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Tyrell almost scoffed. As if Grayson actuallyhada plan. His brother wasn’t thinking rationally, or he never would have taken Mia like this. But Peter’s idea wasn’t all bad, so he nodded.
Henri turned to Peter. “Return to your mother. Carter’s death is a particular blow to her. I will be there shortly.”
Peter tipped his head and left.
Tyrell stood alone with his father, who studied him closely. “You’re angry with Grayson.”
“Yes,” Tyrell said.
“You’re angry he killed Carter.”
“Yes.” There was no real love between any of the brothers. They were all monsters—Tyrell included. But Carter was so far out of Grayson’s league in a fight, his death hadn’t been fair. It had been murder. Vicious and cruel.
“You’re angry he took Mia,” Henri continued.
“Yes.” His voice was a mere breath, but it vibrated with the intensity of his anger. The fear that had clutched him when Peter had first come to him swelled, impossible to crush.
Henri stepped forward, stopping only when he was directly in front of Tyrell. “Use that anger. Find him. Findthem.”
Tyrell’s throat felt too tight, but he forced the words out. “Will Mia be punished?”
Henri eyed him. “If you bring her back to me, no. That will be your reward. But if someone else finds her first, I’ll have no choice but to mete out punishment.”
Tyrell’s shoulders went back. He punched down his fear and gathered his anger into something he could use—a weapon. “I will find them.”
When Tyrell closed the door in Grayson’s room, his lungs constricted. Mia’s soft scent was everywhere, and so were her things. She’d left her sketchbooks. Her paintings. There, hanging in the open closet, was the beautiful gown she’d worn the night of the king’s ball. The night she’d fought with Tyrell and left him.
He pinched his eyes closed and ordered himself not to think. Not to feel.
He failed.
The pain gutted him. Mia was gone. She was out there in the dark, cold woods. She was alone with Grayson, who was going to get her hurt or killed.
Tyrell needed to find her before that could happen.
He forced his eyes to open and his feet to move. He went to Grayson’s desk and instantly spotted the discarded pair of black gloves. Just the sight of them made his blood boil. He threw them aside.
Forcing himself to focus, he glanced over the papers strewn across the desk. He lifted one of Mia’s sketchbooks so he could riffle through the papers. Nothing stood out to him, or screamed Grayson’s intentions.
His brother would not find any safety in Ryden—but which kingdom would he choose?
Mia was from Mortise. Would he go there? They might find refuge . . . but they would also find Mia’s brother. According to Grayson’s report—if he could be believed—Desfan Cassian had a thousand reasons to hate Grayson. He had been an enemy to Desfan and Mortise. Of course, Grayson might think to barter for a safe haven with Mia, but he would have to know that Desfan would never trust him to be around Mia.
So, maybe they would go to Mortise, but maybe they wouldn’t.
Devendra was a future warzone—Grayson wouldn’t go there. Maybe Zennor . . .
Tyrell spotted a stack of books at the back of the desk. He set Mia’s sketchbook aside so he could peruse the spines.
Maps, survivalist guides for traversing mountains . . . Were they going to go by land, then, and not by ship?
Tyrell spent the next half hour going through the entire room, but he found no other clues. He didn’t know if the books truly indicated the path Grayson and Mia had taken, but he would follow them into the forest. He’d head south, toward the border mountains. He’d also send troops to Vyken and Kavan, just in case Grayson intended to escape via the sea. Perhaps he’d even send men to Porynth as well; it was farther south, but it was a large port.
He needed to pack. He needed to go after them.
For some inexplicable reason, he lingered.
Inside his pocket, the length of red silk ribbon burned. He’d snatched it up when Peter came to him, and he couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Mia had touched it, just this morning. Somehow, it made her feel closer to him.
