Page 52 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

The King nods. “And you, Ryewood?”

Ryewood doesn’t hesitate. “Gemma is the best instructor I’ve ever had. I’m more prepared now than I’ve ever been.”

“Well,” the King says dryly, “if I’d known a pretty commoner was all it took to motivate you, I’d have arranged this years ago.”

Ryewood doesn’t flinch. His shoulder stays angled toward mine, open and unapologetic, like a declaration he’s not bothering to hide.

My face burns.

Bastion’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk. “Motivation does tend to sharpen focus,” he says, letting the word hang. “Especially when it’s…personal.”

The King’s gaze returns to me, sharper now, and he draws a slow breath in through his nose.

Ryewood stiffens beside me, coiling like he’s readying to speak, but Grier cuts in smoothly.

“Lord Davrik,” Grier says, redirecting the conversation before it can fracture further. “Your children are some of the most talented fighters I’ve seen in years. They’re surely going to distinguish themselves in the upcoming trials.”

The scrutiny shifts away, and I release a careful breath.

Beside me, Ryewood slowly unclenches. I feel him turn his head toward me, but I keep my eyes on the conversation. After a moment, he faces forward again.

Then I feel it. The faintest whisper of Ryewood’s hand against my outer thigh. I should shift away, should pull back, but my body betrays me, drawn toward his touch.

At my unspoken acceptance, his hand slowly slides to the top of my thigh. My entire focus narrows to that point of contact, and the rest of the room fades. He waits a long moment, then his fingers splay fully across my leg.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I press my knee into his.

His thumb begins to make slow, soft circles against my thigh. Warmth moves through me in a wave I have to swallow.

I risk a glance at him. He’s facing forward with his expression composed, but his jaw flexes and his hand on the table is curled into a fist. He’s barely holding it together. Knowing that makes me want to unravel him completely.

Bastion’s mouth curves into a slow smile as his gaze moves between us, causing Grier’s attention to snap to Ryewood, like he’s tracking a threat.

Servants approach with our plates, and Ryewood’s hand withdraws. The absence is immediate, leaving only the imprint of his touch. But the air between us has shifted, charged and unmistakable. The rest of the dinner passes in a blur.

When the King rises, signaling the end of the meal, I’m grateful.

“Let us retire to the terrace,” he announces.

Chairs scrape back, and the group moves out onto the terrace.

Ryewood turns toward me⁠—

“Ryewood,” the King cuts in. “Join me. Lord Davrik has questions about your training.” He pauses, then adds, “Alone.”

Ryewood hesitates, and I watch him swallow whatever was coming before turning away, leaving the weight of everything unsaid.

And just like that, I’m alone. The space around me suddenly feels too open and undefined. I find Grier’s gaze, and his chin dips toward the garden steps.

I don’t hesitate and slip down. The gardens are dark and quiet, moonlight washing the paths silver. Stone gives way to gravel, and the sounds of the terrace finally fade. The weeping willow rises ahead, its long branches drooping down toward the pond. I sink onto the stone bench beneath its canopy, pressing my palms into the cold stone. I stay long enough that the ground feels solid again, and the night settles.

“If you wanted to be alone with me, you could have just asked,” Ryewood says softly as he steps beneath the branches.

I jolt upright.

His jacket is gone with his sleeves rolled up, and his hair loosened by restless hands. The prince from dinner is stripped away. This version of him is undone and dangerous.

“I just needed air,” I say.