Page 59 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

Her breathing evens out faster than I expected, like she has nothing left to fight for, the exhaustion of the night pulling her under. Her body goes slack against mine, her grip on my arm loosening as sleep takes her.

I don’t move. I just lie there in the dark, holding the woman I love while my heart shatters into pieces so small I’ll never find them all.

I press my lips to her forehead and breathe her in, committing this moment to memory, even though it hurts, even though it’s killing me.

I’ll keep you safe. Even if you hate me for it, even if he does too, even if it destroys me.

Chapter 19

Ryewood

Icouldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her under the willow tree, in my arms, saying my name like it mattered.

And then the way she ran from me.

I went to her room later, after I paced in my chambers, trying to convince myself to let it go, but I couldn’t. I had to know if it meant as much to her as it did to me.

She wasn’t there, and I knew, without wanting to, exactly who she’d gone with. It carved something out of me, and I’ve been walking the grounds ever since.

The castle is quiet in the way that it only gets in the hour before dawn. Cold has settled into the stone. I’ve been out here long enough to stop feeling it, my breath fogging faintly in front of me.

I round the corner near the eastern wall, and my feet stop.

Gemma is sitting on a stone bench, where the training yards meet the castle grounds, alone and still, staring at the stone wall like it holds the answers to questions I don’t know to ask.

My heart slams against my ribs. I shouldn’t go to her, not after last night, not after she disappeared. But I’ve never been able to walk away from her.

She doesn’t hear me approach, or if she does, she doesn’t react.

Something’s wrong. She’s hollow, like someone reached inside her and scraped out what usually burns brightest.

“You’re up early,” I say, stopping a few feet away.

She turns, and my chest tightens. Her eyes are red-rimmed and empty.

“Rye.” My name sounds wrong in her mouth, like it costs her something just to say it.

Rye, she’s never called me that. It’s always Ryewood, said with that teasing lilt and sharpness, like she’s reminding me exactly who I am, the spare, the prince. Something is deeply wrong.

“What happened?” I ask, searching her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, looking away. “Just tired.”

I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch, but she doesn’t move toward me.

“I came to your room last night.” I keep my voice quiet. “You weren’t there.”

She pauses and then, “I needed to clear my head,” she says

Jealousy flares hot and sharp, but it dies just as fast. Looking at her now, it doesn’t matter. Whatever happened broke something in her.

“Gemma.” I lean closer. “Talk to me.”

She shakes her head.

“I’m fine, Rye.”

There it is again. Rye, not Ryewood. All of this is wrong.