17. Gemira
Gemira
The ballroom barely resembles itself. A long table draped in deep emerald cloth dominates the space, stretching nearly the length of the room. Candles cast warm light over the polished silver. The southern wall is all glass doors leading to the terrace overlooking the gardens below.
I adjust the neckline of the forest-green dress Grier sent. It’s pretty enough to be allowed in the room, but plain enough to show I know my place.
The King sits at the head of the table, and I feel the weight of his gaze the moment it lands on me. I’ve spent weeks avoiding his focus, and now I’m directly in his line of sight. Everything about this is too much, too formal, too visible.
To the King’s right sit Lord Davrik, Bastion, and Beaumont, with Grier at the far end. To his left sit Hayes, Belinda, and Ryewood, with an empty chair beside him. My chair.
I move toward the table. Ryewood stands as I approach, and Hayes and Grier follow. The Davriks rise a beat later, clearly caught off guard.
“Evening, Gemma,” Hayes says with a warm nod.
I manage a small smile and slide into my seat. The chair feels too upright, as if designed to keep me visible.
Ryewood settles beside me, and the space between us shrinks until it’s almost unbearable.
He’s in a white shirt, with his jacket sitting perfectly across his shoulders, and his brown hair is swept back in a way that makes his jaw look sharper.
Those deep green eyes catch the candlelight, and I have to look away before I forget where I am.
I still feel the weight of Ryewood’s gaze, intent and unwavering, like it’s fixed there whether I acknowledge it or not.
His arm rests on the table close enough that a shift would brush my skin. The awareness of it hums through me, distracting and dangerous. I pull away and smooth the napkin in my lap, coaxing my hands to steady.
Then Ryewood leans closer, and his scent of cedar and moss reaches me before I’m ready for it.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else could hear.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly. Heat flashes through me, the words land harder than they should. I don’t meet his eyes or give anyone a reason to notice.
Across the table, Grier’s posture shifts, and even though his eyes are elsewhere, I can feel him tracking the space between me and Ryewood. The King clears his throat, and the conversation dies.
“Lord Davrik,” he says mildly, “I trust your trip to the northern villages was productive?”
“Very much so, Your Majesty. Though I’m eager to hear about my children’s training.”
His gaze flicks to me, brief and assessing. I don’t react or shift.
“I understand your sons have been training with a…commoner instructor,” Lord Davrik says. His words are delicate, but the intent is not.
“Indeed,” the King says. “Commander Grier speaks very highly of her methods.” A pause. “Gemira, isn’t it?”
Every face turns to me.
“Tell us, what makes your methods effective?” Lord Davrik asks.
“Adaptability,” I say. “The trials don’t reward perfection. They reward those who can think under pressure and adjust when circumstances change.”
“And you believe traditional training fails at this?” Davrik asks with a thin smile.
“We’ve seen clear improvements,” Hayes says, intervening.
The King nods. “And you, Ryewood?”
Ryewood doesn’t hesitate. “Gemma is the best instructor I’ve ever had. I’m more prepared now than I’ve ever been.”
“Well,” the King says dryly, “if I’d known a pretty commoner was all it took to motivate you, I’d have arranged this years ago.”
Ryewood doesn’t flinch. His shoulder stays angled toward mine, open and unapologetic, like a declaration he’s not bothering to hide.
My face burns.
Bastion’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk. “Motivation does tend to sharpen focus,” he says, letting the word hang. “Especially when it’s…personal.”
The King’s gaze returns to me, sharper now, and he draws a slow breath in through his nose.
Ryewood stiffens beside me, coiling like he’s readying to speak, but Grier cuts in smoothly.
“Lord Davrik,” Grier says, redirecting the conversation before it can fracture further. “Your children are some of the most talented fighters I’ve seen in years. They’re surely going to distinguish themselves in the upcoming trials.”
The scrutiny shifts away, and I release a careful breath.
Beside me, Ryewood slowly unclenches. I feel him turn his head toward me, but I keep my eyes on the conversation. After a moment, he faces forward again.
Then I feel it. The faintest whisper of Ryewood’s hand against my outer thigh. I should shift away, should pull back, but my body betrays me, drawn toward his touch.
At my unspoken acceptance, his hand slowly slides to the top of my thigh. My entire focus narrows to that point of contact, and the rest of the room fades. He waits a long moment, then his fingers splay fully across my leg.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I press my knee into his.
His thumb begins to make slow, soft circles against my thigh. Warmth moves through me in a wave I have to swallow.
I risk a glance at him. He’s facing forward with his expression composed, but his jaw flexes and his hand on the table is curled into a fist. He’s barely holding it together. Knowing that makes me want to unravel him completely.
Bastion’s mouth curves into a slow smile as his gaze moves between us, causing Grier’s attention to snap to Ryewood, like he’s tracking a threat.
Servants approach with our plates, and Ryewood’s hand withdraws. The absence is immediate, leaving only the imprint of his touch. But the air between us has shifted, charged and unmistakable. The rest of the dinner passes in a blur.
When the King rises, signaling the end of the meal, I’m grateful.
“Let us retire to the terrace,” he announces.
Chairs scrape back, and the group moves out onto the terrace.
Ryewood turns toward me—
“Ryewood,” the King cuts in. “Join me. Lord Davrik has questions about your training.” He pauses, then adds, “Alone.”
Ryewood hesitates, and I watch him swallow whatever was coming before turning away, leaving the weight of everything unsaid.
And just like that, I’m alone. The space around me suddenly feels too open and undefined. I find Grier’s gaze, and his chin dips toward the garden steps.
