Page 394 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Why must the women in my life all insist on playing the martyr?”

“You’re welcome, by the way, for defending your cousin.”

“He never would’ve asked that of you⁠—”

“And I never would’ve asked him to lie for me.”

“But I did,” he said, his brows furrowing as my lips parted in surprise. Adrastos raised a hand to massage at the spot between his eyes.

“Why don’t you fear him?” When my question was answered by a ringing silence, I clarified, “Moros? You’re the only person that challenges him—well, you and Kade. Why don’t you fear him? If he…” enslaved you, I didn’t finish aloud. If Moros had shackled this man to him centuries ago, how was he not more terrified than the rest of us? He had the most skin in the game—literally, if the scars beneath all that ink were any indication. Adrastos crossed one arm under the other, propping a fist against his mouth as he stared out that window.

So softly I barely carved the words from the darkness, he breathed, “You can only frighten someone for so long before they begin to feel at peace in the walls they construct to silence that fear. It has been an age since anything has threatened the integrity of those walls.” Slowly, as if they were heavy, those dark eyes found mine across the gray. His hand fell away and Adrastos crossed his arms as he watched me.

My mind grappled with a dozen ways to respond before it plucked a question from the mountain of them. “Why?”

“Because you’re mine.” Flat. Emotionless. That infuriating mask of his might as well have been forged of steel. I’d barely opened my mouth to argue the archaic mindset of his people when he added, “to look after. Mine to protect.”

“Even from your brother?”

“Especially from my brother. I told you, Blythe. A rose meant to inspire, he would only seek to crush. No aroma is sweet enough, no beauty pure enough for Moros to revel in its pleasure. All things of appeal and power must be controlled or contested. You, I fear, possess both. Which is why you cannot fathom how much worse you just made things.”

“Worse!?” I balked. “Saving an innocent is worse?”

“Forcing me to tip my hand is.”

“What hand?” I demanded, slamming the glass down so hard I was shocked it didn’t shatter, wincing as my back screamed in protest. My bladder felt like an overinflated balloon, bruised and aching with too many hours without relief. “You make no sense, and I am tired—tired of your riddles and your moods and can you just for once fucking tell me what’s happening? Who the fuck are you? Really? Because I don’t understand.”

“I am what is necessary.”

“Bullshit,” I snapped, twisting to plant my feet on the floor. “Answer me, godsdamn you.”

“Blythe,” he breathed, a note of pleading warping his tone. “Rest.”

I grimaced as my feet met plush carpet. “I’m done resting,” I complained, fighting my way upright as every muscle in my body protested.

Boots appeared in my vision, shadows swirling around them as a gloved hand joined them. Unsteady as I was, I eyed the black leather warily before I took the damn thing. Like a boulder, Adrastos didn’t budge as I put my weight into his outstretched hand. I wanted to rage at him—wanted to push and shove and hit and claw until he bled, wanted to scream until my voice ran hoarse.

I didn’t understand—didn’t understand his compulsion to keep saving me, to save women like Mags, to turn around and dangle us in front of jeering soldiers. He was maddening.

Instead, I clung to him, a whimper cracking through my lips as I staggered, and his broad arm looped around my hips. He was hunched over, practically crouching to support me, and still that scream boiled in my chest, climbing toward my throat, toward release, toward the windows it could splinter and the man I hated but needed, the man I couldn’t make fucking heads or tails of.

Shaking with fatigue and the ever-raging fury he’d planted in my soul, a sob broke across my lips as my knees buckled, hands grudgingly clinging to him to stay vertical.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Unless… you’ve got a bedpan… I kinda do,” I ground out, and the bastard huffed a breath that sounded more amused than anything.

“Fair point.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I fear I’d never forgive you if you soiled yourself on my rug. It’s irreplaceable.”

“Perfect. Put me down here.”

“You would like that.”

I almost laughed—if not for the agony suddenly burning in my skin, I might’ve. Might’ve forgotten who I clung to. Instead, another whimper cracked open like an eggshell in my chest. “Why does everything still hurt?”