Page 45 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“You should go swap out with Finn,” I say, keeping my voice low. “He’s been on watch long enough. Don’t want to raise suspicion.”

Grier gives me a look. “Don’t do this Gemma.”

“Grier. Go,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I intended.

“We’re not done talking about this,” Grier says, already turning to walk away.

Concern and relief collide in my chest, leaving something unsettled behind. I school my face and try to let the yard resume its rhythm.

Finn jogs up the training yard hill, slightly out of breath. “What the fuck did you do to Grier? It’s like someone took a shit in his morning oats.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh.

“The Davriks showed up, I see,” Finn says

“Unfortunately,” I say, turning to him, but he’s already approaching Ryewood and Rosie, smoothly stealing Rosie for himself and taking Ryewood’s dagger with a grin. Ryewood pats him on the back, clearly enjoying his company, then his expression shifts. He looks to me, uncertain for a long moment, before walking toward me.

His expression is still guarded, but now we’re finally alone, or as alone as we can be in a training yard full of eyes.

I pick up the practice daggers and toss him one. He catches it without looking. We take our positions. The space between us feels charged and heavy with everything unspoken.

“Attack when ready,” I say.

He moves, clean and technically perfect. I block, redirect, and counter.

We go through the sequence like strangers, like none of the weeks before this happened.

After the fourth exchange, he finally speaks.

“You and Grier seemed close this morning,” he says, his tone is casual, but there’s an edge underneath it. “Looked like a pretty serious conversation for a training session.”

“You know Grier,” I say, deflecting. “He takes everything seriously.”

“I do know Grier,” Ryewood says with his eyes locked on mine. “And he never loses his cool like that, not in all the time I’ve known him.”

“Well, you know him better than I do,” I say carefully, trying to deflect.

“Do I?” he says, his voice dropping. “Because lately, I’m not so sure.”

We continue the drill, but it’s different now, more charged, each strike harder, each block more forceful.

“What do you want me to say, Ryewood?” I ask between exchanges.

“The truth would be nice,” he says, parrying my strike.

He counters hard, holding my gaze, daring me not to look away. I try to break his stare, but I’m tethered there, held by something I can’t name.

“Ryewood, there’s nothing to say,” I say trying to put an end to this.

“Oh, no?” he says with a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Then why is he always watching you? Why are you two always whispering? Why he did he lose his composure the moment I⁠—”

He stops himself and strikes again, faster.

“The moment you what?” I press.

“Nothing.”

“Ryewood.”