23. Gemira
Gemira
I’ve had the rotations mapped for weeks. The guards swap out at the bell with two minutes where they overlap, then the corridor is clear. I’ve watched it from three angles, timed my breath to their footsteps, and learned which one lingers for a beat longer at the corner. Tonight should be clean.
The corridor outside the King’s suites lies empty, exactly as it should be.
I move to the door and examine the lock.
It’s ancient, with iron worn smooth from centuries of use and magic threaded through the frame like veins beneath skin.
I catalog the tumbler depth and the reinforcement seams. It’s not impossible, but it’s the kind of lock that wants patience more than force.
I slip the pick from my sleeve and ease it into the keyway. The tension wrench catches, then skids. Metal slips from my fingers, and the sound is barely more than a whisper as it hits the stone. But in a corridor like this, whispers matter.
I freeze. There are footsteps coming too early to be the changeover. Someone heard me.
“Don’t move.” The voice comes from behind me.
Slowly, I straighten and force myself still. Panic only invites questions.
“I took the wrong staircase,” I say quietly, avoiding sounding defensive. I start to turn, but before I can, a hand closes firmly around my arm, not rough but unmistakably final.
He turns me to face him, and I take in the King’s Guard uniform. Two pale puncture scars mark the side of his throat just above his collar.
Surprise flashes across his face like he knows me. Tides, should I know him? Does she?
He pulls me back from the door and steers me toward the stairs. I go with him and let my shoulders slump, making myself easier to dismiss. I need distance from the King’s suites before I make a stand.
We reach the base of the stairs and pause.
I risk a glance up at him, but his attention isn’t on me; it’s on the corridor.
He’s watching reflections in the stone, listening and anticipating.
His head tilts to one side, like he’s hearing something the corridor hasn’t given me yet.
Then footsteps approach, and his grip tightens in warning.
He pulls me into the narrow recess beside the stairwell, pressing me flat against the stone and tucking himself in beside me.
We disappear into the shadows. Pressed this close, I see what I missed before.
Smaller scars sit between the punctures, the kind of shape only teeth could have made, animal teeth.
The footsteps reach us before I’ve steadied my breathing.
The guards pass close enough that I smell oil and leather, one of them laughs while the other complains about the cold.
My heart hammers, frantic and caged, like it’s trying to tear free.
I stop breathing entirely. The moment stretches beyond what I think I can hold. Then they’re gone.
He doesn’t let go, just guides me forward, through the library past rows of darkened shelves, down the back stairs spiraling into the atrium. The throne room opens around us, moonlight cutting silver through the unnatural trees lining the marble floor.
He looks at me with a hint of amusement. “Garden or dungeon?”
I search his face for the trap, but all I find is an ease that makes no sense given what just happened.
“Garden,” I breathe.
We step out of the atrium and into the gardens, and the cold night air floods my lungs. A bird startles from the hedge above, wings slicing the quiet as it takes flight.
He finally turns to face me, but my attention snags behind him. A figure steps out of the shadows at the far archway, not rushing or calling out, but still closing in.
“You’re Gemma,” he says, like he already knows the answer.
I nod, still trying to read him. “Who are you?”
“Someone who owes Finn his life.”
Warmth spreads through me, loosening the dread coiled low in my stomach.
“I’m Tommin,” he adds.
He has a glint of amusement in his pale green eyes. His calmness, after the panic, catches me off guard. My hands unclench at my sides, and I really take him in for the first time. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with tousled brown hair lightened by the sun.
Tommin’s head tilts in that same way, a beat before footsteps crunch against the gravel behind the hedges.
He drops my arm and steps back, arranging himself into a casual posture, like the last few minutes never happened.
A moment later, Rye rounds the hedge, and his attention flicks between us, sharp and assessing.
“What’s going on?” he asks, like he already knows something’s wrong and is deciding how hard to push.
Tommin answers before I can. “She was just getting some air,” he says lightly. “I got it handled.”
Tommin’s answer barely lands before Rye’s eyes find mine again.
“You all right?” he asks, like that’s the only question that actually matters to him.
His eyes search mine the same way they did last time. A small frown starts to form. He’s looking at me too closely, like he can tell. Tides, can he tell? Heat climbs hot under my ribs.
“Fine,” I manage before he can read anymore.
For a beat, no one moves. Rye’s eyebrows pull together, like he’s making sure he believes me. Then voices drift closer from the barracks, and his face shifts. He exhales, like he’s forcing himself not to hesitate.
“Get her back inside,” he says to Tommin. His attention shifts back to me as he adds, softer, “I’ll walk the perimeter and pull their attention.”
Tommin gives him a nod, and a wordless understanding passes between them. Then Rye steps aside and moves toward the barracks.
“Go that way,” Tommin murmurs, nodding behind me. “Walk easy like it’s any other night and don’t look back.”
“Thank you.”
The words aren’t enough. I hold his gaze and hope he feels just how much I mean them. I turn, settle into the dark, and keep walking.
My hands are still shaking when the alcove behind the kitchens comes into view. Finn’s already there, pacing and tearing a bread roll to pieces between his fingers.
“Took you long enough,” he says, worry bleeding through his words.
“You owe Tommin,” I say, aiming for casual but missing by a mile.
“What happened?” His hands close over my shoulders before the words are fully out, his eyes moving over me, searching for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine. Tommin got me out before anyone else saw me.”
Finn’s eyes continue to rake over me anyway, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“Where were you?”
“Outside the King’s suites.”
His jaw flexes, and I can see the panic warring in his eyes.
“Lara says the kitchens are still sending food upstairs, quiet deliveries with no record. That only happens if he’s hiding something.”
He runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing again. I let him.
“We’re running out of time,” I add. “Every day we wait, we risk getting exposed—”
He’s quiet for a moment, then, “What about the princes’ suites?”
“Why would she be there?” The question comes out sharper than I mean it to.
“It’s the only other place we haven’t ruled out,” he says. “And it’s less risky. We should check there first, and if she’s not there, then we figure out the King’s suite.”
The argument rises hot and ready, but the look in his eyes knocks the wind out of it. He’s not trying to control this. He’s trying to protect us, the way he always has.
“Fine,” I say, breath leaving me in a rush. “So how do we get into their rooms without tipping off every guard in the wing?”
Finn goes quiet for a moment, and then his mouth curves the way it does when he’s unmistakably pleased with himself. “A party.”
I stare at him, letting my disbelief show. “A party.”
“Drinks, cards, something loud and ridiculous.” He shrugs. “While everyone’s distracted, we slip away and search.”
“And how do you plan on convincing the princes to throw one?”
His smirk deepens. “Please. Those two would do anything if the right people batted their eyelashes at them.”
I snort. He’s not wrong.
“Grier and I will search while the princes are distracted,” he says.
“We’ll need them to think it was their idea,” I say.
Finn waves a hand at me dismissively. “Easy. Leave it to me.”
“Humble as ever,” I say with a giggle.
He grins, and his face softens the way it used to look before we had to learn how to disappear. He reaches over and ruffles my hair, ruining it on purpose, the way he’s done since we were kids.
“We’ll find her, Gem,” he says softly. “I promise.”
I want to believe him, but the knot in my chest doesn’t loosen. Finn pulls me into him, and I bury my face in his shoulder, letting his scent of driftwood wash over me. He wraps around me completely, the way he has my whole life, like if he holds on tight enough, nothing can reach me.