25. Gemira
Gemira
The stairwell opens onto the princes’ level, and the castle changes.
The hallway is warm and quiet in a way that feels private, like I’ve stepped past a line I can’t pretend I didn’t see.
There are arched doorways set deep into the stone on either side, with tapestries lining the walls between them.
A guard steps out from one of the doorways and into my path.
I shouldn’t be here this early.
“Evening, Swordmaster,” he says, his eyes flick past me like he’s checking whether I came alone. “Access to the princes’ private suites has changed.”
My stomach drops. Access doesn’t change without a reason, and I already know we’re the reason.
I should go back down. Wait for Finn and walk in with everyone else, and make it look like I was mistaken by coming this early.
But my feet don’t move. Because I’ve spent weeks pretending the distance doesn’t matter, and I’m finally out of ways to convince myself.
“I won’t be long,” I say, and move to step past him.
He doesn’t answer, just moves with me, one step sideways, close enough that I have to stop. The message is clear; the corridor is closed.
A flicker of movement draws my eye past the guard’s shoulder. Ryewood stands at the far end of the corridor with an easy posture.
For a single moment, he looks at me the way he did under the willow tree.
His eyes sweep over my oversized cream sweater with my hair falling loose around my shoulders.
Then it’s gone, locked down like it never happened.
He doesn’t step closer, like he’s already decided how close he’s going to let himself get.
“She’s with me,” Ryewood says. The words land warm and reckless in my chest. Then I remember who’s standing between us.
The guard stiffens and clears his throat. “Your Highness.”
Ryewood holds the guard’s gaze with his expression flat.
“Yes,” he says mildly. “Is that a problem?”
The guard hesitates, then steps aside. “No, Your Highness.”
The corridor opens, and my pulse doesn’t settle.
I pass the guard without looking at him, but I feel his eyes on my back the whole way.
I’m not just the swordmaster anymore. I’m the one the prince waved through, and that will get reported.
I knew the risk when I came early, and I did it anyway, because after the way he looked at me today, like he’d already figured out how to let me go, I couldn’t let him.
Ryewood turns as I approach, like he’s going to walk to me, then stops himself. I hate how much that hurts.
The suite doors open into warmth, the kind that makes the world feel softer than it is.
A stone fireplace dominates the far wall with golden flames crackling.
Worn leather couches face the fire, and glass doors open onto a terrace overlooking the gardens.
The night beyond is sharp with winter. A green velvet card table sits next to the bar, and past it, a short hallway disappears into the princes’ rooms.
This is the kind of room that makes you forget you’re being watched. And I’m here because I couldn’t stand the thought of him keeping his distance without forcing him to feel it. I hate that I knew that before I climbed the stairs.
“Drink?” Ryewood asks, already moving toward the bar. Away from me.
“I have whiskey, wine, mead, or—”
“Whiskey,” I cut in. “Neat.”
He glances at me, quick and unreadable, and pours. When he hands it to me, I let my fingers deliberately brush his, an offering I can’t take back. His hand stays, and my pulse kicks up. Then he pulls back all at once, like he’s burned himself.
This was my line, and what I asked for. So why does every part of me ache for him to cross it?
He looks unfair tonight. The firelight warms his tan skin and turns those deep green eyes darker than usual.
He’s relaxed and unguarded, more himself here than he ever is in daylight.
His white shirt is open at the collar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His forearms are making it hard to think straight, with all those lean muscles and veins tracing down to his hands.
All I can think about is exactly where I want those hands to touch me.
A knock at the door breaks the moment. Hayes emerges from the back hallway and moves to answer it.
I turn away and take a long sip because breathing is easier when I’m not looking at him. The whiskey burns, but not as much as knowing he already learned how to let me go.
Rosie steps in first, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a green sweater. Hayes’s expression softens the moment he sees her.
Finn slips in behind her, and his eyes find mine across the space, and I read the question without him asking. I give him the barest nod.
Grier enters last and finds me and doesn’t look away. Doesn’t check himself or bank it down like something shameful. He just…looks. Like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing, and it makes my chest loosen.
The room fills with noise, Rosie hugging me, Finn cracking a joke about Hayes’s card skills, and Hayes pretending to be offended. The easy chaos of people who’ve learned to be friends in stolen moments.
We settle around the table.
Finn takes the dealer’s seat, shuffling with that easy confidence he uses like armor. Grier sits beside him with his arms crossed. Hayes pulls out a chair for Rosie. I take the seat next to Grier.
Ryewood takes the seat beside mine, but not close. There’s space where there didn’t used to be, deliberate and unmistakable. I feel it like a bruise.
“Terrath Hold’em,” Finn announces, dealing. “You know the rules. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”
The first hands pass in a blur of bets and banter.
Finn takes one with a bluff so obvious that Hayes groans. Rosie surprises everyone by winning the next few with that soft smile of hers. Grier watches more than he plays.
My glass is already half empty. I finish it, chasing the burn like it might drown out this feeling.
Ryewood refills it without asking. His fingers brush mine as he hands it back, but this time, he pulls away quicker. The message is clear. I can have the whiskey, not him.
A few hands later, the river lands in my favor, a full house. Time to make my move.
“All in,” I say, pushing my chips in and turning to Grier to see if he’s going to call.
“I can’t decide if you’re bluffing or you’re going to swindle me for my coin like always, Gemma,” he says, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth.
“Guess you’ll have to call to find out,” I say, giving him an innocent look.
