44. Gemira
Gemira
The trials are less than a month away.
Ryewood is sparring with Grier on the beach.
He’s stripped down to just his trousers, with all that golden skin on display.
Sweat glistens across the hard planes of his chest, as the ridges of his abdomen flex with every strike.
His hair is wild from the salt air, and that perfect stubbled jaw is set with concentration.
He looks like something carved from my deepest fantasy.
I’ve never wanted anyone like this, and the bastard knows it. I can tell by the way his deep green eyes flick to me between movements, with that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches me staring.
He’s incredible now, faster, deadlier, and recklessly mine.
But the trials don’t care how good you are. People die in there, good fighters, trained fighters, people who did everything right and still don’t come back out. And the ones who do come out are never the same. Whatever happens in those woods, it doesn’t let you leave whole.
Hayes spars with Finn nearby, my big brother, entering too. The two men I care about most in this world are walking into those woods, and I can’t go with them. The thought makes my stomach twist.
Training on the beach was Finn’s idea. Percival’s been lurking around the training yards more and more lately, asking questions that sound casual but aren’t.
Ever since he cornered Rosie about Foxhollow, Finn’s been on edge, jumpy and protective in a way that’s going to get us all caught if he’s not careful.
So, we came down here. The King’s magic carved stairs into the cliff centuries ago, but hardly anyone uses them.
It’s too cold for swimming and too remote for court games.
The fog wall sits just off the shore, thick and impenetrable, and you’d think it would block everything, but the salt-tinged ocean breeze still cuts through.
It’s perfect for us, or so I tell myself.
Though sound carries strangely along these cliffs.
Laughter, steel, voices, all of it traveling farther than it should.
“All right, what’s going on in that head of yours?” Rosie settles onto the sand beside me, bumping my shoulder. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re pretending you’re fine, but you’re actually spiraling.” She tilts her head. “The trials?”
“Aren’t you worried?” I turn to her.
She’s quiet for a moment, then her eyes drift to Finn. “Constantly.”
We sit in silence, watching the people we love prepare for something that might kill them.
“They’ll be fine,” Rosie says finally, pulling my hand into hers. “They’re the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”
“Best doesn’t always keep you alive in there,” I say, turning to face her.
“No.” She sighs. “It doesn’t.”
Hayes jogs over, breath misting in the cold air with a smirk playing at his face. “Grier’s trying to bury Rye in the sand. Should we intervene?”
I look over to find Grier with Ryewood in a headlock, laughing in a way I almost never hear from him. Ryewood is trying to throw him off while Finn heckles them both. Despite everything, I smile at the idiots. My idiots.
A messenger appears at the top of the cliff stairs, and we all tense.
“Prince Hayesland! The King has requested your presence immediately.”
Hayes’s expression hardens. “Of course he does.”
He and Grier start toward the steps while Rosie gathers her things. Finn waits for her, and I don’t miss the way his hand brushes the back of her arm as she passes.
“Coming?” Finn calls over his shoulder.
“I need to stretch first.” I roll my shoulders. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Ryewood reaches for his shirt, and I let myself drink in one last look at all that golden skin, the sheen still clinging to his chest, and the trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband—
I look up and find he’s already watching me with that knowing, infuriating smirk on his face.
He pulls his shirt over his head and stops, letting the fabric bunch at his chest. Then he drags it down slowly, over his pecs and every ridge of his abdomen.
I bite my lower lip, but I refuse to look away.
His shirt finally falls into place, and the look on his face says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is savoring it far too much. It makes my thighs press together.
Fuck, I want this man.
“You coming, Rye?” Grier says flatly.
“I’ll wait for Gemma,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “And help her stretch.”
The wink he sends me says stretching is not what he has in mind.
Grier’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue. He just turns and follows the others up the stone stairs.
And then it’s just us. The beach goes quiet in a way that prickles my skin.
It’s empty but still exposed. I glance toward the stairs…
I should go back, but I don’t. Instead, I move to the cliff wall and press my palms against the cool stone.
I bend forward, stretching my hamstrings deliberately low, and I feel his eyes burn into me the whole time.
