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
