28. Ryewood
Ryewood
Dawn breaks pale and cold over the castle walls, and I’ve never been more grateful to leave.
The horses stamp and snort in the courtyard, their breath fogging in the early light.
Then I see her. After watching her slip through the western gate last night, I wasn’t sure she’d be here. Whatever felt missing then is back now, easing the tightness in my chest.
She’s dressed warmer than I’ve ever seen her. She’s in a thick cream sweater falling over her riding pants, a fur-lined coat hanging open with a scarf draped loosely around her neck, not yet wrapped against the cold.
She looks softer than she ever has, and all I can think about is grabbing that scarf, pulling her close, and kissing her until neither of us can breathe.
When she glances up and catches me watching, warmth flickers in her expression.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Ready?” Finn calls out.
Gemma swings into her saddle with the easy grace of someone who’s spent half her life on horseback. “Been ready. You’re the one taking forever.”
“I’m thorough,” Finn shoots back.
“You’re slow.”
Finn grins. “And yet you love me.”
“Tolerate,” she corrects. “At best.”
They trade jabs, familiar and unguarded. There’s an ease between them I haven’t earned yet, but it makes me want to.
Rosie laughs, guiding her horse between them. “Children, the both of you.”
Grier mounts silently at the front, but Finn nudges his horse beside him and murmurs something, and I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of Grier’s mouth.
We ride out as the sun crests the horizon.
I guide my horse alongside Gemma’s once we’re outside the castle grounds. She glances over, still holding that warmth.
We pass through the quiet city, market stalls still shuttered, early workers sweeping storefronts as our hooves echo against the cobblestone. The sign for The Mossy Barrel swings gently ahead.
“Look at that.” I nod toward it. “Our spot.”
She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t see me in The Barrel. You saw me in that dank alley.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I draw closer. “I noticed you the moment you walked through that door.”
She glances at me, skeptical.
“You were wearing that fox mask with that ridiculously adorable tail. Your dark hair was loose and catching the lamplight.” The memory washes through me. “You moved through the room like you owned it.”
Her eyebrow arches, that skeptical look still firmly in place. It only makes me want to prove every word.
“I watched you claim that stool like a throne. Watched the bartender abandon everyone else just to talk to you.” I shake my head. “I was jealous before I even knew your name.”
She laughs, bright and surprised.
“Fletcher?”
“Even now, hearing another man’s name come out of your mouth fills me with irrational jealousy.” I lean in. “It’s a problem; I’m working on it.”
She shakes her head like I’m hopeless, and I swear the harder she tries not to smile, the more it undoes me.
“When you left with that guard, I followed without even thinking.”
“You followed me?” There’s surprise in her voice, but she’s smiling now, with her teeth catching her bottom lip like she’s trying not to let it show how much she likes hearing this. Fuck, that smile hits me square in the chest every single time.
“I would’ve followed you anywhere that night.” The honesty in my voice surprises even me. “That part hasn’t changed, little fox.” I mean it more than I’m ready for, and it must show because her breath catches.
The warmth in her face fades as quickly as it came, and her eyes drift somewhere far away.
“Hey.” I soften my voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She shakes her head with eyes fixed on the road ahead. There is a long pause before she says, “I just wish things were different.”
She doesn’t say more. The weight in her voice tells me everything and nothing at the same time.
She’s carrying something she won’t let me near, and it pulls at me more than I want to admit.
And still, I lied to my father for her. Told him her references were solid when I’ve never seen a single one.
Vouched for her past when I can’t even name the village she came from.
And I’d do it again. That’s the part that should terrify me, but it doesn’t.
We ride in silence for a while, not uncomfortable, just…heavy with things unsaid.
The road opens as we wind through countryside that grows wilder with every mile. The city smell gives way to pine and wet earth. Oak and ash crowd the roadside, their bare branches knitting together overhead, reaching toward the gray sky.
By dusk, the inn comes into view, warm light spilling from the windows beneath a swinging sign that reads The Wandering Hart.
We’ve been riding all day. My legs ache and my back is stiff, but there’s a lightness in our group that wasn’t there this morning. Finn has Grier actually smiling while Rosie and Gemma have been trading stories. And Gemma…Gemma has been looking at me differently, softer and more open.
Grier dismounts first. “I’ll secure the rooms.”
