Page 81 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

The implication lands, and my pulse pounds in my ears.

“Very well,” he finally says. “I’ll trust your judgment, Ryewood.”

The way he says it makes it clear he doesn’t trust my judgment at all.

“I’ll talk to the stables about preparing the horses,” Hayes says with his voice deliberately easy, like he’s been waiting for the right moment to break the tension.

“Hayes, you won’t be attending,” Father says dismissively.

Hayes’s step falters. “Father, I’d like to represent the crown. If it’s a tethering ceremony, I should attend⁠—”

“It’s far too dangerous for you to attend with the unrest,” Father says, almost bored.

Too dangerous for Hayes. But not for me. The familiar ache settles into my chest. I should be used to it by now, the knowledge that my father values Hayes more than me. I’m the spare. The expendable one. The son who can be sent into danger because losing me wouldn’t cost the crown anything.

I look at my brother and watch the disappointment ripple across his face before he smooths it away. He wanted to go, wanted to be useful, and Father just told him in front of everyone that he needs protecting.

I know we’re both hurting, just in different ways.

Chapter 27

Ryewood

By evening, I’m still wound too tight to stay inside. I need air, space, anything to quiet the noise in my head.

I walk the castle grounds as the sun sinks low, casting shadows long across the frost-covered grounds. The air bites at my face, but I welcome it, anything to calm this restless unease. But my mind keeps circling back to that moment in the courtyard, when my father’s cold, calculating attention fell on Gemma.

The weight of what I did has settled into my chest like a stone. I lied to my father for her, and he knows it. If her cover falls apart, if whatever she’s hiding comes to light, I’ve tied my word to hers against whatever truth is waiting to surface.

I should regret it, but I don’t, not even a little.

Movement near the southern gate catches my eye.

Two cloaked figures are about to slip through the archway. Not sneaking exactly, just careful.

My steps slow. I recognize her before my mind catches up. The shape of her, the way she carries herself. Gemma with Finn behind her, positioned like a shield.

But the closer I get, the more something nags at me. The way she moves is off. It’s too careful, too contained with her shoulders held too still. It looks like her, but it doesn’t quite feel like her.

They’re almost through the gate when a guard’s voice cuts across the courtyard.

“Hold there.”

A bird startles in the branches overhead; its wingbeats are replaced by the guard’s footsteps on the gravel.

Gemma stiffens. Finn’s shoulders lock, and without seeming to think about it, he shifts half a step, putting himself between her and the guard.

My legs carry me forward before the decision even lands.

The guard steps into their path, young enough to still care about doing things by the book.

“Evening,” he says, lantern raised. “Western gate’s closed after dark. Anyone leaving needs to clear the eastern checkpoint.”

Finn’s jaw flexes, and I know what he’s doing. Running the math on how much force is acceptable.

“Problem?” I ask mildly, stepping in before either of them answers.

The guard turns sharply. “Your Highness, these two were⁠—”