Page 277 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Freya.”

“A nice little sonnet?”

“Oh, now come on,” he deadpanned.

“What’s the one Shakespeare was so fond of? A haiku?”

“That’s Japanese.”

“A tercet.”

“That’s two more than I’d give you credit for knowing.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, it was sonnets wasn’t it? Iambic pentameter. I remember hitting Bobby London in the head with a paper airplane while our teacher was babbling about it.”

“Freya.”

“Twelve shades of red.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, and to my complete shock, he bolted upright, shifting so that I was forced onto his lap, his arms caging around me. “Freya.”

“Sorry,” I breathed, searching his eyes. Amusement, more than irritation, stared back at me. I dropped my gaze to the curve of his glorious abs. Not because they were beautiful—not entirely, anyway—but because looking at him fucking hurt. Like I’d taken a blow to the sternum days ago and was only now feeling it.

“I know what you’re doing,” he whispered, setting his forehead against mine. “And as tempting as it is, stop. Hear me out. Please.”

“Cook, chef.”

“I might never know how to put what I’m thinking into words. I will try. I’ll do my damndest to give you the explanations you deserve. To come to you when I’m… all fucked up in the head. But I might never get good at it. Love. Compassion. Vulnerability. They were all framed like weaknesses, Freya. For months, I’ve been wrestling with a few things.”

“You know, like war, perhaps.” My insides were still rioting at his word choice, because what the fucking fuck did he just say?

He leveled me with the driest deadpan I’d ever been on the receiving end of, and I just grinned at him in response.

“The worst were these: How the fuck didn’t I know my mother betrayed the very tenets of the Accord? Not once. Not even twice. She lived in hypocrisy my entire life. And how did I fail you so badly that you carried the reality of your trials alone?” His hands cupped my cheeks, forcing me to meet his eyes as shame tugged at my shoulders. “You should’ve known you were safe with me. I should’ve made it clear that I’d choose you.”

“I never meant to break you,” I breathed, cursing the stupid wobble in my stupid chin.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I tried.”

“Before that. You should’ve told me in California. At Dr. Briar’s.”

“I wanted to. I…” I shook my head, trying to clear the memories. “You died, and I… it broke me. I know it’s a shit excuse, but… I needed you. Selfish, I know, and I’m not asking for your forgiveness—” He shut me up with a feather-soft brush of his lips over mine. Barely a breath of contact, but enough to steal the air from my lungs like the thief he’d always been.

“You have it.”

“Don’t,” I said, voice cracking. “Don’t say that,” I shook my head, more adamantly as my lips trembled. “Not unless you mean it, Cyrus. Don’t.”

“You have it,” he breathed again. “Don’t, cher. Please don’t cry.” His hands shifted, thumbs pressing beneath my eyes like he could hold the waterworks at bay. “Don’t cry, ma moitié. Not for me. Never again. I promise you.”

A disbelieving laugh ghosted over my lips. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Cyrus.”

“Gonna assassinate my father?”

“What?!” I balked, aghast. “No, God, Cyrus.”

“Cali? Jo? Carr?”