Page 189 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“You weren’t safe,” I gritted out.

Her eyes narrowed, rage and disappointment flashing together. “Don’t play that game either, Cyrus.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” I kept my voice flat. “I could feel it. I can’t explain it. I just knew something was wrong.” Maybe Dad’s gifts wouldn’t die with him after all.

“And that explains you all but screaming at the prince we’re trying to bring into an alliance?”

“Yes, dammit.” I prowled closer. “You couldn’t pay me to trust that fuckwit, Freya. They knew. Either they ordered the hit or they were part of it.”

“He offered to make a Bond to guarantee his words.”

I scoffed. “Don’t be so naïve.”

“Excuse me?” she hissed, voice low enough that my shadows stirred.

“I would’ve done the same thing.”

“And then what? Break your Bond? Good luck with that.”

“No. I’d bluff. Count on your faith in humanity to keep you from forcing a bargain that would limit your own speech too.”

“Not all of us are out here looking for the best way to fuck someone over.”

“Please. He’s the prince of the assassins, Freya. Get real.” Before she could fire back, I kept going. “Fine. Say you’re right. Say he didn’t know. Somebody did. You were exposed on a terrace beside an alleged nomad—disposable, by the way. Unprotected by the Accords. Your own sentinels were ten to twenty yards away. What the hell was that? Who built your fucking detail?”

“Wow.” She shook her head, something final in the motion setting off every alarm in me. “You don’t get to waltz in here after months—months, Cyrus Stuart—and demand answers. Where was this anger when I wasn’t at the center of a bullseye? Where was it when Aren and I had to get Mom sober?” Her eyes widened, flicking toward the hallway to ensure we were alone. Quieter now, she demanded, “Where the hell were you when we lost those Wings in Baton Rouge on my goddamn watch?”

Processing. That’s what I was doing. All of it. Her. My mother. The Blood Bond that shaped Dad’s entire role in my childhood. The duel replaying every time I closed my eyes. The sickening squelch of a legend taking a blade meant for me. Ansel’s head on the pavement. Freya screaming while I held her back.

Apparently my brain took too long to find words, because she shook her head. The worst part wasn’t anger. It was the cuttingly quiet disappointment.

I should’ve been used to it by now, but my shoulders still locked when Freya said, “That’s what I thought.”

She tried to pass me. I caught her wrist and stopped her halfway to the threshold, pulling her close enough for her scent to fill my lungs, her heat to reach my skin. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m going to shower. Get the hell out of my way.”

“No. Atreus. Don’t do this. Don’t carry on with this charade. We can secure our numbers another way.”

“What way, Cyrus? You haven’t contributed a single idea, and I’ve been begging you to show up for me—for our people.”

“I don’t know.”

“Very helpful.”

“Look, I’m trying. I’m trying to put it into words, I’m just...” I dragged in a breath. “Please don’t do this. We’ll find another way. One that doesn’t involve desecrating the Mate Bond.”

For a long beat she only stared at me. Then she drew in one slow, deep breath—the kind she used to steady herself before a strike. “You don’t get to do that either. You don’t get to freeze me out for four fucking months and then touch me. You don’t get to wield the Bond like a weapon—use it to manipulate me—if you won’t carry the weight of it when I’m not dying. Bonds are about more than surviving, Cyrus. It’s supposed to mean something. It’s supposed to weave two souls together on a spiritual level, never to be corrupted. You told me once there was nothing more sacred.”

“Freya.” I didn’t let go. Couldn’t. All I could do was hold on, terrified that if I released her before I figured out what she needed me to say, she’d walk through that door and that would be the end.

“No. I’m not finished. You told me it was sacred. You promised you could take my worst, that you would fight for me always, and then when I needed you—really needed you—you left me.” Her voice broke. I clenched my jaw until it hurt and forced myself to hold her glossy stare. “Unless you’re going to have my back when I’m too goddamn tired to stand, you don’t deserve me when I look beautiful. Pick one, Cyrus. You can keep hating me—keep blaming me—or we can honor this curse. You can’t do both. Because I’m not fucking sorry. I’m sorry you’re hurting. But if I have to choose between sliding that blade between her ribs or knowing she was tearing you to ribbons, I’ll pick the duel every fucking time.”

Her words landed exactly where she’d aimed them. When she yanked her wrist free, I let her.

Say something. Say anything.

My thoughts spiraled, pulse punching against my ribs. I could only watch my mate march down the hallway and leave me alone in the war room.