He laughs, low and warm, the kind of laugh he doesn’t give easily.
“The only time I’ve ever beat you is when you’ve had far too many of these.” He taps my whiskey glass, fingers lingering near mine. “How many have you had tonight?”
“Far too many,” I say, letting my smile turn slow. “You should definitely call.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just watches me with that steady focus.
“Fold,” he finally says, leaning in closer, dropping his voice low. “I know better than to bet against you.”
I hold his gaze longer than I should, and I don’t hate the way it feels.
Next to me, I can feel Ryewood stiffen and see his hand grip tightly around his drink.
Finn folds with a dramatic sigh. Hayes follows, shaking his head. Rosie sets her cards down, like she’s watching something more interesting than the game.
Which leaves Ryewood.
“Well, Ryewood?” I say, letting the challenge hang. “Call or fold?”
I turn to face him fully.
Ryewood studies me, with his thumb running along the edge of his cards, eyes steady on mine like he’s reading something other than my hand.
“Oh, I’m calling,” he says, pushing his chips forward. “I want to see what you’re hiding.”
The words land somewhere they shouldn’t. My gaze drops to his mouth and lingers there long enough to be a confession. I force myself to pull back and find his eyes. They have gone dark, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with poker.
Under the table, his knee finds mine and slides along it, dragging heat with it. Relief floods so deep it almost aches. I hate myself for the way my body softens against him.
I flip my cards. Full house.
Finn swears, Hayes groans, and Rosie laughs like she’s heard something sweet. Ryewood leans back with a sound of defeat and an undeniable smile on his face.
“Devastating as always, Gemma.”
The way he says my name threads through the space between us with a charge.
The game continues, and so do the whiskeys. And Ryewood…Ryewood keeps finding ways to get closer without crossing lines. His knee presses firmer against mine, steady and all-consuming. His hand finds the back of my chair, not touching me, but close enough to feel.
“Your deal,” Finn says, sliding the deck toward Ryewood.
“So, Gemma,” Ryewood says casually, while shuffling.
His knee has settled against mine like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want to touch me.
“What else don’t I know about you?”
I smile without looking at him. “Are you trying to figure out my tells, Ryewood?”
“I’m trying to figure out everything, Gemma,” he says, like it fell out before he could catch it.
The fire crackles and no one speaks.
Then a chair scrapes back, and Grier stands. His face is carefully blank, but I see the tension in his jaw.
“I need a minute,” he says to no one in particular.
But before he turns, his eyes find mine, long enough for me to see everything he’s not saying. Long enough for the warning to land. I look away first. Because I know he’s right.
He turns and disappears down the back hallway, and the weight of his silence follows him out.
I caused that pain in him…again.
Finn watches him disappear, then pushes up with a dramatic sigh. “All right. Drink break, stretch, do whatever you need.” His grin turns stern when it lands on me. “Except you. I think you’ve had enough.”
He isn’t wrong. The room feels softer at the edges than it should.
The servant at the bar lifts a platter and lingers. Her eyes find Ryewood and me with a steadiness that only comes from instruction.
I feel the warmth drain out of the room. I stand too fast, and my chair scrapes.
“I need air,” I say, already moving.
The handles to the terrace doors bite with cold as I push through, the winter air hitting me sharp and hard, but not hard enough to clear my head. I inhale until my lungs burn.
Behind me, the room murmurs as Hayes and Rosie drift toward the fireplace, and Finn’s footsteps click down the hallway and disappear.
I grip the railing and stare out at the gardens below. Moonlight catches the frost on the hedges and turns everything silver.
The terrace door clicks open behind me. A moment later, a blanket drapes over my shoulders, soft and heavy, tucked there by hands that linger before pulling away. Then Ryewood settles beside me.
“I can give you space,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want you to be cold.”
He turns like he’s going to leave. A stupid, reckless panic surges before I can stop it.
“Don’t go.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
I could tell myself it’s strategy, that keeping him here is the whole point, that Finn and Grier need me to hold his attention while they search. But that’s not why my voice broke when I said it.
He leans back against the railing, facing me, arms crossed loosely, and I make the mistake of turning to look at him. His dark green eyes hold mine, moonlight sharpening the angles of his face, and he’s open in a way that’s dangerous.
“Gemma,” he says roughly, “if you keep looking at me like that, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”
Wanting surges through me so hard it makes me dizzy. But the servant flashes through my mind, and the night air tightens, like the castle followed me out here.
I look away after far too long.
“I wish things could be different,” I whisper, and the honesty hurts somewhere deep.
Ryewood steps behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. His chest is warm against my back, and his arms are tight, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I let myself sink into him until there’s no space left between us.
My fingers clench the blanket to keep from turning and doing something that can’t be unseen.
“I wish things could be different too,” he says into my hair. “I’d give up everything if it meant I could have this.”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly breaks me. I want to turn around and press my mouth to his and forget every reason I can’t. I want him in a way that terrifies me, but I can’t choose him without losing her. The distance between what I want and what I’m allowed to have is unbearable.
I let my head tip back against his chest. For one moment, I let myself pretend it’s just us, and there is a world in which this could last.
Then behind the glass, movement shifts. A figure crosses the room and pauses at the terrace doors. The same servant is there, watching the way Ryewood’s arms are around me.
Ryewood doesn’t see it. Or he does, and he refuses to look.
Either way, I feel the consequence. And still, I don’t move. I just let him hold me, silently breaking.