It was the room of a little boy, but one who hadn’t lived in it for a long time. Clare didn’t know what had happened to him, but she felt a flash of sympathy for the commander. She knew the sharp pain of loss.
She fingered the scarred cloth of a stuffed panther crouched at the end of the bed, wondering about the boy who had clearly once loved it.
“Don’t touch that,” Millie snapped.
Clare spun, the feel of the panther’s worn texture still on her fingertips. “Sorry.”
The maid’s eyes narrowed and she shoved a balled-up nightgown into Clare’s hands before exiting the room.
Tears scalded Clare’s eyes the moment the door snapped shut. She blinked, fighting for control, but it was too much. The sacrifices she’d been forced to make tonight hit her hard, and the pervading sadness of the room didn’t help; it was a place that whispered of lost things, regrets, and the ultimate cruelty of fate.
Clutching the nightgown to her chest, Clare perched on the edge of the bed and let the tears dash over her cheeks.
Chapter 3
Grayson
The stink of Lenzen’s slums lay heavy on the afternoon air. Manure, rotten food, and too many unwashed bodies. Despite the stench, Prince Grayson Kaelin’s expression was neutral as he dragged his horse to a halt in the center of the street. He gripped the reins in a black-gloved fist, viewing the wood and stone façade of the inn. He noted the sagging shutters, the warped roof, the bursts of laughter coming from inside, and then he jerked his chin.
The squad of soldiers behind him followed the silent command to march on the inn.
Grayson remained where he was, his brown horse snorting and shifting beneath him when startled shouts and alarmed screams rang out, the frantic cries of women rising above the growls of men.
There was no laughter now.
Patrons were shoved into the street and forced to kneel. Mothers clung to their children and fathers struggled to remain between their families and danger. In the chaos, no one had seen Grayson yet. The soldiers commanded all the attention.
For now.
Grayson waited until everyone was kneeling on the ground,surrounded by soldiers with drawn swords, before he swungdown from his horse, boots kicking up dust from the unpaved road.
Silence cut through the crowd. Grown men and young children alike paled at the sight of him. Women whimpered.
The Black Hand. Merciless enforcer of the king’s laws. The youngest prince of Ryden and the deadliest. Only seventeen years old, yet Grayson had the power to bring them all to a trembling halt. The truth was a familiar weight in his gut.
“Where is Latham Borg?” he asked, his voice deep and clipped.
A heavy beat of silence, then an old man raised a bandaged hand, his wrinkled face pinched. “Please, Your Highness. This isn’t necessary.”
Grayson tugged the cuffs of his gloves, ensuring the black leather covered his wrists. “You understand the king’s tax?”
Latham Borg cringed. “Yes, but business has been slow.”
The captain of the squad snorted, coming to stand beside Grayson. “Your customers fill the street, old man.”
Captain Reeve was in his early twenties and was constantly trying Grayson’s patience. He edged in on his authority and was most likely a spy of King Henri’s, who liked to keep an unwavering eye on his sons.
Latham Borg glanced at the ragged crowd. “They’re my friends. They can’t always pay.”
Grayson placed himself just forward of Captain Reeve—anot-so-subtle reminder for the captain. “King Henri has no use for excuses. Do you have the required payment?”
Unspoken pleas shone in the man’s gaze. “I sent a letter . . .”
Grayson’s hand shifted, his gloved palm now resting only a breath from his sheathed sword. The innkeeper’s eyes flew wide, his throat bobbing sharply.
The woman beside him snatched hold of his unbandaged hand. “Please, Your Highness, we can raise the amount. My husband has been unwell since the accident, but—”
Grayson turned on his heel. “Arrest the innkeeper.”
“No!” The woman struggled to hold her husband even as hewas levered to his feet. The soldiers shoved her aside but she immediately scrambled to her knees and reached past the soldier blocking her path. “Latham!”
The innkeeper’s face was tight with fearful resignation as he was hauled away. “Marie, it’s all right.”
She ignored her husband’s empty assurance and continued to cry out, emotion strangling her voice.
Chains clinked as the innkeeper was shackled, injured hand and all, then he was forced to stand before Grayson.
The words Grayson spoke next were so practiced, they were almost worn. “You’ll be taken to the castle for your trial. Afteryour trial, you’ll be taken to one of the western labor camps. You’ll work until your debts are paid.” Grayson’s eyes moved to the woman, her face streaked with tears. “While your husband works off past debts, you will be charged with the regular tax. If by the end of the month you cannot pay, the inn will be seized and you’ll be sent to a labor camp as well.”
“No!” Shackles rattled as Latham fell to his knees, soldiers still grasping his shoulders. “Spare my wife. Let me work for the past and present tax. Please!”
The woman protested, but Grayson didn’t look at her. Helowered his voice so only the innkeeper would hear his next words. “If I accept your offer, you’ll never earn your freedom.”
Borg met Grayson’s cold gray eyes, something not many men would dare. “No. But I would earn hers.”
A muscle ticked along Grayson’s jaw. The street was quiet,awaiting the Black Hand’s judgement. It made his words seem louder than they actually were—more final. “So be it.”
“No!” Marie Borg sobbed.
“Ride out,” Grayson ordered, striding to his horse.
