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He held me, letting me cry. I cried for all the hurt, for Meera, for Jules, and for Morgana. I cried for myself and how what I’d done for my family had never once been acknowledged. How I’d been a casualty in this mess, one no one could see because I was hiding the secrets, holding the family together. How for two years, I’d been punishing myself over Jules, denying myself to keep Meera and Morgana safe, and staying with Tristan so I could keep up the charade and protect our Ka.

“You’re not the first to get a tattoo for that sort of thing,” he said, when my sobs slowed. He lifted my chin, drawing my gaze up. His thumb brushed away the tears on my cheeks, and he lifted my wrist to his lips. He paused, watching me carefully, then pressed a soft kiss to the scar. “Don’t be ashamed of it.”

I sucked in a breath. The sensation of his lips against my skin was suddenly the only thing in the world. Like it had been that morning.

He released my hand from his. My wrist tingled.

He began methodically unhooking his armor.

My eyes widened. “What are you…?”

He pulled the black leather off and pushed aside his green cloak, turning away from me to reveal the full gryphon tattoo on his back. The beast, beautifully rendered in detail, was taking flight over snowy mountains, its wings spanning beyond his shoulders to his chest. A torn rope was tied to the gryphon’s eagle-like leg.

No ropes can hold you. No cage can trap you.

The source of Rhyan’s strength, his inner power, and the love he had for gryphons and his country, all so beautifully rendered across his back and shoulders.

Tentatively, I ran my fingers over the beast, tracing its wings. Rhyan shuddered beneath me, and I paused. I’d touched him there this morning, but this was different. This was somehow far more personal, more intimate. Because now I understood.

“Put your hand against the rope,” he said.

I let my fingers trail down his spine to the torn rope beneath the gryphon and landed on a line of raised skin.

“A blood oath,” I gasped.

He straightened, pulled his cloak over his back, and reached for his discarded armor. Once he’d returned his uniform to the proper position of an apprentice soturion, he looked up at me. The full moon cast enough light to highlight his scar, silver through his forehead and eye. The bandages I’d put on him the night before had come off when he was holding Meera. Brockton’s bite marks around his eye had faded a little, though he was still sporting several nasty looking bruises.

“Why a blood oath on your back?” I asked.

He stared down.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said. “But…you also deserve to be asked one more time.”

He turned his gaze up and inched closer to me. “My back was getting covered in scars. I was whipped and lashed by my father so many times. So many times, he bound me. And one day….” His gaze grew distant. “It’s a long story.”

“I want to hear it,” I said.

“I want to tell you. Not tonight. First, we need to get Meera. Get you back to Cresthaven before anyone becomes any more suspicious.”

I sucked in a breath, bracing myself for what came next. “We should go.”

“Lyr, I hope you know, you don’t even have to ask. You have my word in this. My oath. Always.” His hair blew wildly in the wind, curling over his forehead and eyes, eyes that were now fixed on me with an intensity that left me shivering. “I know you’ve been given many reasons to believe no one could be trusted with this.” He picked up my hand again, his finger running lightly over my scars. “Maybe most can’t be trusted, maybe we live in a world full of people who fear others, but I’m not most people.”

My heart pounded louder. I believed him.

A large wave crested, and we were forced to scoot farther back. An icy, watery breeze came with it, and I shivered again.

“Cold?” he asked.

“I’m all right,” I said.

He laughed. “I felt your hands, remember.”

Before I could deny it, he held up the extra material of his cloak, and I inched closer to him, close enough for him to wrap it around my shoulders. Fresh pine and musk surrounded my senses. The scent that always clung to him, clung to his bedsheets. “Better?” he asked.

“Thank you.”

“Lyr,” he said. His lips were so close. “Can we talk about this morning? I can’t stop thinking about it.”