29. I Know You
~ VOSKI ~
I tackled him. He hit the tiled floor with an oof, his hair falling away as his head snapped back, and cracked on the floor.
I’d successfully broken his grip on Grace, and screamed at her to run, as I scrambled up his body while he was still disoriented, cocking an arm—only to be caught at the elbow, and dragged from him.
“Voski, for fuck’s sake!” Donavyn roared, pushing between us to block my view of the asshole as Gil and Ronen dragged me from his sweating carcass.
Behind him, Lord Breckon attempted to bounce to his feet, but he staggered, and his hair—which had appeared thick and sweeping, had fallen aside from his head in an inexplicable chunk to reveal a shining pate that reflected the glow of the candles in the room.
Grace, her eyes wide, and hands on her mouth, stared at him as I struggled against my brothers. “You saw!” I snarled at the queen. “You saw his disrespect! You saw his—”
“Be still.”
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t move from her seat. But the words rang through the room like a gong.
I froze, still straining against the grips of my brothers, and pleading with my eyes for her to see.
Alarm sang in all my senses as the queen, with a strangely smug expression, pushed out of her chair and began to cross the room toward Breckon, her hand landing on my extended arm at one point, with a squeeze that, from anyone else, I would have assumed was intended as reassurance.
But her glittering eyes never left Breckon.
“My sincerest apologies, Lord Breckon. You see the difficulties I have controlling these very, er, primal soldiers. You’ll understand better now, why I usually leave them in the Keep, rather than bringing them to the castle.
They lack refinement. This is why, I really must insist, if you’re ever to enter Vosgaarde again, you must tell me prior to your arrival.
I simply cannot be everywhere at once, and if one of them was to find you on our land… ”
“Violent, coarse men,” he spluttered and coughed, brushing off his jacket with trembling hands, and jerking at his lapels to cover his nerves. “I knew this one looked familiar, only I couldn’t place it. But now, seeing him snarl in that way from close up, I remember.”
“Oh?” the queen stood at his toes, between us, picking at his jacket as if it were marred with lint.
But Breckon wasn’t distracted. He dropped his chin and stared straight at me, pointing, brave now that there was a wall of crowns and Commanders between us. “He killed my man. Two weeks ago. While we were on the hunt for Grace.”
Adrenaline punched through me as everyone in the room jerked to stare at me, shock painting their features.
I frowned—almost laughed. “What? Who?”
But Breckon took a step forward, relying on Donavyn to raise a hand and keep us apart.
“Two weeks ago. In the alley behind a tavern in your city. My man thought he’d found her.
When we got there, this man was in the shadows, his presence stopping us from entering.
But my man assured me she was inside. I charged him with waiting until it was safe, then bringing her. Then I left.
“But he never returned to our rooms. It took us days to find him—only to discover that he had a Furyknight’s blade in his throat. He’d been discovered dead within minutes of our leaving—when this man was right there. Waiting.”
I felt Grace turn cold, and made a split second decision. “Yes, I killed him,” I said quickly, as her eyes bulged. “He tried to rob me.”
“Bullshit,” Breckon spat. “I paid him very well. He had no reason to divert from his task. Unless you intervened.”
I glared at him. “Your man was a greedy footpad, and thief. The street was safer without him,” I said without hesitation.
‘Voski—no!’
I snapped my head to look at her—I’d heard her voice! Thin, and distant, but in my head.
‘I heard you! Grace, listen to me, if this goes wrong, keep taking the herbs and make him wait—’
“I am finished dealing with these… feral people,” Breckon snapped, turning to the queen. “I refuse to indulge this conversation further. Either you have ruled for me, or against me—and I will return to Fyrehold now, to report to my king in either course.”
When Diaan took a deep breath and shook her head, my heart rose—would she call his bluff and tell him to leave without Grace?
“I cannot deny your claim to the young woman,” Diaan said through her teeth. “But neither will I allow her to live a life of torment. You will be held to the contract. As soon as she produces an heir, she is to be returned to Vosgaarde.”
Gil and Ronen caught me as I lunged toward Grace—whose heart plummeted into despair at those words. Gil clapped a hand over my mouth and Donavyn glared at me as the queen turned, but Breckon wasn’t done. I struggled, screaming into Gil’s palm, scrambling to wrench his hand from my face.
“I’ll take her—and I’ll sing your praises to my king, Your Majesty. I’ll even let her return to her duty when she has provided the heir. But only if this man is appropriately punished for killing my man, and assaulting me!”
Diaan turned to stare at me, her eyes dark with warning. “Put him in chains. I’ll address him later,” she ordered quietly.
“No! Please, Your Majesty!” Grace gasped. “Please!”
I roared behind Gil’s hand and almost succeeded in throwing him from me bodily. He and Ronen wrestled, hissing at me to stop and think. But I couldn’t—fear, rage, despair pumped my heart and fired my veins.
The sound of Grace’s cries threw me into a tailspin.
I clawed, and punched, kicked and screamed, twisting, roaring, trying to throw myself across the room to her as she was grasped by Breckon again, and pulled toward the door.
I fought so hard, I saw stars, and couldn’t breathe—until a single, feminine shout rang through the room, and a moment later, Gil’s face appeared right in front of me—one eye half-closed and puffy.
“Sorry, brother,” he muttered, then pinched my shoulder.
Everything went black.