Page 10 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)

KALI

K ing Firehorn, flanked by a team of guardsmen that includes Luca and Trace, strides into the clearing and glares at Wil and me with a mixture of relief and fury.

The prince. Of all the people I could have entangled myself with, I managed to find the royal prince.

No wonder Wil paused a moment too long when I didn’t know his destination.

Luca’s attention darts between Wil and me as he no doubt wonders how Kal could have gotten into such a mess when Luca had just left him less than two hours ago.

Trace, standing behind the king, is thunder incarnate as he quietly instructs one of the other guards to call off additional search parties.

“William.” Firehorn’s voice is low and formal, his dark eyes a dangerous blend of parental fear and thronely power.

Though shorter than the guardsmen behind him, the king stands with his feet apart and head high, the gray strands in his hair more reminiscent of hard stone than frail age. “Explain yourself. ”

Despite my caution, I’m utterly curious as to how the sixteen-year-old prince intends to beat back the coming storm.

Wil offers his father a confused frown, so immaculately sculpted that I’m certain the prince practiced it before a mirror.

“Guardsman Kal and I are just concluding an outing.” Wil’s voice is all reckless innocence.

“Were you led to believe something different?” He turns the frown on his sister, whose face reddens to match her painted lips.

“I regret any distress the misinformation you received may have caused you, Father, but as you can see, I am with a guard as per orders.”

Trace shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. The light wind sweeps back a lock of blond hair to reveal a tense muscle edging his jaw.

A more personal fury than I’d expect from a guard.

I’d wager Trace spends a good portion of his time sweeping up after Wil’s mischief, and from the look on Trace’s face, his patience has come to an end.

“Liar.” Violet twists to the king. “Wil wasn’t with any guard when he left.”

“How would you know, Violet?” Wil asks. “A princess would need to walk dangerously close to a stable to observe what company I kept when I left. I’m certain you would never break the rules and put your precious life in danger just to spy on me. So what is this? A chance to throw a fit?”

Violet’s nostrils flare. “Take it back.”

“Enough!” Firehorn snaps, and I flinch.

Trace’s gaze flickers to me, noting the weakness.

I curse myself soundly. Not that a sixteen-year-old trainee is wrong to cower from a king’s ire, but my reactions should be calculated, not reflexive. It was sloppy to flinch. Sloppy to let Trace see it.

“Violet, go home,” says Firehorn.

“But—”

“The woods are no place for a girl,” Firehorn tells her, his attention already returning to Wil. “Go... practice your lessons.”

Violet’s face falls. I’d wager gold coin that Firehorn knows nothing of the girl’s studies, much less whether practice is required—and the princess knows this too.

Straightening her spine, Violet opens her mouth to protest, but the king snaps his fingers and a contingent of guardsmen separate to lead the princess away, the hem of her velvet dress muddy from the forest floor.

“William.” King Firehorn steps toward his son. “Are you all right? What happened? Did that horse—”

“No.” Wil pats the stallion’s neck, his voice a hair too loud before reining itself in. “I was dumb enough to spar with Kal, and he had me head over ass before I knew what happened.”

Years of practice allow me to keep a straight face.

Which is good, because the relieved look on Firehorn’s face says he wants to believe the sack of horseshit that Wil just fed him.

Wants to think his son was simply roughing around, that the spy Firehorn brought in is already proving her value by befriending the prince.

Trace’s weight shifts again, this time to grace me with the scowl previously reserved for the prince. His brow lifts. “Is that so, trainee?” he asks with quiet confidence, a captain of the king’s guard detail demanding a report from a fresh-faced recruit.

Which, frankly, is unjust.

A senior guardsman of one and twenty should not be forcing a sixteen-year-old novice to publicly choose between obeying his superior officer or the crown prince of Dansil. My jaw tightens and I raise my chin, refusing to shy away from Trace’s stare. “Yes, sir. Just as His Highness said.”

Trace’s face darkens, making the contrast to his silver hair more striking. His eyes capture mine, the threat in them clear: Don’t worry about the prince, boy—worry about me.

Heat crackles along my spine. Firehorn might have me in his fist, but the bloody Eye of the Goddess will shatter before I allow a strutting guard to cow me. Not even if he is the captain of the king’s guard detail. Especially not then.

King Firehorn sighs and rubs his temples, the tension in his shoulders easing.

His son is safe, the boy’s story credible enough to fool himself into believing it.

There are other matters demanding attention.

“Get cleaned up, William.” Firehorn’s voice is tired.

“I trust you can make it to your quarters without any more mishaps?”

Wil bows from the saddle, surreptitiously holding the stallion’s mane for balance. A tiny hint of a smile tugs at the corners of the prince’s lips. Even I must admit that the hellion managed his father well enough to have made Lord Gapral proud.

I start to release my own sigh of relief when Trace cuts in to the conversation.

