6. Gemira
Gemira
“Why, hello, little fox.”
I spin with a knife in my hand in an instant.
“Ryewood, we need to stop meeting like this.”
I feel the smile in my voice, and warmth blooms, settling behind my ribs.
“And yet here we are,” he says, amusement threading through his words. “You make a habit of scaling buildings in the middle of the night?”
“Only the ones worth climbing,” I say as I take him in. “Once again, Ryewood, out in attire unbefitting your station. Even the spare deserves better than these rags.”
“It’s nothing worth talking about.” His tone is casual, but his eyes say otherwise. “Are you finally going to show me that face of yours, little fox?”
My mouth curves beneath the covering. “Oh, Ryewood. We’ve already established we can’t have you running to Daddy about my nighttime work, now can we?”
“Running to Daddy,” he says with a quiet scoff. “Trust me, that’s not a concern.”
There it is again, something heavy beneath the words.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” The promise slips out before I weigh the cost of keeping it.
Surprise flickers across his face. “I didn’t realize I was the one with a secret to keep.”
“The look in your eyes says otherwise,” I say, stepping closer, but I don’t let myself cross the last bit of space.
He goes still at my advance, and his reaction lands deeper than it should.
“What really has you out here, Ryewood?”
His eyes hold mine long enough to make me feel bare. Like the truth sits on the tip of his tongue, then it’s gone with that practiced charm sliding back into place. “You know, for someone who won’t show me her face or tell me her name, you ask a lot of questions.”
The answer lands wrong.
“Yeah.” My voice scrapes out. “I guess I do.”
I turn away, and the effort it takes surprises me, but every moment here sharpens the wrong kind of attention. We’re too visible, and he’s too well-known. I should have left the moment he recognized me.
“Wait.”
His hand closes around my arm. His scent of cedar and moss washes over me. We both freeze—and he lets go immediately.
“Don’t go.”
The charm is gone now, and something unguarded looks back at me. “How can I see you again?”
Warmth surges through me, and for a beat, I forget why that’s a mistake. But being seen with him isn’t just reckless; it’s fatal.
“You seem to have a way of finding me. Until next time, Ryewood.”
I force myself to turn away.
“That’s not good enough,” he says, his voice rough.
My steps falter, and I’m turning back before I can stop myself.
A door bursts open behind him, and we both spin toward it.
“Thief—get back here!”
Fuck, the merchant.
Ryewood’s eyes snap to mine and stay there a beat too long, allowing the merchant to close fast at his back. Ryewood turns just in time, blade coming up to meet the strike.
“Run,” Ryewood calls over his shoulder.
I’m already moving, with blades in hand.
“Wait, don’t—” His voice spikes as he catches my movement in his periphery. “Stop!”
His attention snaps to me just long enough for the merchant’s blade to slash across Ryewood’s fighting arm.
I’m on the merchant before he can press his advantage. He has reach, his sword three times the length of my daggers, but reach only matters if I give him space.
I deflect the blade, the impact rattling up my arm, and close in before he can reset. He tries to bring the sword around, but I’m already inside his guard, where length turns clumsy. He realizes it too late and swings anyway, trying to use the sword like a club.
I duck under it, my blade catching his wrist. He flinches, grip loosening, and I drive my shoulder into his chest, ride the momentum, and hook my foot behind his ankle.
He hits the stones hard, and his sword skitters away. He tries to rise, but I bring the pommel down at the base of his skull, and he’s knocked out cold.
I straighten, my breath coming fast, and turn.
Ryewood is staring at me, rooted in place, blood running down his arm and dripping from his fingers to the stones. His sword hangs slack in his grip.
Something sharp and cold pulls tight in my chest. This is my fault; I never should have stayed. I close the distance and take his arm in my hands.
“Let me see.”
He doesn’t pull away, his attention fixed on me. I drag my focus back to the wound. “We need to—”
“You just took down a man twice your size with two daggers against a sword.” Awe cracks through his voice. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
I don’t answer. My fingers work carefully, pushing his sleeve back.
The cut is clean but deep, blood still flowing dark against his skin.
I tear a strip from my tunic and wrap it tight around his arm.
He hisses but barely moves. I feel his eyes on me the whole time, and heat gathers in my chest under his stare.
I look up and find those deep green eyes already on me, his brown hair loose from the fight.
His jaw, rough with stubble, tightens before his mouth parts, like he’s about to speak.
Instead, he lifts his hand, slow and careful, moving it toward my face like it belongs there.
My breath catches, my whole body willing his hand closer, until I realize what he’s reaching for.
My mask.
I catch his wrist just in time.
“Don’t.”
Something breaks across his face, bare and unshielded. Need surges through me, and I lock it down hard. This is how the throne gets our names.
“I just want to see you,” he says, the hurt unhidden now.
“You can’t.”
Every part of me strains the wrong way as I step back, because people like me don’t get to be seen or known. I turn before I change my mind and run.
He doesn’t follow, doesn’t even call after me. I run long enough that the distance will hold.
I finally stop in the shadow of a narrow alley. I slow my breath and force the rush to drain until sharp focus settles back in.
I look down at the satchel. The rebellion doesn’t waste resources, so whatever this merchant had was worth the risk.
I open it and find documents, not coins or jewels. I slide one free, and my hands go still. Red wax, with the castle crest pressed deep into it.
Cold settles through me. My mask kept me hidden, but Ryewood’s face was bare. There’s no chance a merchant with ties to the castle didn’t recognize the prince standing in his alley.