”
Confusion sparked in her eyes. “But—”
“It’s not my blood.”
Mia stared, chest rising and falling. An angry welt rose on her cheek and a muscle in his own cheek jerked. He reached out, fingers running along the edge of the red line. Mia shivered at the ghosting touch and Grayson’s hand dropped, his fingers curling against his knee. “I’ll kill him.”
Her hands tightened around his biceps. “Grayson, where did that blood come from?”
Adrenaline still coursed through his veins and broke through the shields he normally held in place for her. “I’m the Black Hand,” he said, his tone dark. “I don’t even know how many lives I’ve taken. I enforce every law my father makes and everyone outside this cell is terrified of me. And they should be.”
Mia was pale, making the welt on her face stand out vividly. Her voice trembled a little, confusion in her eyes. “You only do what you have to do. You don’t have a choice.”
Grayson’s skin felt too tight. Everywhere she touched him, he burned. He tried to pull away but she clutched him tightly.
“Don’t do this.” Her voice wavered. “Don’t pull away. I love—”
“Don’t say that!”
She tensed, no longer breathing.
He looked right at her, ignoring the flash of pain that came when he saw the wetness in her eyes. “You don’t want to love me, Mia. The blood on that dagger? It’s from a man I just killed. He was defenseless. He begged me to spare his life but I still killed him.”
Mia stared, stunned. Her hands were banded around his arms, but she was frozen.
Grayson bit out a hard laugh, the sound cold and brutal. “I’m a murderer. I’ve ripped families apart and destroyed lives, but none of that comes close to the worst thing I’ve done. Do you want to know what that is?”
Her chin wavered. Tears sliced down her face, wariness and apprehension lurking in her gaze.
“My father told me the truth,” Grayson said, the words sticking painfully in his throat. “I know why you’re here. You were imprisoned as a way to control me. You’re in this cell because of me. Everything you lost—everything you’ve suffered—it’s all because of me.”
Horror pulled at her features. “You . . .?” She couldn’t even finish.
Grayson’s insides hollowed. He had nothing left. The anger, frustration, self-loathing and guilt that had propelled every sharp word was suddenly gone. He’d lashed out at her with the darkest parts of him and she would never look at him the same way again.
This was the end. Everything between them was over. But while it had been necessary to make her understand, he didn’t want to see her revulsion.
He moved before Mia could shove him away. He tugged his arms free, her hands falling without resistance. He slid back, drawing one knee up to his chest with an arm slung over it. He glanced at the blood still on his glove and his fingers balled into a fist. He ducked his head, spreading his other hand over his aching brow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I swear I didn’t know the truth until tonight. If I’d known, I never would have kissed you. I’m sorry.”
Silence reigned in the cell and the stillness made his stomach cave. It would be easier if she yelled at him. Ordered him out, or hit him.
Her dress rustled as she straightened on her knees and Grayson dropped his chin further, cringing as he awaited her attack.
One of Mia’s hands settled over his fist and the other slid into his hair, her thumb brushing against his aching temple. Her words were weighted with emotion. “There’s nothing you could do to make me hate you, Grayson. No matter how hard you try to push me away, it’s not going to work.” Her voice cracked and her hold on him tightened. “I love you.”
A fissure cracked open inside him. He sucked in a breath, his whole body vibrating as he struggled to hold himself together.
Mia made a sound in the back of her throat and leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, taking his words from earlier. “I’m here and I won’t let go.” She pressed a kiss to his brow and that simple action wrecked his fragile hold.
Mia held him as he shattered.
Chapter 42
Clare
The snap of the crossbow rang in Clare’s ears, mingling with her staggered heartbeat. After everything she had survived, Gavril was going to kill her.
Bennick shoved her, both of them falling. Pain flared as Clare hit the stone floor on her back and the air was knocked from her lungs. Bennick caught his own weight instead of crushing her, his hands and knees caging her in, their faces a breath apart.
The bolt Gavril had shot streaked harmlessly over them and struck the wall.
“Seize him!” Newlan roared.
Clare’s body shook. The sounds of a struggle competed with the heartbeat thudding in her ears. Bennick pressed a palm against her cheek, concern carved in his face as he forced her to meet his gaze. “Clare?” He breathed her name so softly, even she barely heard him.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. Gavril had tried to kill her. Shock, fear, denial—it swam inside her, a storm that stole her voice. If Bennick hadn’t been beside her, that bolt would be buried in her heart.
A muscle pulsed along Bennick’s jaw. His fingers brushed over her skin, a fleeting touch before he pushed to a crouch and pulled them both to their feet. They walked to where Newlan stood, glaring down at Gavril. The scarred man had been forced to kneel, a palace guard gripping each shoulder.
