Page 52 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

And then—without understanding how—I was ten feet away, staring back at him. Blood dripped from my mask, the damp fabric caking against my face. He clutched his arm, crimson rivulets pouring from the punctures in his uniform. Smiling, I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth, irritation flaring at the sticky mess.

Flashes of electricity fired like strobes as the last of his men vanished.

We had the same thought at the same time—our gazes snapping to the now-empty ground where the box had been. My attacker dipped his head in a mocking farewell before melting into the shadows.

“No,” I breathed, whirling toward the thick woods. Then, the roar of a truck firing up yanked my attention toward the road. My feet carried me half a dozen steps before it happened again—I simply reappeared beside the street.

Movement.

I whirled left as that lanky frame leapt into the open door of a rolling truck.

I bolted in the opposite direction, pushing this pathetic little body to its limit until I reached my car.

Where the hell do you think you're going? August demanded as I turned the ignition.

Be right back.

What are you doing?!

Good God, how many times had I heard that parental disapproval in his tone over the last decade? August had always been so damn serious—so worried—overbearingly protective, unlike James, who barely gave a shit about his own life, let alone mine. Now, all it did was make me roll my eyes as I peeled onto the road after the truck, mentally inventorying what I had learned.

My opponents couldn’t jump, or there wouldn’t have been a trace left to follow.

These six wore the gauntlets of Paladin Wings but lacked the skills. Which meant their leader was either inexperienced or didn’t posess the influence to demand better men from Reagan. A newblood, maybe? Or he was unreliable, and she didn’t trust his intel enough to send real firepower.

As we banked a sharp turn, another possibility struck me—maybe she was already engaged in another fight, her best warriors tied up elsewhere. By all means, this could have ended badly if August hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to turn this into a literal smoke show. My illusion of solitary strength had worked marvelously—hopefully buying me some extra caution from these assholes until I could properly ascend.

Still, after taking down two strongholds in a week, I expected better resistance. Honestly? It was a little insulting.

My tires squealed across dry asphalt as I shifted gears.

His truck might have been a behemoth, but my car was zippier. At least, that’s what I told myself as I floored the gas, my eyes flicking between his taillights and the rapidly climbing red needle of my speedometer. I needed those disks. If they were worth killing over, then they were worth dying for.

Every puzzle piece brought me closer to retribution.

I didn’t want to kill Reagan Stuart.

I wanted to destroy her.

I wanted to pull apart her life like a Jenga tower, one brick at a time, letting her know exactly who was dismantling everything she held dear. And when she stood among the ruins, fully aware of who had pulled the last block, then—if I was feeling merciful—I’d fucking kill her.

That bloodlust propelled me forward, speeding down the road at three times the limit, locked onto the black-on-black truck as it roared into town.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. I winked before looking lower, memorizing the license plate.

The truck veered onto a side street, pedestrians scattering with screams as it hopped the curb before gunning the accelerator. A plume of exhaust billowed from the tailpipe, darkening my windshield.

Cursing, I followed.

He looped us onto a road out of town—relieving, at least. Glancing back at the chaos we left behind, I sighed. Great. I just burned my vehicle, and it was only week one. Too many witnesses. It was useless now.

Without warning, he yanked sideways down a slick decline into a muddy field.

“Fuck!” I slammed the brakes, tires screeching to a stop as I watched him plow through feet of deep mud before crashing into the adjoining cornfields.

“Dammit,” I muttered, tightening my grip on the wheel. High-centering my Mazda in a mud pit and dealing with human authorities was not on my bingo card today.

Tapping my screen, I called August.