Page 77 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“Gemma,” he says roughly, “if you keep looking at me like that, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

Wanting surges through me so hard it makes me dizzy. But the servant flashes through my mind, and the night air tightens, like the castle followed me out here.

I look away after far too long.

“I wish things could be different,” I whisper, and the honesty hurts somewhere deep.

Ryewood steps behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. His chest is warm against my back, and his arms are tight, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. I let myself sink into him until there’s no space left between us. My fingers clench the blanket to keep from turning and doing something that can’t be unseen.

“I wish things could be different too,” he says into my hair. “I’d give up everything if it meant I could have this.”

The vulnerability in his voice nearly breaks me. I want to turn around and press my mouth to his and forget every reason I can’t. I want him in a way that terrifies me, but I can’t choose him without losing her. The distance between what I want and what I’m allowed to have is unbearable.

I let my head tip back against his chest. For one moment, I let myself pretend it’s just us, and there is a world in which this could last.

Then behind the glass, movement shifts. A figure crosses the room and pauses at the terrace doors. The same servant is there, watching the way Ryewood’s arms are around me.

Ryewood doesn’t see it. Or he does, and he refuses to look.

Either way, I feel the consequence. And still, I don’t move. I just let him hold me, silently breaking.

Chapter 26

Ryewood

Every day I tell myself the same thing. Stay away from her. Don’t look too long, don’t stand too close, don’t give my father a single reason to notice her more than he already has. It’s the only way to keep her safe, and every day, I fail.

Not in big ways, not yet, but in small ones, ones that add up. The way my feet carry me toward her before I’ve decided to move. The way I can’t stop myself from making her laugh. I’m terrified of what it’s going to cost her.

Grier figured it out. He keeps his distance like it’s a discipline, like loving her and letting her go are the same act of will. Even now, he’s across the clearing, standing apart from the group with his arms crossed and jaw set, controlled in a way that I know costs him. He doesn’t look at Gemma. Not once. He’s stronger than I am, and I hate myself for it.

“All right,” Gemma calls out, clapping her hands. “Line up. Standard distance first, then we’ll push it back.”

She’s bundled against the cold in a thick-knit sweater, fitted pants, and a scarf wound around her neck. Her cheeks are already flushed pink from the chill. There’s no need for leathers today for archery, and she’s just…her.

She looks like I could take her for a walk through a winter market, buy her something warm to drink while making her laugh. It’s distracting in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

We spread out across the grounds, the frost-tipped grass crunching underfoot, and face the targets set against the thick oaks at the tree line. The winter sun is pale and cold overhead.

I grab a bow and test the draw. Beside me, Hayes is already nocking an arrow. His focus is sharp, just not on the target. Two spots down, Rosie is adjusting her grip, and Hayes keeps glancing over like he can’t help himself.

Hayes releases an arrow and hits the outer ring of the target, then immediately turns back to Rosie. She’s drawing her bow, lips pressed in concentration, completely unaware she’s wrecking my brother’s focus. Or maybe completely aware. It’s hard to tell with Rosie.

Rosie’s arrow hits dead center. She doesn’t even look at Hayes, but there’s a small smile playing at her lips.

“Show off,” he mutters, smiling.

She shrugs, nocking another arrow. “Maybe you need more practice, Your Highness.”

He raises an eyebrow. As she releases her next arrow, the ground under her shifts with a gentle ripple, making her arrow fly wide.

Rosie turns to Hayes. “You didn’t,” she says, half-laughing, half-offended.

“It’s strategy,” Hayes says, clearly enjoying himself.

A vine curls up from the frost-covered grass, wrapping around Hayes’s ankle, making him stumble, but he catches himself.

“Rosie—”