We tie up the horses and follow him inside. The common room is warm and bustling with locals and travelers, there’s a fire crackling in a massive stone hearth. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread makes my stomach growl.
Grier returns with two keys. “Two rooms. Best they had, only one has a private washroom, though.” He goes to hand the key to me, but Gemma intercepts it with that deadly speed. There’s an adorable challenge playing across her face.
Finn laughs and gestures at me. “Rye’s literally royalty, Gemma. Give him the key.”
“Not here I’m not.” I hold her gaze. “Out here, we’re just five travelers on the road. And the ladies should absolutely have the better room.”
The words I can’t say press against the inside of my chest. Let me in.
Gemma holds my gaze, then something in her expression shifts, like she heard what I didn’t say. She slips the key into her pocket.
“Chivalry suits you, Ryewood.”
My chest pulls tight at the way she says my name. I wish it were that simple. I wish I could be someone she could want without complication.
“I have my moments.” I try to play it light, but I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself.
I place my hand on the small of her back as we move to an open table in the corner by the band. She softens into my touch and lets me guide her through the crowded room like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The table is tucked against the wall, close enough to the band that we can feel the thrum of the music.
A fiddler, a drummer, and someone with a worn lute are playing something lively.
The room hums with energy, travelers and locals mixing over ale and laughter. It feels worlds away from the castle.
“First round’s on me.” I let my hand linger on Gemma’s shoulder as she sits.
“The non-royalty is buying?” Finn grins. “How generous.”
“I’m a man of the people tonight.”
Gemma laughs and looks at me with an openness that makes my heart squeeze.
I return with five steins, setting them down around the table. “Stew and bread are on the way. Waitress says it’s the best in three villages.”
“That’s what they all say,” Finn says.
We settle into easy conversation, or Finn does, since he’s carrying it for all of us. He tells stories and cracks jokes, keeping the energy light while steering the talk toward things that make Grier respond. Training memories, ridiculous mishaps, and the time a goat got loose in the barracks.
Grier fights it at first. But Finn is relentless in that easy way of his, and eventually, Grier’s adding details, correcting Finn’s wild exaggerations, and almost smiling.
Gemma is warm beside me, laughing at Finn’s antics. I let my hand drop to her thigh under the table, needing to touch her.
She glances at me. I half expect her to push me away. Instead, she covers my hand with hers and turns back to the conversation. I lace her fingers through mine. She gives me a little squeeze, and I forget to breathe for a moment.
The waitress appears with a tray balanced on her hip, five steaming bowls of stew, a basket of crusty bread, and a glass of whiskey, which she sets in front of Grier.
“From the ladies by the fire,” she says with a knowing smile, nodding toward a table of women who are clearly watching our group. “They said you should come say hello after you eat.”
She sets the bowls in front of us and places the bread in the middle of the table.
Grier blinks, clearly caught off guard.
Finn lets out a low whistle. “Grier, you sly bastard.”
Grier shakes his head, but there’s the faintest hint of color on his cheeks. Then his eyes find Gemma, like he’s checking for her reaction, and under the table, her hand tenses in mine.
I squeeze gently, wishing I could take whatever that just did to her and carry it myself. But she slips her hand free and reaches for her spoon.
I desperately want to pull her back. But I let her go, because wanting and taking are different things.
I just stay close and hope that’s enough.
Finn steps in, launching into another story about a bet he lost to Rosie involving a horse and a very angry goose. Rosie is laughing and correcting him. Even Grier cracks a smile.
Gemma eats her stew with a weak smile. The whiskey sits untouched in front of Grier. The women by the fire are still watching.
I don’t miss the way Gemma glances back at him. I file the ache away somewhere deep and take a long drink.
The bowls empty, and the bread disappears. Finn leans back, patting his stomach, then cuts his eyes toward Grier.
“All right, Commander. Those ladies have been waiting long enough. Time to go be charming.”
Grier shakes his head. “I’m not—”
“You are.” Finn stands up, clapping him on the shoulder. “Consider it an order. From me. Your subordinate. Who outranks you in matters of fun.”
Grier sighs, but he’s already pushing back from the table. Before he goes, his eyes find Gemma, and the weight of that look fills the space between them. She holds his gaze, then looks away and takes a long swig of her ale.
Grier follows Finn toward the fire.