“With your permission, Your Majesty,” Trace says, bowing to the king even as he steps to block Wil’s path, “I will ensure that His Highness returns to his quarters safely. Luca can see you back.”

Luca frowns but Firehorn is already nodding permission and starting down the path while his detail follows.

Soon it is only the three of us in the privacy of the woods.

My shoulders tense, my mind trying to calculate Trace’s next move, to understand why a guard is injecting himself into a disciplinary matter between the king and prince.

Wil nudges the horse forward.

Predictably, Trace blocks the animal’s path. He didn’t keep us back only to step away now.

“Is there a problem, guardsman ?” Wil asks .

Trace uncrosses his arms, letting his hand rest on the hilt of his sword. “I wondered whether you two are aware that Dansil and Everett are in historic peace negotiations just now?”

“It’s crossed my attention,” answers Wil, sitting up taller. “And keep Kal out of this. Anything you wish to say, you may say to me directly.”

Trace turns obediently to the prince. “Do you understand, Your Highness, that should something happen to you, the leader of the Kingdom of Dansil would become a frantic father instead of a cool-minded ruler? Do you comprehend the number of innocent lives such a disaster could cost?”

“Good Goddess, Trace,” Wil throws up his hands. “Do you imagine that Viva Sylthia goons are going to set up an ambush in the woods on the off chance that I will want to take a ride?”

Of course he does. And if Wil makes these outings a habit, Trace will be correct.

Wil raises his chin. “Whatever your concerns, Trace, the fact remains that I had a guard with me tonight. That satisfies the protocols that you yourself put in place. I consider the matter closed and ask you to step aside and let Kal and me resume our evening.”

The air between the two crackles with tension. So much so that, if I knew nothing of their identities, I’d be hard-pressed to name which of the two was royal born. I back up a step, my scout’s instinct urging me to watch the rest of the spectacle from the shadows.

“Not so fast.” Trace’s voice jerks me short. “You’ve made yourself a part of this as well. Full name?”

My stomach tightens, but I step forward and touch my fist to my chest. “Kal Cassidy, sir.” My voice is even, respectful but undaunted.

“Well, Kal,” Trace’s body fills the entirety of my vision.

“I would not presume to question His Highness’s word that you were, in fact, on duty as his personal protection this evening.

I must thus conclude that your lack of weapons, report of activity, and basic safety considerations are a delinquency. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

A fair accusation. And a smart one. Trace cannot discipline the prince directly, but he certainly can punish Kal.

Conveniently, it would send a message of consequences to the prince while discouraging a trainee from trying similar antics again.

If Trace hadn’t attempted to scare me into submission earlier, I’d even grant him a bow.

“It’s not Kal’s fault!” The thread of desperation in Wil’s voice makes me swallow a groan. The prince might think he’s helping, but his obvious discomfort only serves to make Kal a more valuable whipping boy.

“On the contrary,” Trace says. “It appears Kal is the only one at fault.” He shifts his attention back to me, lowering his voice. “Unless...”

My chest tightens. Unless? There is an “unless”?

Trace’s shoulders spread, that subtle shift of weight designed to frighten me, and his voice drops even further. “Unless the trainee has a different version of events to share before I decide on his punishment?”

That hot crackling along my spine returns, any respect I’ve gained for Trace burning to white ash.

Throw your friend to the wolves and save your hide.

That is what he wants me to do. Not just wants—if the knowing cock of his brow is any indication—but expects .

I wonder if Trace thinks me that intimidated or that dishonorable.

Whichever it is, the guard is about to be sorely disappointed.

I meet Trace’s dark eyes, my own unflinching. Frost nips my words. “I’ve nothing to add to His Highness’s words.”

Trace blinks .

I do not.

The guard stares at me for a deafening heartbeat before turning on his heels to cut a branch from the nearest tree.

With brutal efficiency, he strips the rod of twigs and leaves—as if either Wil or I needed a further explanation of his intentions.

“Remove your outer coat,” Trace says, his attention still on his work.

Wil’s mouth opens, but I touch his knee and give my head a calm shake. My heart beats too loudly in fury to leave room for fear. Shrugging free of my jacket, I fold it neatly on the ground and lower to one knee before Trace—who, for the first time, seems hesitant.

“At your convenience, sir,” I say over my shoulder.

Twigs crunch beneath Trace’s even steps.

I brace myself, but the man steps around to face me instead, crouching to come on eye level with me.

His large body blocks my view of Wil and the trees, creating a cocoon of privacy that even the sun struggles to pierce.

Shifting his attention to his hands, Trace rolls the switch between his thumb and forefinger.

“This will draw blood, Kal,” he murmurs softly, for my ears only.

“Is that what you want before your first day of training? The truth—that is all I ask of you. Tell me that the prince lies, that you were never his guard. That is all you must do, and this goes no further. What say you?”

I glance at the switch. “If you intend to draw blood, sir, you’ll need a better stick. That one won’t last a half dozen cuts.”