I don’t hesitate and slip down. The gardens are dark and quiet, moonlight washing the paths silver.
Stone gives way to gravel, and the sounds of the terrace finally fade.
The weeping willow rises ahead, its long branches drooping down toward the pond.
I sink onto the stone bench beneath its canopy, pressing my palms into the cold stone.
I stay long enough that the ground feels solid again, and the night settles.
“If you wanted to be alone with me, you could have just asked,” Ryewood says softly as he steps beneath the branches.
I jolt upright.
His jacket is gone with his sleeves rolled up, and his hair loosened by restless hands. The prince from dinner is stripped away. This version of him is undone and dangerous.
“I just needed air,” I say.
“And you just happen to find the most hidden place in the gardens.”
I take in our surroundings all at once, the way the willow branches curtain us in, hiding us from the world. My pulse spikes.
“I should get back,” I say, standing.
He stiffens.
“Gemma—” Something raw crosses his face. “You can’t tell me that didn’t affect you. Because I’m barely holding myself together.”
His hands find my arms, light and hesitant, in a way that feels like asking.
I don’t look up at him. My heart is pounding, and I feel my resolve fraying with every moment I stay.
“Ryewood, I can’t,” I say, my voice cracking. Fuck.
His fingers lift my chin up gently, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Can’t what?” Those deep green eyes look at me with such openness and hope, as his thumb brushes along my jaw. “Tell me what you’re so afraid of.”
The words won’t come. What I’m afraid of isn’t something I can tell him.
He can never know about her. It’s too big, and it costs too much.
I bite it back and just stand there, caught in his gaze with every wall I’ve built crumbling.
I want him so badly it terrifies me. I want to close this distance and forget every reason I can’t.
He leans in slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. His lips hover a breath away from mine.
“Ryewood,” I whisper, and I try to tell myself it’s an objection, but deep down I know it’s permission.
He knows it, too. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, pulling me to his lips. He kisses me so softly, like he’s been holding this back for too long, and the restraint hurts.
The last of my resolve shatters. I melt into him, and my hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, as my lips part for him. Warmth floods through me.
The moment I let him in, his control breaks, and he kisses me deeper, hunger flooding through. My knees nearly buckle, and I grip him harder. His arm wraps around my waist, drawing me flush against him, like he’s been starving. Like he’s telling me something he doesn’t know how to put into words.
The world narrows until there’s nothing but this. Nothing but him.
He tastes like red wine, and beneath it, something warm and grounding, like the earth itself is claiming me.
My fingers curl tighter into his hair, and a quiet sound slips from me, barely there, but it undoes him. A low sound rumbles from his chest, and his grip tightens. His kiss deepens, like he’s making a promise he has no intention of breaking, and I let myself drown in him.
Time blurs and loses meaning, becoming soft and unimportant.
When he finally pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant, like he can’t quite bring himself to stop. His hand cradles my head with his arm wrapped around my waist, holding me like I’m something precious.
“Gemma,” he breathes.
“Ryewood.”
Our foreheads meet. We stay there, wrapped in each other, suspended in the quiet.
“Rye.” Grier’s voice cuts through the night like a blade.
Ryewood stiffens. Grier is standing at the edge of the canopy, coiled tight.
“Your father wants you.” His voice is controlled, but I can hear what’s underneath it.
Ryewood doesn’t move. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”
“He was insistent.”
“I think you’re overstepping, Commander,” Ryewood says, and the air goes taut between them.
Grier doesn’t answer; he just takes a single step forward. That’s enough. They’re squared off now, two men with years of loyalty pulled tight to the breaking point. Because of me, because I couldn’t stop myself.
I can’t be here for this. I can’t watch this.
I slip quietly through the curtain of branches while their focus is locked on each other. The night air hits my flushed skin, and I don’t look back.
I don’t stop running until I’m in my room with the door closed behind me.
I slide down against it, pressing my forehead to my knees, and try to breathe.
But my heart won’t slow down. I touch my fingers to my lips.
I can still feel him there, the softness of his kiss.
I can still feel the way his hands pulled me closer like letting go wasn’t an option, like I was his.
I can’t unfeel this, and I don’t want to, that’s what scares me the most.
Somewhere along the way, he stopped being harmless, stopped being something I could weather without breaking, and I didn’t just let him in, I pulled him closer.
The worst part isn’t that I kissed him. It’s that I would do it again. Right now, without hesitation, I would walk back out there and find him and ruin everything. That’s who I’ve become. Someone willing to burn it all down for the way he says my name.
The realization settles into my chest like a stone, heavy and permanent.
The King’s look comes back to me, like he’d already decided my fate. I’ve let Ryewood in, and now I have to tear him out, because it’s too dangerous.
No more being alone with him. No more letting myself forget what he is and what I am…if it’s not already too late.
If I see him again, it will be at a distance, in daylight.
I know that having him puts everyone I love at risk. I have to walk away, even though it costs me him.
The tears come before I can stop them. For Mom, for the months of searching and coming up empty, for every dead end and locked door. Her warmth settles around me, and I stop trying to hold myself together.
My tears fall harder, for him, for wanting something I can’t allow.
I don’t hear him approach—only the careful quiet knock, like he already knows what he’s walking into.
“It’s me,” Grier says. “Let me in.”
I get to my feet, waiting until the room is settled and there’s nothing left to hide before I open the door.
He takes me in and doesn’t ask questions. He just pulls me into his arms and holds me together. My weight settles against him, sinking into the familiar steadiness of his chest.
“You need to get out of the castle,” he says finally. “Just for a night.”