“You attempted to kill Princess Serene.” Newlan’s voice vibrated with menace.
Gavril sneered, the hatred on his face completely transforming him from the quiet guard Clare had known. “I only regret that I failed.”
Clare strangled Bennic
k’s fingers. “Why?” she whispered.
Gavril’s narrowed eyes cut to her, animosity shooting from him. “There can be no peace with Mortise.”
“It was you all along.” Shock thrummed in Bennick’s voice. “You wanted to frame Mortise for Serene’s death. You’re the one who planted the Night Sigh. The Ogai spiders. The poisoned necklace, the attack in her room . . . It was you at the orphanage too, wasn’t it?”
Gavril ground his teeth. “I tried to keep you out of it, Bennick.”
“I trusted you!” Bennick snapped.
He bit out a snarl, his rippled scars tensing. “I couldn’t let the peace happen!”
“Your actions harmed innocents. People are dead because of you!”
“I had to do something!” Gavril’s attention shifted to the king. “You stationed me on the border. You told me to protect Devendra from Mortise and I lost my wife and my daughter.” His voice broke, but he plunged on. “Mortise took everything from me. And now you tell me to embrace them as an ally?” His lip curled, tugging at his scarred cheek. “I served you and you betrayed me. You deserve to lose your own daughter.” He spat at Newlan’s feet.
The king’s face twisted. “You are guilty of treason. Attempted murder of a royal body. Dissent and warmongering. You will be executed at first light.”
“No.” Amil Havim shoved past Clare. He glared at Gavril with shaking hands, his bearded face tight. “You’re the reason my father is dead. You’ll pay for his blood with your own.” He jerked a dagger from his belt.
Clare gasped.
Bennick lunged, but Amil had already shoved the blade into Gavril’s heart.
Gavril went rigid. His lips parted and blood dripped from his mouth. He tried to speak, but failed.
Amil planted a boot against Gavril’s front and jerked his blade free. The guard collapsed, slumped on his side, fingers twitching once before he went still. The light fled his eyes. His face was tipped so the torchlight danced across his horrible burns, and that image would be with Clare forever. Her hands clamped over her mouth. Bile scorched her throat and tears bloomed behind her eyes. Gavril was dead. No chance for last words with his father. Nothing.
He was a man tormented by grief. He had killed. He’d nearly killed Clare several times, but . . . he’d saved her, too. And he hadn’t deserved to die on the floor, murdered in a fit of rage.
Amil gripped the bloody dagger and turned to King Newlan, his voice terrifyingly level. “In the morning I ride for Mortise.”
Newlan’s hands fisted slowly at his sides. “The treaty?”
Amil’s eyes flashed, his mouth a hard line. “Our emissary is dead, murdered by one of your men. Mortise was accused of the crimes of your people. That’s what I’ll tell the serjah. We’ll see what he decides.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room, Mortisian guards carrying the emissary’s body behind him.
King Newlan’s shoulders tensed as he glared at the dead man near his feet. If Gavril wasn’t already lying in a pool of his own blood, Newlan would have killed him again. There was nothing the king wanted more than this alliance, and Gavril might have ruined it. “Remove this filth,” he hissed. “There will be no burial. His body will feed the crows.”
Clare turned her head aside when Gavril was dragged away. She didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to face it. She wanted to hide in some corner until the world stopped spinning.
But the horror of tonight wasn’t done.
Newlan rounded on the huddled entertainers. “You were hired by that traitor to kill Princess Serene. Your goal was to destroy the peace with Mortise.”
“No,” the gray-haired man pleaded. “Your Majesty, it wasn’t us. Please, I beg a fair trial for me and my troupe.”
Newlan’s lips pulled back in a silent snarl. “Kill them.”
Mothers howled and fathers cried for mercy. Children screamed and clutched their parents as the soldiers stepped forward, wielding their swords.
“No!” Clare moved so quickly Bennick could only curse, his hand snatching nothing but air as she darted into the space between Newlan and the entertainers. She faced the king, heart slamming against her ribs. Gavril’s blood streaked the stones near her feet, strengthening the steel in her spine. “You can’t kill them.” Newlan’s gaze sharpened in warning, but even though Clare could barely breathe, she wouldn’t defer to his temper. “Put them on trial,” she said. “Find the guilty, but don’t punish innocents.”
Bennick’s eyes burned her, begging her to meet his gaze, but she didn’t look away from the king.
A muscle in Newlan’s jaw ticked. “You forget your place.”
