“You know,” I say as I take in the scene, “this doesn’t exactly scream ‘just friends.’”
“Sorry, but all the picnic tables in the library were already booked,” He jokes.
I snort and lower myself onto the blanket, still not sure what exactly this is. He opens the basket, pulling out dish after dish as I watch in confusion.
“Beef Wellington? Garlic roasted trout? Buttered asparagus?” I ask, reading the labels on the containers.
Staring at him in disbelief, I laugh, “Have you ever even been on a picnic before?”
He looks at the spread a little sheepish. “Honestly? No.”
I try to contain it, but I can’t help the continued laughter bubbling from my chest until he starts chuckling back with me.
“Of course you haven’t.” I grab two rolls and a jar of jam, ignoring the rest. Splitting the bread, I smear jam on both halves, mash them back together, and hand one to him. “There. Now this is a picnic.”
He takes it mock-serious and bites into it. “Mmm. Yes. So much better than the perfectly cooked steak I brought.”
We eat in comfortable silence, watching dragonflies flit and dart over the water. For a moment, I almost forget to keep myself on guard and relax, staring at the hypnotizing ripples they make.
I tell him about a pond back in Wrath, nothing like this one—muddy, overgrown, but special. How Sadie and I used to sneak there to skip chores, how she became my sister when my mother died, how her family took me in when no one else would.
It feels good to talk about Sadie. About the joyful parts of my life before all this began. I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
Ryker doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t even smirk. He listens and asks questions like he actually cares about the answers.
“So,” Ryker says, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “I hear you’re observing all the freshman Sin classes. How’s that going?”
I sigh. “It’s fascinating, honestly. But I feel like… like I don’t belong in any of them, you know? Like I’m this fish just watching the entire ocean swim by doing its thing, desperate to dive in. I don’t want to just sit on the sidelines anymore. I want to do something.”
“Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “I can relate.”
I laugh. “Sure. I’m positive one of the most powerful guys in school knows all about sitting on the sidelines.”
But he doesn’t laugh with me. Instead, his gaze drifts to the pond, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.
“At home,” he says, voice low, deliberate, “I sit at council meetings. My father— he makes decisions that affect thousands of lives. Policies that look clean on paper but shred people apart when they hit the ground.” His hand clenches around his knee, knuckles white. “I see problems. Solutions. Ideas that could make things better. But they don’t matter. Not to him. Not to the others. My voice… it’s just noise. I’m expected to smile, to nod, to look the part. But behind all that… I’m stuck. Watching. Powerless.”
He swallows, eyes flicking up to mine for the briefest second, a flash of something raw and unguarded. “And the worst part? Everyone expects me to be fine with it. To carry their legacy without question. But inside? Inside, it’s like I’m screaming and no one hears me.”
My eyes widen, startled by the truth slipping into my mind before I even understand it. He jerks slightly, shoulders snapping back like he’s just noticed he’s left himself exposed.
“Don’t—” he mutters, meeting my eyes. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t repeat that.”
“I won’t,” I breathe. And I mean it. Because for the first time, I’m seeing Ryker Blaise stripped of his smirk, his sharp edges dulled by something real. He cares. I can feel it.
Maybe he has to play the part of the arrogant heir, just like Maddox has to play the part of cut-throat Gluttony. I’m learning that’s what faction expectation does—it cages people, no matter how much power they appear to hold.
We change back to easier topics, and the conversation flows. We trade stories about home, about friends, about little things that don’t matter. At some point he pulls out a bottle of wine, and we laugh as we pass it back and forth, the taste sharp and warm in my chest.
We lose track of time until Ryker’s eyes snap up at the sky. “Oh, shit. What time is it?” he mutters, jerking upright like he just remembered the world exists.
He grabs the dishes with a speed that’s more show than necessity, tossing them into the basket like a pro—but I catch the twitch in his jaw, the tiny edge of panic he’s trying to mask. I can’t help smirking as I fold the blanket, watching him turn a minor crisis into some kind of chaotic performance.
The path back through the trees is darker now, and we stumble, tripping over roots and stones, laughing like kids sneaking out after curfew. By the time we reach the edge of the casting fields, my cheeks ache from smiling.
“I had a lot of fun tonight,” Ryker says, setting the basket down. His grin is softer than usual, almost shy. “It was good getting to know you, Princess. And no”, he cuts me off, ”I’m not giving up the nickname.”
He rests a hand on my shoulder, gives me a nod—friendly, plain and simple—then turns and walks away, yelling back, “Let’s do it again sometime.”
