Page 177 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Yep. A telescope. Strapped to his torso like a quiver.

“What in the hell were you two up to?” I asked.

Unflinching, Lana answered, “Valentine’s Day,” like that explained everything.

“Just felt like…stargazing?” I pressed.

Ansel smiled fondly and tucked Lana against his side as he told me about their traditions. One after another, story after story spilled out as the healers worked. My pain dulled. My body calmed.

And somewhere between the memories and the magic, I realized something. I didn’t really know them. Not anymore.

So much time had passed. So many lives had filled the space between. I had to relearn my parents. Relearn who they were. How they laughed. How they loved.

Before I knew it, I was in Ansel’s arms. He carried me up the stairs, Blaz rushing ahead to throw open my chamber doors and straighten the duvet.

Ansel laid me down gently. The last thing I saw was his soft, chrome gaze.

The last thing I felt was Lana’s fingers sweeping my hair from my brow, lulling me into sleep.

The trill of a telephone dragged me into the moment. Eyes heavy, I opened them just in time to see Ansel lean forward in the armchair beside the bed, yawning as he checked the screen. His brow pinched. Then he swiped to answer and tapped the speakerphone.

He didn’t say a word before Aren’s voice blared through the line.

“All three of you. Egyptian Theater in Old Town. Sixty seconds. A dozen of them. Save the coven.”

“Godspeed, brother,” Ansel said, rising to his feet.

He pocketed the phone, then barked, “Lana.”

My soul mother jolted awake on the bed beside me, and before I could process anything, I was moving. Flying off the duvet. Thank fuck my boots were still on and my filthy tac suit was mostly intact.

I sprinted to the cabinet and yanked out my weapons.

As Ansel relayed the orders, he glanced at me once—sharp and assessing. Then he pulled a pocketknife from his denim, dragged it across his forearm, and held it out.

A silent offering.

I closed my lips over the wound just as the energy twisted and swelled.

And then we jumped—straight into the heart of oncoming chaos.

Cyrus

At no point in history had Luminark Manor fallen into such disrepair. Shadows wrapped around the spires and porch railings in their mercurial forms, scouring the grounds for any remaining intruders. The familiars were in an uproar, their haunting cries piercing the night as our boots hit the lawn.

Hand-stained glass lay in shattered pieces across the floor, too splintered to reassemble. Inside, the walls echoed with fury—voices ricocheting off every surface.

This will mean war.

What was Cyrus thinking?

A sacrifice. She will require a sacrifice to preserve the treaty.

Who approved a strike against the queen herself?

They didn’t know the half of it. The worst part was that they were right.

This was on me.