No one dared speak to him, so he made good time to the dungeon.
The prison’s upper floor wasn’t as miserably cold as the lower cells, but it was still cool year-round. The ends of Grayson’s hair had gotten wet during his quick washing and the longer locks curled against his neck. He fought a shiver and followed the dim light offered by the lanterns bracketed to the wall.
There was only one door in the corridor that remained under constant guard. At Grayson’s approach, the day guard—a man named Fletcher—came to attention, his gray hair highlighted in the dim light. Without prompting he dug a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, holding it open with a bowed his head as Grayson slipped into the room.
There were no bars or chains in this cell. A bed sat along the back wall, a stand with a wash basin nearby. A square wooden table with two worn chairs stood on the right and an old glowing stove rested against the right wall. The stone walls were made up of varying shades of gray, the ones by the stove stained with black soot. A connecting back room housed a man and woman King Henri had assigned as caretakers. But even with all that, there was no doubt this was a prison.
Fletcher closed the door behind Grayson, the lock clicking quietly.
Mia sat on the bed against the wall, alone. Her caretaker, Mama, was probably in the back room sleeping off one of her headaches; the smell of ale hung in the air.
Mia was sixteen, a year younger than him. Her dress looked a little worn; Grayson needed to purchase something new for her, but the faded blue color did not dull her beauty. Rich brown hair fell in thick curls around her shoulders and her olive skin made her look more tanned than he was, even though she never left this room.
Mia bent over her drawing board, pencil moving in soft, careful strokes. Her brow was wrinkled in concentration, though her posture was otherwise relaxed. She was so intent on her drawing she hadn’t heard the door, so Grayson hung back, watching her work.
He had discovered Mia eight years ago. He’d entered the dungeon to escape his brothers and when he realized where his feet had taken him, he prepared to go back. That’s when he caught a soft voice drifting through the cold stone halls, carrying a haunting melody. He’d stilled, frozen by the unfamiliar sound of a lullaby. Entranced, he’d followed the ethereal sound, the words taking shape as he approached the cell, though he didn’t understand the foreign words.
Fletcher had let him peek through the food gate at the base of the door, and the small girl had noticed him spying almost at once. Her eyes flew wide and her song cut off.
Heat slammed into Grayson’s face and he would have scrambled back if her expressive brown eyes hadn’t pinned him.
In his nine years, he’d never seen anything as beautiful as her round, dirt-streaked face. She was soft and her skin looked warm in the glow of lamplight. Grayson expected revulsion from the small girl, or at the very least alarm—even as a child, people skirted around him in the castle hallways, and his newest scar from Tyrell cut right across his left cheek.
But she didn’t cry out. Instead, eight-year-old Mia knelt by the door and asked in broken words if he wanted to play, her tongue clearly uncomfortable with the Rydenic language. When Grayson jerked out a nod, she found a pebble and flicked it through the small gate.
They played for a long time, shooting the pebble back and forth between them. And when Grayson’s scarred hand accidentally brushed hers, Mia didn’t cringe away. She smiled at him, and his entire world changed in an instant. Everything had realigned so this girl was the center of his existence.
Fletcher had soon allowed him inside, and Grayson had been surprised to find a woman there. Mia introduced her as Mama, but confided when they were alone that she wasn’t her real mother, just someone who looked after her. A man named Papa also lived there, but he spent his days as a guard working in the lower prison.
Excited at the prospect of having a friend, Grayson visited Mia every day. He brought her treats and toys when he could steal them, and she taught him games and rhymes. He loved it when she sang, even if he didn’t always understand her words. He was endlessly fascinated by the beauty of her voice. He’d been mesmerized by her.
He still was.
Mia leaned back from her drawing and caught sight of him. She grinned, pushing the drawing desk aside. “Grayson!” She leapt from the bed and flung her arms around his neck.
His arms instinctively came around her and he ducked his head, his cheek pressed against her temple, her soft hair brushing his nose.
He used to shy away from her embraces. The constricting hold had made his stomach roll. All he could feel was the bruising grip of his brothers, pinning him down so they could hurt him. His lungs would freeze and alarm would flash through him, but physical contact seemed necessary for Mia. She didn’t seem aware that her small hands could coil his larger body with tension. When she’d held his hand the first time, it had been quite against his will. But she hadn’t been deterred by his rigidness.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said against his shoulder.
“Me, too.” He tugged her closer and
