Page 51 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“It’s okay,” I say more softly. “Just…stick to talking about Rye’s training. Draw as little attention to yourself as possible.” I pause. “We’ll get through this.”

The worry doesn’t leave her face, and without thinking, I pull her into a hug. I hold her longer than I should, hating myself for how much I need this. She softens into me, and I let myself pretend that means what I need it to mean. This is a mistake I shouldn’t keep making.

“You’ll be fine,” I say, stepping back.

She nods, and I turn toward the door before I can do something stupid, like pull her back in.

Chapter 17

Gemira

The ballroom barely resembles itself. A long table draped in deep emerald cloth dominates the space, stretching nearly the length of the room. Candles cast warm light over the polished silver. The southern wall is all glass doors leading to the terrace overlooking the gardens below.

I adjust the neckline of the forest-green dress Grier sent. It’s pretty enough to be allowed in the room, but plain enough to show I know my place.

The King sits at the head of the table, and I feel the weight of his gaze the moment it lands on me. I’ve spent weeks avoiding his focus, and now I’m directly in his line of sight. Everything about this is too much, too formal, too visible.

To the King’s right sit Lord Davrik, Bastion, and Beaumont, with Grier at the far end. To his left sit Hayes, Belinda, and Ryewood, with an empty chair beside him. My chair.

I move toward the table. Ryewood stands as I approach, and Hayes and Grier follow. The Davriks rise a beat later, clearly caught off guard.

“Evening, Gemma,” Hayes says with a warm nod.

I manage a small smile and slide into my seat. The chair feels too upright, as if designed to keep me visible.

Ryewood settles beside me, and the space between us shrinks until it’s almost unbearable. He’s in a white shirt, with his jacket sitting perfectly across his shoulders, and his brown hair is swept back in a way that makes his jaw look sharper. Those deep green eyes catch the candlelight, and I have to look away before I forget where I am.

I still feel the weight of Ryewood’s gaze, intent and unwavering, like it’s fixed there whether I acknowledge it or not.

His arm rests on the table close enough that a shift would brush my skin. The awareness of it hums through me, distracting and dangerous. I pull away and smooth the napkin in my lap, coaxing my hands to steady.

Then Ryewood leans closer, and his scent of cedar and moss reaches me before I’m ready for it.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else could hear.

“Thank you,” I reply quietly. Heat flashes through me, the words land harder than they should. I don’t meet his eyes or give anyone a reason to notice.

Across the table, Grier’s posture shifts, and even though his eyes are elsewhere, I can feel him tracking the space between me and Ryewood. The King clears his throat, and the conversation dies.

“Lord Davrik,” he says mildly, “I trust your trip to the northern villages was productive?”

“Very much so, Your Majesty. Though I’m eager to hear about my children’s training.”

His gaze flicks to me, brief and assessing. I don’t react or shift.

“I understand your sons have been training with a…commoner instructor,” Lord Davrik says. His words are delicate, but the intent is not.

“Indeed,” the King says. “Commander Grier speaks very highly of her methods.” A pause. “Gemira, isn’t it?”

Every face turns to me.

“Tell us, what makes your methods effective?” Lord Davrik asks.

“Adaptability,” I say. “The trials don’t reward perfection. They reward those who can think under pressure and adjust when circumstances change.”

“And you believe traditional training fails at this?” Davrik asks with a thin smile.

“We’ve seen clear improvements,” Hayes says, intervening.