Page 24 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Moros, however?

He was an expert at it.

“We’ll see.”

FIVE

WRATH OF THE THUNDER GOD

FREYA

92:03:37:15

“Are you ever going to talk to me?”

Okay. So, I hadn’t meant to snap. Or maybe I had. But Cyrus was just… standing there. Rooted to the spot as though his feet had woven themselves into the floor. His panic at walking into the war room before the others was written all over his face.

“Excuse me?” Cyrus intoned. Cold. Flat. Bored. Like every other response to a direct question in the last three months. The man had worked impossibly hard to make sure we didn’t end up in the same room alone.

So, when the opportunity unexpectedly presented itself, yeah, I exploited it. Sue me.

“Three months, Cyrus. Will you fucking talk to me? Please.”

“We speak.”

“Really? When?”

“Daily.”

“And if orders are removed from the equation?”

“Have nothin’ to say.”

“Oh, please,” I scoffed. Chest tight. Heart picking up tempo.

“You expectin’ somethin’ different?”

“Be angry. Hate me if you need to. But say something.”

A solitary brow arched before his eyes rolled skyward, a sigh leaking between his lips as though it pained him to stand here. Finally, he said, “Impressive strategy in Baton Rouge.”

“Five words? That’s the full sum of what’s on your mind?”

“What’d you expect?”

I flexed my hands at my sides, fighting the need to rage.

I missed him. Every damn day I missed him. His wit, his humor, his sharp mind. He’d mastered the art of occupying separate rooms unless absolutely necessary, along with monosyllabic replies. Even those were given after direct questions. These almost-sentences were the most I’d gotten out of him since everything went to shit.

Since I’d gone ballistic to get him back from Nix.

Since the duel.

The siege.

I’d expected rage—for him to throw accusations while I hurled my story up like a shield between us. To ease the betrayal with the truth. But this was so much worse. I couldn’t defend myself if he wouldn’t look at me unless a mission required it.

“Cy,” I breathed, shoulders deflating, the mask I’d so carefully carved onto my face over the last few months of hell slipping. “Please. Let me explain.”