Page 25 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

I duck under it, my blade catching his wrist. He flinches, grip loosening, and I drive my shoulder into his chest, ride the momentum, and hook my foot behind his ankle.

He hits the stones hard, and his sword skitters away. He tries to rise, but I bring the pommel down at the base of his skull, and he’s knocked out cold.

I straighten, my breath coming fast, and turn.

Ryewood is staring at me, rooted in place, blood running down his arm and dripping from his fingers to the stones. His sword hangs slack in his grip.

Something sharp and cold pulls tight in my chest. This is my fault; I never should have stayed. I close the distance and take his arm in my hands.

“Let me see.”

He doesn’t pull away, his attention fixed on me. I drag my focus back to the wound. “We need to⁠—”

“You just took down a man twice your size with two daggers against a sword.” Awe cracks through his voice. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

I don’t answer. My fingers work carefully, pushing his sleeve back. The cut is clean but deep, blood still flowing dark against his skin. I tear a strip from my tunic and wrap it tight around his arm. He hisses but barely moves. I feel his eyes on me the whole time, and heat gathers in my chest under his stare. I look up and find those deep green eyes already on me, his brown hair loose from the fight. His jaw, rough with stubble, tightens before his mouth parts, like he’s about to speak. Instead, he lifts his hand, slow and careful, moving it toward my face like it belongs there. My breath catches, my whole body willing his hand closer, until I realize what he’s reaching for.

My mask.

I catch his wrist just in time.

“Don’t.”

Something breaks across his face, bare and unshielded. Need surges through me, and I lock it down hard. This is how the throne gets our names.

“I just want to see you,” he says, the hurt unhidden now.

“You can’t.”

Every part of me strains the wrong way as I step back, because people like me don’t get to be seen or known. I turn before I change my mind and run.

He doesn’t follow, doesn’t even call after me. I run long enough that the distance will hold.

I finally stop in the shadow of a narrow alley. I slow my breath and force the rush to drain until sharp focus settles back in.

I look down at the satchel. The rebellion doesn’t waste resources, so whatever this merchant had was worth the risk.

I open it and find documents, not coins or jewels. I slide one free, and my hands go still. Red wax, with the castle crest pressed deep into it.

Cold settles through me. My mask kept me hidden, but Ryewood’s face was bare. There’s no chance a merchant with ties to the castle didn’t recognize the prince standing in his alley.

Chapter 7

Finn

Iwipe the sweat from my brow as I track the ring. The yard is baked hard under the sun, with dust kicking up with every step. Summer presses in thick enough to slow reactions and dull edges.

I rub my thumb over the sprig of sea lavender in my pocket.

Something’s off, and it isn’t the heat.

Rye circles Hayes, breathing heavier than he should be. His footwork is clean, his timing close enough, but the whole thing reads wrong. He twists where he should parry, and he’s favoring his left.

“Push, Hayes,” Grier calls from the shade.

Hayes presses forward with no feints, no tricks, just straight lines. Rye gives ground, keeping his right arm tucked tighter than usual, with his elbow locked close to his ribs.

That’s not preference; it’s compensation.