Page 119 of Royal Rebel

She only had eyes for Grandeur.

The prince stared at her, his expression smooth. “What?” he asked. As if he hadn’t heard her, when clearly he had.

Bennick set a hand on her shoulder. His touch was a warning, but she ignored that. She also ignored the way Dervish’s attention sharpened on Bennick.

For Clare, Grandeur was the only person who existed right now. “Did you kill my brothers?” she asked pointedly.

Grandeur didn’t blink. Perhaps he should have—it might have hidden his flash of guilt.

His guilt could have been a blade, it cut her so deeply. It was a silent admission: he’d killed Thomas and Mark.

Something deep inside her snapped. She didn’t remember throwing herself at him. She didn’t remember screaming, though her throat suddenly burned.

She didn’t remember who shouted first—Bennick, Grandeur, or Dervish.

Her nails raked for Grandeur’s face, but never made contact.

Dervish shoved her back.

She slammed into Bennick’s chest, and his arms came around her—protective, but also caging.

She strained against him, desperate to tear Grandeur apart.

Then Venn was there, and Bennick pushed Clare into his arms. “Get her out of here,” Bennick ordered, tension riding his words.

Clare knew she’d made a grave mistake in attacking Grandeur. Fates, if she wasn’t Serene’s decoy, he probably would have demanded her head. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t donothing.

In the end, she was no match for Venn. Despite her struggles, he pulled her to the bedroom. The last thing she saw before the door closed was Bennick squaring off before an irate Dervish and Grandeur.

Clare sat on an iron chair on the balcony, watching the sun descend toward the horizon.

That’s where Bennick found her. He sank in the chair beside her, his eyes squinting toward the distant sun.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He exhaled slowly. “We have no proof, Clare. Until we do . . .” He trailed off.

She understood, though. Prince Grandeur was far too powerful to accuse without irrefutable proof. It was why she’d sent Latif to ascertain the truth.

But she knew, now. Even without proof, she knew Grandeur had killed her brothers. “I can’t be around him,” she said, her voice cracking. “I can’t . . .”

Bennick twisted in his chair, his crystal blue eyes intense. “I know. I can’t, either. Just now, watching him walk away . . .” He shook his head, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

Clare swallowed hard. “He’s going to seek retribution.”

“There’s nothing he can do. Not while you’re acting as Serene.” He looked at her firmly. “And I’m not going to let him touch you.”

His promise was absolute, and she didn’t doubt it.

She let out a wavering breath. “I shouldn’t have attacked him.”

Bennick said nothing.

She looked down at her hands, which rested in her lap. Her wrists still carried faint marks from her time as Salim’s captive. Some of her fingers were slightly crooked. And all she had to do was close her eyes to see perfectly the scars on Bennick’s body from where he’d been run through, and Wilf had had to burn his flesh to save him.

She thought of Vera, who had suffered alongside her at Salim’s hands. Who had buried her sister, after the Rose had killed her as a taunt.

She thought of Eliot, her older brother, who had died to save her life at the border.

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