Page 408 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Heat bloomed in my chest, forcing the oxygen from my lungs as I gasped, “Cyrus, I…”

“Set us free,” he cut in, one hand slipping down my neck, grazing the side of my breast until his grip tightened around my ribs. He dusted a petal-soft caress over my other cheek and breathed, “I just couldn’t see it.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“You don’t give yourself enough.”

“I think most people would disagree,” I said breathlessly, hands roaming over his exposed chest, over the wings marking the entire length of his arms. For all the insults thrown my way, I’d never been accused of being humble.

“Fuck ‘em,” he muttered, littering my jaw and neck with kisses that threatened every inch of resolve or control I’d clung to.

More. I needed more. More pretty words, more exquisite touches, more of him. Some corner of my brain was screaming, protesting his closeness, convinced it was a trap, a trick, a ploy to bring my guard down.

But Cyrus Stuart was not his mother.

Hands roaming, I turned to snag his mouth, bringing it to mine and sighing contentedly when he sucked down my air like he was starving for it. Like I’d been depriving him more than the other way around. We’d gotten off to a shit start, but he’d proven himself in all his own little ways: standing beside me through his anger, grief, and confusion; protecting me when letting an enemy’s blade fall would certainly have been easier; breaking protocol to show up at the Hawthornes’ because his intuition tingled. Cyrus might’ve kept me at arm’s length physically, but he’d ensured I was safe through what could’ve been a turbulent transition. He’d protected what was left of my family with his own goddamn neck on the line, ensured I was fed and watered like a high-maintenance plant. And when my anger showed him it wasn’t enough, he’d…

Left me his books. His notes. The only gateway to his inner world he knew how to open.

As his warm palms scraped under my loose tee, a little moan fluttered free, like a butterfly emerging from my throat. The sound egged him on—hands moving rougher, mouth pressing mine apart so his tongue could invade and explore in a way he hadn’t since we stood on that damn bridge the night of the equinox. Since Reagan…

Suddenly, my march across the river felt like a chasm between one life and the next—my resolve damning us to this before I could sculpt it into what I’d intended.

But he was here—talking to me… touching me.

It was enough. He was enough. And he’d sought me out, which meant either he was even cleverer than his mother in the art of betrayal or…

Or he really could forgive me in the end.

I hated how desperately I craved his forgiveness. Hated that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to move forward without it.

“Need you,” he gritted out. “Have needed you.”

Nodding, wondering when Cyrus became the vocal one of the two of us, I slipped my hands under the back of his waistband, shoving them down over his pert ass. My nails scored across his skin on the way up, earning a hiss of pain and desperate hunger. In retaliation, he all but ripped my shirt over my head, forcing my arms to go with it, bare breasts tightening against the cold. His broad hand encircled my wrists, pinning them back against the books as he caged me against the shelving with his towering frame.

This.

This, I could handle. Primal. Needy. This was in my wheelhouse.

Apparently, he had the same thought, because shadows plumed from the ground where he stood, reaching, twisting, spiraling until we were cocooned inside a wall of them, then wrapping around my wrists tight enough to ache but not enough to distract. Hands freed, Cyrus stepped back, pupils blown so wide there was hardly any hazel left. Unabashed, he slowly dragged his gaze over my torso, chewing softly on his lower lip.

“Ma moitié,” he breathed on a harsh exhale.

“What if you’re wrong?” I panted, voice trembling with something like fear. “Through all my grappling, I still want to tear our enemies to pieces.”

His lips tipped up in a wicked smile, fingers reaching out to tweak my nipples roughly, unbothered by my confession. God, I needed him to be rough. Needed his hands to be less forgiving, more demanding. Needed him to take me with all that pent-up frustration, with the hate he tried so hard to hide behind.

Needed him to make me feel something. Something other than guilt, grief, or the weight of a hierarchy sitting on my shoulders.

“If you’re a monster, chérie, at least you’re mine.” I opened my mouth, but his shadows wrapped tight around it, silencing me as something ravenous flashed in what remained of those citrines. Cyrus shook his head, muttering, “Done talkin’,” as he dove for my throat. “Need to fuck you, baby. You want this?” I nodded frantically as my breasts drew up tight, nipples aching as they pebbled. I pressed my thighs together, desperate to ease the tension. The smug bastard slipped his knee between them, shaking his head against my throat. “Reminds me of the night we officially re-met.”

A humiliating whimper left me at the memory—his knife against my skin, tracing the lines of my armor, my neck, a challenge alight in the eyes I’d recognize in any lifetime.

“I believe I promised to edge you out,” he breathed, slipping his hand into my pajama pants, brow quirking when he found me bare beneath them. He leaned in, fingers deftly finding my clit and circling steadily. Grazing his canines over my neck, loose golden waves tickling my cheek, he whispered, “Until you’re begging me for mercy.”

Heat rushed through my veins, and I nodded vigorously, remembering my promise to enjoy every minute of it. My breath hitched when he pressed his canines against the sensitive skin where my neck and shoulder met. He slid his fingers through my folds, thumb coming to press against my clit as his middle finger teased my entrance. Shadows wrapped around my ankles, my thighs, yanking my legs wider.

Trussed up and spread out for him, I was acutely aware I’d never been so damn exposed. It probably wasn’t healthy, but fuck, did being at his mercy turn me on beyond fucking belief. Chest heaving, my spine bowed as he slipped a finger inside me, a growl rumbling in his chest.