Page 22 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

With more strength this time, she snarled, “That’s not my name.”

“Elizabeth,” Moros scolded. “You must stop hurting yourself. We’ve talked about this. Dr. Blackwell and I can’t allow you to keep self-harming. Can we talk about this, please? What hurts today, Elizabeth?”

When she didn’t push back against him or show any further sign of resistance, he released his hold.

“You’re safe. I’m here for as long as you need me, Elizabeth.”

She inclined her head with the feline movement he knew her by.

“That’s not my name,” she growled again.

He’d known she would fight. That she would cling to reality with every inch of her being. But Adrastos’ visions hadn’t shown him how willingly she would brutalize her body—how often she would find a way to taste her own blood so the visions could rush through her again.

Even on a steady drip of reaper’s venom, the Seer of the West possessed remarkable gifts.

Gifts the king would not relinquish to his enemy.

He might not have been able to read her mind as Adrastos could, but he could taste her fear in the air. Detect the way her scent turned metallic. Sour.

There was tremendous pain when she saw her friends. Her family. Her memories.

Memories of the soulmates they’d successfully cut down, no doubt.

Alvara started to lift her arm toward her lips, but he snatched her cuffs and slammed them against the wall above her head before calling over his shoulder. She allowed him to hold her there, staring daggers as he tightened his grip around her wrists.

At this rate, even her immortal body would begin devouring itself soon.

“Miss Miller, can I get some bandages, please?”

The curvy brunette ‘nurse’ rounded the corner two heartbeats later, presenting a medical kit. She eyed Alvara warily before turning to leave.

Alvara had unleashed her strength upon the staff more than once, breaking Miller’s nose at least twice. Adrastos had healed her quickly, leaving no trace or crookedness behind, but the smugness in Alvara’s eyes told him she remembered.

These days, she often held her head as though trying to keep her skull in one piece, and the scent of pain permanently laced the air.

Perfect.

They were close. Close to dismantling the goddamned bulwark Amadeus had built inside her mind.

The king disinfected the bite wound and wrapped her wrist in white gauze.

She let him.

Only then did he meet her eyes again. “I’m here to help you, Elizabeth. Please talk to me.”

“My name is Alvara goddamned Porter.”

With a sigh, Moros retrieved his hastily discarded clipboard and pen and scribbled another note. This time, she squeezed her eyes shut before repeating the affirmation she clung to like a life vest.

“I am Alvara Goldman-Porter, second-in-command of Grayshell, and a coward like you cannot break me.”

“I don’t want to break you, Elizabeth,” he said calmly. Clinically. “I want to help you. Can we talk about the nightmares again?”

Her nose wrinkled as anger flashed across her face, promising revenge. “My name is Alvara Porter.”

“Okay, Alvara,” he snapped and forced himself to calm before extending a tendril of power and noting, “That distinction seems incredibly important to you. What is it you hate about the other name?”

When she merely seethed at him, Moros redirected her to his previous question.