Page 31 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

Ryewood steps forward, hand extended. “Ryewood.”

“Ryewood?” Finn says incredulously. “When the fuck do you go by Ryewood?”

“When the occasion calls for it,” he says, with his eyes locked on mine, and the implication lands like a blade between my ribs.

I take his hand. His grip lingers, and he lets the moment stretch.

“Grier, Commander of the Guard.”

Grier steps beside us and offers his hand. I pull free, but not fast enough to pretend it didn’t affect me. His expression gives nothing away, like we’ve never met in shadowed rooms.

“Gemma,” I say, taking his hand.

His grip tightens briefly, a quiet signal that steadies me.

“Finn’s spoken highly of your skills,” Grier says evenly. “We’re glad to have you.”

Ryewood watches the exchange with unsettling focus.

“Gemma,” he says again, his smile widening like he intends to use my name as often as possible. “Finn tells us you’re exceptional with a blade.”

“I hold my own.”

“She’s being modest,” Finn says, an edge slipping into his voice. “She’s one of the best fighters I know.”

“I think I need to see for myself,” Ryewood says, like he’s been looking for a reason to get closer. “Care to demonstrate?”

There it is, the challenge I knew was coming.

“Gladly.”

Ryewood moves toward the ring with a confident stride, rolling his shoulders loose with his sword already in hand. Sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, and for half a heartbeat, the thought slips in that this is a mistake.

I step forward into the circle. He moves into a ready stance, and everything else falls away. I adjust my grip. The sword is heavier than I’m used to, but the weight feels good and solid.

“Ready when you are, Gemma,” Ryewood says, with that easy confidence rolling off him.

I come at him, testing his reflexes. He blocks easily, too easily, and I feel him holding back, measuring me and studying my movements.

We can’t have that.

I feint left and strike right. He parries, but I’m already inside his guard before he can reset. I press harder, forcing him to react instead of think.

The clash of our steel rings across the yard. I feel drills slow along the perimeter, and eyes pulling toward us.

I drive harder, forcing him backward and breaking his rhythm. Each strike flows into the next. He’s good, better than I expected, but he hesitates when I come in at odd angles. He adjusts like someone trained against patterns, so I don’t give him one.

Our blades lock, and suddenly we’re too close. His eyes are deep green, earthen like the forest itself, and focused entirely on me.

“You’re quick,” he says with appreciation threading through his voice.

“You’re predictable.”

I twist free, using his momentum, and tap his ribs.

“Point,” Finn calls out.

Ryewood grins with his eyes dancing. “Lucky.”