Page 68 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

A knock on the door pulls our attention.

“Enter.”

Voss steps in. “Your Majesty. Your evening appointment awaits.”

Father’s eyes flick toward the door that leads to his private suites. His expression shifts, his usual cruelty replaced with a rawness. Like control isn’t enough, like he needs reassurance that what he’s bound there is still his.

“We’re done here, Hayesland.”

I leave, left wondering who waits behind the door no one else is allowed to open.

I walk without choosing a direction. The anger doesn’t burn out; it swells, too large and too heavy to hold. The ballroom is empty with moonlight spilling across the floor, pale and unforgiving. The silence should help, but it doesn’t. My father’s voice follows me.

A king simply chooses who suffers least.

I push through the terrace doors, and cold air bites my skin, but I don’t stop walking. The gardens are frost-covered and still with roses blooming. His magic, everywhere. Nothing escapes his control, not the land, not me, not our people. I brace my hands against a stone archway and breathe, but the pounding doesn’t ease. Soon, Rye will be awakened, and we can take him on then.

“You’re going to freeze, Hayes.”

I turn and find Gemma a few steps away, half in shadow. Her gaze drops to my sleeves.

“I left in a hurry.”

“Clearly,” she says. “I’d offer you mine, but I don’t think it would get past one of your arms.”

Despite everything, I almost smile.

She studies me. Whatever she sees makes her nod, like she’s settled something for herself.

“Come with me,” she says, already walking.

I follow, and she leads me to the kitchens. They’re quiet at this hour, with the low glow of embers in the main hearth lighting the room. She opens the icebox in the corner and makes a small, satisfied sound under her breath.

She lifts out a tray covered with cloth and sets it on the counter, peeling it back to reveal a neat row of unbaked pastries, edges crimped into careful little half-moons.

She looks far too pleased with herself.

“Apple turnovers,” she says. “The baker preps them for the morning rush, but she won’t miss a few.”

The conspiratorial look she gives me pulls a smile from my face despite myself.

She opens the oven door, checks the heat of the banked coals, adds a few pieces of wood, then adjusts something I can’t see.

“You’ve done this before,” I say.

“Once or twice,” she confesses with a hint of a smirk. “A girl’s got to eat.”

A comfortable silence settles in.

“I’ve never had a turnover before,” I confess.

The shock on her face is so genuine.

“How?”

“I eat what’s served, and they’ve never served me those before.”

She stares. “For tides’ sake. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” She shakes her head. “Well, it’s going to be your new favorite food.”