Page 88 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“Remember that time you fell in the river during training?” I offer.

Grier presses his lips together, but there’s a flicker of amusement underneath. “I didn’t fall. I was pushed.”

“By who?” Rosie questions, eyebrow raised.

“You.” He looks at me, grinning.

Rosie leans forward, delighted. “He pushed you into a river?”

“In full armor,” Grier says flatly. But he’s close to cracking, so I keep going. “It was a team-building exercise,” I defend, hand over my heart.

“I nearly drowned.”

“But you didn’t. See? Team building.”

Grier snorts. Rosie bursts out laughing, and I catch myself staring a beat too long.

“You’re an idiot,” Grier mutters, but he’s smiling now.

Rosie’s eyes find mine behind Grier’s head. She’s proudly grinning, like we just pulled off a heist together. I wink at her. She bites her lip to keep from smiling wider.

Grier, mercifully oblivious, stares at the road ahead.

Unease settles in my gut, quiet but insistent. I stop listening to the sound of Rosie’s laughter and start listening to everything else. A weight settles between my shoulders, not fear, not exactly, but with awareness.

The road behind us settles into a rhythm that doesn’t belong to chance. I ease my horse back half a length, just enough to listen. Hooves, not close and not loud, but steady, matching our pace. I glance back casually, like I’m stretching the stiffness from my neck. I don’t look long enough to catch faces. I don’t need to.

I drift closer to Grier and keep my voice low. “We’ve got a tail.”

He doesn’t look back, just tightens his grip on the reins.

Rosie sobers instantly.

“How long?” she asks.

“At least since we left town,” I say. “Could be longer.”

Grier scans ahead. There’s a fork in the road coming up, and he angles us away from the clean and open road and instead toward the narrower track slipping into the trees. The path is worse, narrow and rutted, the kind of road no one takes accidentally.

After a mile, the rhythm of the hoofbeats is gone. Maybe we lost them, or maybe they’re just patient.

Eventually, the trees thin out and the road widens back out. There’s no sign of anyone behind us, but the unease is still there.

“We need to talk about tonight,” Grier says, voice low enough that it won’t carry. “The contacts in Foxhollow are expecting us.”

Right, the rebels, I’d almost let myself forget we’re not just on a pleasure ride.

“What’s the plan?” Rosie asks, matching his quiet tone.

“We’re meeting with them after sundown to hear what’s really happening up here with the unrest and give them updates on our end.” Grier glances back toward Rye. “Obviously, we can’t bring him.”

“We need a cover story,” Rosie says. “If we dangle Gemma, Rye’ll bite at anything we tell him.”

Grier’s jaw clenches. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t want to put her in danger.”

I keep my mouth shut because the only danger Gemma faces tonight is falling further for a lovesick prince, and Grier already knows that, whether he admits it or not.

Rosie continues. “What if we say there’s a tradesmen’s gathering? Workers complaining about the crown. Rye would understand why he can’t come.”