Page 56 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

Her eyes lift. For a beat, she just looks at me, like she’s really taking me in. Not through me or past me, but at me, like something has shifted in the way she sees me.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

The word lands in my chest like a crack of light, splitting open want and hope I’ve spent years trying to bury.

“Okay,” I echo, voice rough.

Her hand finds mine across the table, and I curl her fingers into mine like that will keep her from vanishing.

I guide her down the familiar streets toward my place, stealing glances at her while hope spikes dangerously. I try not to get ahead of myself, but it’s hard not to. Hard not to let myself imagine what this could mean, what it could become. All those nights I’ve had her in my bed, I’ve never let myself believe it was anything more than what she offered, a release, a distraction, two bodies in the dark and nothing else. But tonight feels different.

My flat comes into view, and I pull out my key with my free hand, not willing to let go of her with the other. The door sticks, like it always does. I shoulder it open and step aside to let her in first.

She moves past me, and I catch her familiar floral scent beneath the smoke from the tavern and the lingering smell of my jacket on her shoulders. I breathe it in and commit it to memory.

I light a candle on the table by the door. The flame catches, throwing soft golden light across the room. My place isn’t much, with a bed against one wall, a small table with two chairs, a trunk where I keep my things, and a bathing room through the door in the corner. It’s simple. I spend most nights in the guards’ quarters at the castle, but this place is just mine.

She stands in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself. She looks almost vulnerable, and so different from the sharp-edged woman who commands every room she walks into.

I want to go to her, pull her into me, kiss her, and brand her mine. Instead, I move to the trunk and pull out a clean shirt.

“You’ll be more comfortable in this,” I say, holding it out to her.

She doesn’t turn away, just holds my gaze as her hands move to my jacket and slides it off her shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thud.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Her fingers reach for the laces at the back of her dress, but she can’t quite reach them. She turns, giving me her back, and looks at me over her shoulder, the request clear.

My feet carry me to her, and I stop just behind her, close enough that I can feel her without touching her. I’ve undressed her before, but never like this, never this slow, never with her standing so still and trusting. The only sound is our breathing and the soft whisper of silk as I work each lace free, taking my time, savoring every inch.

She holds her dress from falling and turns back around to face me. Her eyes find mine and hold them, and then she pushes the silk down slowly, letting it slide over her hips, down her thighs, until it pools at her feet, and she’s left only in her underwear.

My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. She’s standing there, not hiding, not putting up any of those walls she usually keeps between us. She’s letting me see her, all of her.

“Gemma.” Her name comes out reverent.

She closes the distance between us, her hands finding my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. She looks up at me with those beautiful eyes, the request clear.

I couldn’t deny her if I wanted.

I wrap my hands around her face and pull her mouth to mine. She tastes like whiskey and her. Her lips part for me, soft and willing, and I lose myself in her. I’ve imagined it a thousand times but never let myself believe I could have her like this.

Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt, impatient and hungry. I help her, shrugging it off, and when her palms press flat against my bare chest, I shudder.

“Grier.” She breathes my name against my lips.

I’ve heard her say my name before, in the dark, in the heat of it, but never like this. Never like it matters.

My hands slide down her sides, memorizing every curve, every dip. I want to remember this, all of it, the way she arches into my touch, the way her breath hitches when my fingers brush the small of her back.

I kiss her slow and deep, taking my time. But she’s already pulling at me, fingers tugging at my belt, hips pressing forward, trying to rush.

I smile against her mouth and let my hand drift lower, over her hip, and between her thighs. I drag my knuckles across her center slowly, feeling the damp heat of her through the thin fabric.

“Grier—” she says like a plea.

I stroke her lazily through her underwear.