12. Ryewood
Ryewood
The autumn air has a bite to it this morning, though I barely register the cold.
Gemma is demonstrating a disarming technique for the third time, which is a good thing because I’m barely listening. I’m too consumed by the way she moves, confident and completely in control.
It’s been nearly two weeks. Long enough that I should’ve stopped expecting her to disappear, but not long enough that I can stop staring.
Rosie is settled near the edge of the circle, leaning back against one of the trees. Hayes keeps glancing that way like he can’t help it.
Stones, I know the feeling.
Gemma’s facing Finn, using him as her demonstration partner, again. Each time, I’m struck by how synchronized they are.
“All right,” Gemma says, stepping back. “Pair up. We’re drilling this until it’s instinct.”
Hayes moves toward Grier. Which leaves me with Finn. Not happening.
“Actually,” I say, moving toward Gemma. “I’d like to work with you.”
Gemma’s eyes meet mine, and every fucking time it’s the same, like I’m tethered, pulled tight and held. Rich amber at the center bleeding into violet, giving way to teal, edged in green so dark it nearly swallows the rest whole. How eyes like hers are even possible, I’ll never know.
“Finn can help you,” she says.
“I’d rather train with the best. Trials and all,” I say.
“Flattery won’t make you any better at disarming, Ryewood.” Her lips quirk up, and I feel it everywhere.
There she is.
“Who said I was trying to flatter you? I’m just stating facts,” I say with a grin.
“Right.” She crosses her arms with that adorable smirk.
I step close enough to catch her scent, wildflowers on a sea breeze with smoke threaded underneath.
“You don’t have to hold back,” I murmur, circling her into the ring. “I like it when you make me work for it.”
“Okay, Ryewood. Let’s see if you’re ready to train with me, hmm?”
Stones, the challenge in her voice does something to me.
She gestures for me to take position. “Attack when you’re ready.”
I adjust my grip on the knife, watching her stance. She looks relaxed, bored almost, but I know better.
I feign left, then strike right, but she’s already there, catching my wrist mid-motion and twisting. The knife drops from my hand before I can even process what happened.
Her wiping the floor with me shouldn’t feel this good.
“See, this is why I need more training from you.” I move past her to pick up my knife and graze her arm as I go by.
“You’re not focused.”
“Trust me, Gemma, you’re about all I’m focused on.”
She shifts toward me without seeming to realize it.
“You’re not focused on my center of gravity. You need to watch my hips…that’s where the movement starts.”
I feel myself grinning, “Oh, if that’s all I need to focus on, I don’t think we’ll have any more problems.”
“Is that why you’re so distracted, Ryewood,” she says, taking a step closer.
I move and wrap my hands around her hips from behind. “They do consume a lot of my attention.”
She turns, and I feel her breath against my neck, and every part of me leans toward her.
“If you don’t let go,” she says softly, “I’ll put you on the ground in front of everyone.”
“Promise?” I say, tightening my grip. She fits perfectly against me, so warm and dangerous. This close, I can feel her heart pounding as fast as mine.
She moves—and the world tilts.
I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs, and she’s on top of me before I’ve taken my next breath. Her knees pin my arms, one hand pressing my chest down, the other holding the knife to my throat.
“If this is what I get for not listening.” I grin, breathless. “You’re not exactly discouraging me, little fox.”
Her smirk sharpens. “Oh, you want motivation?” She presses the knife harder against my throat, leaning down closer. Her eyes drop to my mouth, just for a moment.
“If you keep looking at me like that, motivation won’t be the only problem.”
Her breath catches, and her weight shifts on top of me, just barely, lingering where it doesn’t need to. It takes everything I have not to pull her down and close the gap.
Her eyes continue to hold mine, with the knife still at my throat, but her grip has loosened like the point matters less than it did a moment ago. Her gaze flicks to the sword and then back to me. Neither of us moves.
“Gemma!” Grier’s voice cuts across the yard, sharp and commanding. “A word?”
Gemma blinks, like she’s just remembered where we are and that we have an audience. She pushes off me in one fluid motion, standing and walking toward Grier. I lean up on my forearm, watching those hips as she goes.
Finn approaches, looking down at me. “You good to actually train now?”
I glance up at him, expecting amusement, but there’s something else, more like a warning.
He pulls me up, but my attention drifts across the yard, to Gemma and Grier. He’s standing close to her. Not inappropriately, but closer than I like, and the way he’s looking at her makes heat rise in me. Grier says something to her I can’t hear, then turns to address all of us.
“All right, change of plans. I’m taking over for a bit. Gemma and I will demonstrate the next technique, a full speed disarm with counter.”
Of course he is.
They move to the center of the training circle. This is Grier, the Commander. When he demonstrates, you pay attention. He hands Gemma a knife and takes his position across from her.
“The key is reading your opponent’s commitment. Once they’re locked in, you have your opening.”
Gemma attacks. Fast.
Grier moves, catching her wrist, redirecting her momentum. But she counters before he can complete the disarm, twisting out of his grip and resetting.
They go again.
This time, when Gemma strikes, Grier steps in close, catching her wrist and trapping her arm against his chest while his other hand controls her weapon hand. The knife drops.
But he doesn’t let go. He’s holding her there, pressed against him, as he addresses us.
“If your opponent is more skilled than you, you have to use the advantages you have. In this case, size and strength.” He adjusts his grip to demonstrate.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. Get. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off. Her.
The rational side of me knows this is a demonstration. That Grier is the Commander. That this is literally his job. The rest of me wants to cross that yard and break his grip myself.
Grier continues, “Once you’ve controlled both the weapon hand and their center of mass, even a better fighter can’t counter. See how her movement is completely restricted?”
Gemma isn’t fighting the hold. She isn’t tense. If anything, she’s…relaxed. Like she’s been there before.
“I think we get it,” I say, my voice coming out harder than intended.
The yard stills. Too many eyes lift at once.
Grier’s eyebrows pull together, and for half a heartbeat, I consider pretending I meant something else. A joke, anything that could be folded back into normal.
But it’s too late.
Grier releases Gemma. His hand lingers at her wrist a fraction longer than necessary before he steps away, already reclaiming the space.
My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, and I feel Finn tense beside me.
“That’s enough for today,” Grier says.
The words land flat and final. A ripple moves through the yard because we never end this early.
“Weapons away, and everyone out,” Grier says with no further explanation.
Then, quieter. “Gemma, come with me.”
I stand there, watching her walk away, and the space I thought I had with her feels like it just narrowed.
Like someone drew a line I didn’t see until I’d already stepped over it.
And the worst part is, I know I’m on borrowed time.
I can’t miss her while she’s still here.
I won’t push again, but I have to find ways to be around her before she’s gone.