She lifted her chin. “I won’t allow you to hurt them.”
“You won’t allow?”
Everyone stared. The frantic whispers ceased, every eye fixed on the drama before them—the princess, defying her father.
That would have been inexcusable enough, but the truth was far worse. Clare was an imposter. She had no power, only the illusion of it. Yet strength coursed through her. Adrenaline and a sense of rightness kept her spine straight and her gaze firm.
“No,” Clare said, voice ringing through the room. “I won’t allow it.”
A vein in Newlan’s forehead pulsed and his nostrils flared.
Grandeur stepped forward, placing himself at Clare’s side. His voice was low as he addressed the king. “Serene is upset. Perhaps it would be best to defer to her wishes.” He glanced at Clare, the worry in his eyes barely veiled before he focused back on Newlan. “She’s been through a great deal tonight. Please show leniency.”
The king’s attention darted between them and the silence stretched.
Clare’s pulse roared in her ears.
Finally, Newlan spoke. “Take the vermin to the dungeon. Their fates will be determined in court.”
The entertainers were herded to their feet. Men and women shot Clare grateful looks, but fear still smothered them as they kept their arms around their children.
Clare opened her mouth, ready to order that Newlan let the women and children go, but Grandeur sent her a quelling look, his eyes sharp with warning.
“Everyone out,” the king ordered.
Nobles and guards made their way to the double doors at once, muttering amongst themselves, some with arms still wrapped consolingly around each other. Bennick moved to Clare’s side and grasped her arm. His face was lined with tension, his entire body stiff. Before he could tug her toward the door, the king’s glare froze them. “You stay.”
Clare’s body locked and Bennick’s fingers tightened against her wrist. “Sire—”
“Get out,” Newlan barked.
Bennick froze, and for a horrible moment, Clare thought he might refuse the king. But then his hand fell from her arm and he backed up. Clare held her breath the whole time he retreated, Dirk following him out.
Grandeur hesitated, but one look from the king and he dipped his head. As he turned, he gave Clare a short nod. She hoped he caught the gratitude in her eyes. While she no longer trusted the prince, she was thankful he’d risen to her defense.
The doors closed, leaving Clare alone with the king.
Newlan’s low voice cut through the vaulted room. “You undermined me tonight. I don’t tolerate that from Serene. Fates know I won’t tolerate it from you.”
Her hands fisted at her sides, the blood on her gloves now cold. “Killing them would have been wrong.”
Newlan shot forward, eyes flashing. “I am never wrong. I’m the king.” His hand swung and the back of it caught her cheek. Her breath hitched and pain sparked across her face. The gold ring on his finger added a bruising weight and the slap echoed in the empty room.
Clare pressed her palm to her throbbing cheek. She breathed hard, face heated, cheek throbbing as she met his furious stare.
“You are no one,” he said through gritted teeth, hot breath hitting her face. “Nothing. Your life has meaning only because I say it does. You will never forget your place again. You won’t be
the only one punished if you do. Do I make myself clear?”
Thomas and Mark’s faces swam before Clare’s eyes and she jerked out a nod.
Newlan studied her, letting the threat settle between them before he dismissed her with a flick of his chin.
But even as Clare moved for the door, her cheek throbbing, she could not regret standing up to the king.
Chapter 43
Bennick
Bennick stood rigid in the corridor, eyes fastened on the closed banquet hall doors. His body twitched with the need to be inside that room, standing beside Clare, but he couldn’t disobey his king. So he stood with his feet firmly planted, spine straight, shoulders locked as he fingered the blood staining his hands. Venn had lost so much blood; Bennick prayed the physicians could save him.
So many had died. Clare could have been killed so many times because Gavril . . . Fates, Bennick didn’t even know what to think. He could only feel.
Shock—Gavril had been the assassin all along.
Fury—Bennick had trusted him, given him access to the princess’s room, and he’d hurt Clare and Serene, nearly killing them both.
Guilt—Bennick should have known. He hadn’t done enough for Gavril. Hadn’t realized he was so consumed with hate and grief.
He wanted to shake Gavril. Demand answers. Rage at him for what he’d done. Apologize for not seeing the depth of his pain. But he couldn’t do any of that.
He thought of the orphanage attack—Gavril had looked panicked when he came into the alley and had immediately asked about Clare and Bennick’s injuries. He hadn’t needed to study them—he knew they were hurt, because he’d been the one to do it. He probably hadn’t meant to hurt Clare, and he’d been holding back when Bennick fought him, which was why he’d delayed drawing the knife. Even tonight, Gavril had tried to draw Bennick from the room to save his life.
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