“You’re staring, Ryewood.” I throw the words over my shoulder like a challenge.
“You’re making it impossible not to, little fox.” There’s heat in his voice that makes my core tighten.
I arch my back further and roll my hips, taking my time.
“Just stretching,” I say sweetly, but we both know the game I’m playing.
“That’s not stretching.” I feel his voice closer now. “That’s fucking torture.”
I glance over my shoulder, and he’s right behind me. His eyes are dark, and his jaw is tight.
“Still just watching?”
His hand cups my ass, firm and claiming.
I straighten slowly and turn to face him. He’s close, so close that the heat radiating off him cuts through the February chill. I reach for him and trail my fingers down his chest, heading toward his waistband—
He moves before I can get there. One hand catches my wrist, the other grips my hip, and he walks me backward until the cold stone of the cliff presses against my back.
He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, holding me in place like it’s nothing.
His other hand is still on my hip, thumb circling with a patience that borders on cruelty.
“I don’t think so, little fox.” His lips brush my ear.
“I’d like to see you try.” He repeats my own words back to me, dark and promising.
“Did you think I’d forget?” His thigh presses harder between my legs.
“I’m going to ruin you so slowly. Push you until you’re shaking, until you’re crying out my name.
And I won’t let you come until begging is the only thing you remember how to do. ”
My breath catches, and my heart slams against my ribs. I should take control, should prove I’m not so easily handled, but his words have lit a fire inside me.
“So make me beg, Ryewood,” I say, daring him, but my voice comes out wanting, giving me away.
His thigh presses firmer between my legs, and I can’t stop the whimper that escapes. He smiles against my ear. “Let’s see how long you last.”
His hand slides from my hip and traces along my waistband, back and forth, back and forth, but never dips below. It’s sweet, agonizing torture. Every inch of me aches for him. And he knows it; I can see it in the dark satisfaction in his eyes.
His hand moves lower, over my leathers, cupping me through the fabric.
His palm presses against my clit, and I nearly gasp with relief.
But it’s not nearly enough, just a taste of what he’s withholding.
I try to grind against his palm, desperate for friction, for anything.
But he pulls back just enough to deny me.
“So eager.” He tsks against my ear, and the brush of his lips sends a shiver through me. “I can feel how much you want me, and I haven’t even touched that pretty little cunt yet.”
A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it. His filthy words are breaking me faster than his hands. I’m in so much trouble.
His fingers dip beneath my waistband again and lowers, brushing bare skin that’s screaming for more, then retreat back over the leather, pressing, rubbing, and building something that goes nowhere. I bite back a sob.
He keeps going, over the leather, under the waistband, each pass lower than the last, close enough that I’m sure this is it. But every time, he pulls away without giving me what I need, and I’m falling apart.
He tips my chin up and brings his mouth so close to mine I can taste him on my next breath. Cedar, moss, and want wash over me. I lean in to close the distance, but he pulls back, just enough to deny me. I can’t take it anymore. The ache has turned to pain.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is like gravel, like holding back is costing him everything. But there’s steel beneath it. The voice of a man who knows he has me completely at his mercy.
My resistance shatters. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you,” he says, infuriatingly calm. His palm presses against me through the leather, making my hips roll into him. “Be specific.”
I bite my lip, refusing to give in. But the need is clawing at me now. Every slow circle of his palm is a reminder of what he’s withholding and what I have to beg for if I want it.
He laughs low and dark. “So stubborn.” His thumb traces along the seam of my leathers harder, right over where I’m aching. “You need me, little fox. I can feel how much you want me.”
The need is consuming me whole, burning through every defense I have. I can’t do this anymore; I can’t hold out.
“Rye, please—” The words scrape out of my throat.
“That’s better.” Dark satisfaction drips from every word. “Please, what?”
His fingers move to the top of my pants and loosen the ties of my leathers. His hand dips down until he stops right above my clit. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
My hips chase his hand, doing the begging I refuse to do out loud. He doesn’t let me have it. He just holds his hand there, hovering, while I come undone beneath him.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My thoughts have collapsed into nothing but want.