There was a weight to his words, the authority of someone who’d witnessed his friend’s struggle from the beginning. “That’s worth more than all the royal pardons in England, if you ask me. Worth fighting for, even when the fighting seems impossible.”
Her throat tightened. “What if caring about me only makes things worse for him?”
“Then you’ll face it together,” he said simply. “That’s what people do when they matter to each other—they stand back-to-back against whatever the world throws at them. They don’t run away at the first sign of trouble.”
He handed her the knife with an expression that was both gentle and implacable. “Now, stop thinking about everything except that target. Feel the weight, judge the distance, trust your body to know what’s needed.”
Rachel hefted the blade, trying to quiet the voice in her head that was providing helpful commentary about trajectory, physics, and the likelihood of impaling something important. The knife felt more familiar now, its weight settling into her palm like it belonged there.
She drew back her arm, focused on the center of the target—a red circle that had probably once been painted but was now more hope than reality—and threw.
The blade flew straight and true, embedding itself in the wooden target with a solid thunk that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet of the training yard.
“I hit the target,” Rachel breathed, staring at the knife quivering in the wood barely three inches from the center mark. “I did it. I actually did it!”
“Excellent!” Hugo’s voice boomed across the yard like thunder, and before she knew what was happening, he’d swept her up in a bear hug that lifted her feet clean off the ground. “Outstanding! Perfect form! I knew you had the instincts once you stopped fighting them!”
“I can’t believe it,” Rachel said, still not quite believing it. The taste of triumph was sweet on her tongue, better than any perfectly executed soufflé. “I actually hit the target!”
“You did indeed,” Hugo agreed, setting her down but keeping his massive hands on her shoulders with paternal pride. “And with excellent technique for someone who’d never held a throwing blade before today. Natural talent. Can’t be taught, only discovered.”
Warmth spread through her chest, a glow of pride that had nothing to do with five-star reviews or viral blog posts. She’d done it. She’d actually done something right in this impossible medieval world, something that didn’t involve accidentally causing religious panic or nearly burning down the kitchen.
“Can I try again?” she asked, already reaching for another knife.
“As many times as you like,” he said, his grin threatening to split his face in half. “Though perhaps we should retrieve your earlier attempts first, ere some poor soul stumbles across them and meets an untimely end.”
As they collected the wayward blades—including one that had somehow ended up embedded in the castle wall at shoulder height, which raised disturbing questions about Rachel’s aim when nervous—she became aware of a prickling sensation between her shoulder blades.
Someone was watching her.
She turned, scanning the battlements and windows that overlooked the training yard, and caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows of the upper gallery. A figure stood silhouetted against the stone archway—tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakably familiar even at this distance.
Tristan.
He’d been watching. Had probably been watching for some time, if the stillness of his posture was any indication. Even from here, she could feel the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to catalog every move she made with the focused attention of someone who found her considerably more fascinating than he cared to admit.
He stepped forward, and their eyes met across the distance as her breath caught in her throat. There was something in his expression—not just approval, but something deeper. Wonder, perhaps, as if he was seeing her not as the clumsy outsider who’d disrupted his world, but as someone who belonged in it. Someone who could grow into it, thrive in it, become part of its very foundations.
For a heartbeat, she let herself believe that what she saw in his face was the same longing that had been building in her chest for weeks. The same recognition that whatever was growing between them was worth the risk, worth the fight, worth the uncertainty of their impossible circumstances.
But then the memory of his hoarse “a mistake” came rushing back, and doubt crept in like cold water through a cracked foundation.
Maybe she was reading too much into a simple glance. Maybe his watching was purely practical—ensuring she didn’t accidentally impale anyone with her enthusiastic but unpredictable knife work. Maybe he was already planning how to minimize the damage she might cause to his carefully ordered world.
He stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as quietly as he’d appeared, leaving her with nothing but questions and the lingering sensation of being thoroughly, intensely observed.
“Interesting,” Hugo murmured beside her, his tone carefully neutral though she caught him glancing between her flushed face and the empty gallery with knowing eyes. “Someone’s been taking quite an interest in your progress.”
“He’s probably just making sure I don’t accidentally murder anyone,” Rachel said, trying to inject levity into words that came out more defensive than she’d intended.
“Aye,” Hugo agreed mildly, though his expression suggested he thought her assessment fell somewhat short of the mark.
“I’m sure that’s exactly what has him standing in that gallery for the better part of an hour, watching you with the concentration of a man studying scripture.”
The casual revelation that Tristan had been watching for so long made her pulse quicken in ways she wasn’t prepared to examine. “An hour?”
“Give or take,” Hugo said with the satisfied air of someone who’d been keeping careful track of such things. “Ever since you first mounted Goliath, actually. Fascinating dedication to... security... Wouldn’t you say?”
