14. Gemira
Gemira
The morning air is crisp as I walk toward the training yard with Rosie at my side. She’s dressed in practical training clothes.
“Nervous?” I ask.
“A little,” she admits. “I learned from my father, not in a training yard. It got me through the trials, but this…” She gestures at the organized setup. “This is different.”
“You must miss them,” I say.
Rosie looks at me, with warmth in her expression. “I do. But having you and Finn around has made it a lot easier lately.”
“You’re going to kick their asses,” I say, giving her a nudge. “You’ll see.”
She smiles, relief flickering across her face. I give her hand a quick squeeze.
We round the corner into the yard, and I see them, Hayes, Ryewood, and Grier. Finn isn’t here, which means the wall is covered.
“Morning boys,” I say smugly, bolstered with Rosie at my side. “Today you’ll have another woman around to kick your asses. Rosie will be joining us!”
Rosie blushes.
Hayes straightens immediately, with his attention locked on her. “Rosie, glad to have you,” he says, with a smile breaking through.
Grier nods in acknowledgment. “Good to have another skilled fighter in the group.”
Ryewood barely glances at her, his attention on me instead, and there’s a question in it he doesn’t ask.
“We’re working on dagger combat today,” I continue, pushing past the strange hitch in the air. “Close-range weapon work.”
Hayes moves toward Rosie immediately. “I’ll partner with you, if that’s all right.”
We watch them square off. Hayes steps in with a softness to him, he’s pulling his strikes before they land, leaving gaps he wouldn’t leave with anyone else.
I expect Rosie to hesitate, but she doesn’t. She mirrors him for half a breath, then shifts and breaks rhythm entirely, slipping inside his guard and twisting her wrist.
His dagger hits the dirt with a sharp, unmistakable clatter. The sound carries, and conversation around the yard falters as a few heads turn.
Hayes blinks down at his empty hand, then looks up at Rosie. A slow smile curves across his mouth, brief and unguarded, before he reins it back in.
“Well,” Hayes says lightly, retrieving the dagger, “Gemma was definitely right.”
A flush creeps up Rosie’s cheeks, but she’s smiling.
So that’s how she survived the trials. Pride flickers through me, quick and unbidden.
I turn to Grier and Ryewood.
“Grier,” I say, “why don’t you partner with Ryewood.”
He nods, and they take their positions across from each other, and immediately I feel the tension, sharp and unresolved.
“Begin with defensive exchanges,” I call. “Slow speed. Focus on form.”
They don’t.
Ryewood strikes first, fast and aggressive. Grier blocks and counters hard. The clang of daggers rings sharply across the yard.
“I said slow speed,” I call out, firmer.
They ignore me.
Ryewood presses in with a combination, high, low, feint. Grier absorbs it, then drives forward with his superior size, forcing Ryewood back several steps.
Ryewood’s jaw is clenched, and Grier’s face is stone. They reset and attack again, harder this time.
Fuck. They’re actually trying to hurt each other.
“Stop.” I step between them, planting a hand on each of their chests. “What the fuck was that—”
“Well, well.” Bastion’s voice carries easily.
I turn to see the Davriks approaching, Bastion in the lead with Beaumont and Belinda flanking him, all dressed for training.
Bastion’s gaze flicks from Ryewood to Grier, then back to me, lingering this time.
“Careful. The King dislikes distractions,” Beaumont says with a smile, slow and pleased.
Silence stretches, and I feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m the center of something I didn’t mean to create.
Belinda’s eyes land on Hayes, then flick to Rosie. Her smile sharpens. “Lady Rosie. I hadn’t heard you’d been training.” She tilts her head. “I imagine it’s quite different, training with royalty, than what you were used to before.”
Hayes stills.
Rosie’s hand slides onto his arm, gentle and deliberate. “It’s all right,” she says softly.
Then she turns to Belinda, and sweetly says, “You have more experience, Lady Belinda. Perhaps you’d like to partner with Hayes?”
Rosie doesn’t look back at Hayes when she steps away. She moves toward Ryewood and Grier, placing herself neatly between them.
“Rye,” she says lightly, “would you like to partner with me?”
His expression softens just a fraction, and he nods.
I catch Rosie’s eye and give the smallest nod. She answers with one of her own. She’s cleaning up after me, and we both know it.
Belinda steps into position with Hayes, perfect form with absolutely no instinct. Hayes meets it with practiced politeness and distance.
“Excellent,” I say, reclaiming the yard. “Bastion and Beaumont pair up together. Grier, you’ll observe with me.”
Grier takes up his position beside me as the pairs start to fight.
Ryewood is gentle with Rosie, almost sweet and without a trace of condescension, but she could still hold her own against most of the guards here.
“This is getting out of hand,” Grier says under his breath. “He’s drawing eyes.”
I keep my eyes forward. He’s right. I feel the yard pressing in.
“I got it handled,” I say quietly.
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, this is turning into something we can’t contain.”
I don’t answer.
“That kind of attention doesn’t stay private,” he says.
I glance back at the pairs training. Ryewood is still working with Rosie, his blade moves on instinct alone, but his attention is entirely on us.
He doesn’t even bother to hide it. His jaw is tight, and anyone looking could see where his attention truly is.
Beneath the anger, there’s something raw, that looks a lot like hurt.
The space between me and Grier feels suddenly too small.
“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.”
“The moment I got close to you yesterday.” His words come out sharp, almost pained. “He didn’t like that, did he? And this morning, whatever he said to you, it was about me.”
I don’t answer.
We’re moving faster now, closer, until we’re practically on top of each other.
“It’s nothing,” I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
“No?” He catches my wrist mid-strike. “Then why does it feel like there’s something going on?”
I catch his wrist in return. We’re locked together, both breathing hard, with our faces inches apart.
Those deep green eyes bear into mine, and something hot and unwanted coils low in my core. Why does he have to be so fucking handsome.
“Stop pushing,” I say, my voice low.
“You’ve been pushing me away since the moment we met.” His eyes search mine. “Tell me you don’t feel this. Tell me I’m imagining it.”
I don’t say anything. The answer is lodged in my throat, because the truth is I’ve thought about this, about him, more than I’ll ever admit.
And right now, with him this close and his fingers still locked around my wrist, I don’t trust myself to speak.
Because what comes out won’t be a denial.
It’ll be something desperate and honest, and I’ll never recover from it.
“That’s what I thought,” he says softly, like my silence was all the answer he needed.
“You have to stop, Ryewood.”
His eyes burn. “I can’t. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
My grip tightens before I realize I’m still holding him. His pulse hammers beneath my fingers. Or maybe that’s mine.
“Ryewood, I—”
“Gemma, don’t.” His voice breaks.
He pulls back, releasing my wrist, putting space between us like it hurts to breathe the same air.
“I need water,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
Then he’s gone.
It takes me a moment too long to remember where I am.
I feel the shift before I turn. Guards have repositioned themselves for a better view, the Davriks are pretending not to watch, and conversations have gone flat around us.
Fuck.
Finn’s gaze finds mine from across the yard, concern warring with warning.
This wasn’t private and it wasn’t subtle, and everyone saw it.