Page 147 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Okay, right, I’m picking up what you’re putting down. But where is that, exactly?” Alec asked. “I know the UK’s not huge, but it’s still a lot of ground to cover. So…where’s home?”

Home. The word planted a pit so deep in my belly it ached.

Home…as in Grayshell.

Home as in…why couldn’t I remember where we actually came from?

The accent, yes. The crashing waves and his laughter echoing off stone walls? The begrudging smile of a cruel king without a name? Yes. But beyond that—just flickers. Black marble. The nightmare thread. Nothing more.

“Dialect was the Queen’s English, I think?” Fae offered. I nodded. If we’d heard his true voice, yes. Southern England. It was a place to start.

A groan followed by a loud smack pulled our attention back to the mats, where Kingsley had just disarmed and flattened one of his trainees. I opened my mouth to speculate⁠—

—and another vision hit me like a sledgehammer.

From silence to tsunami, they came roaring back, brutal and vivid.

Aren, dancing with the dark-haired witch.

Aren, shoulders sagging.

No. No, no. Slow down. What the hell went wrong this time?

Because in that solitary, hail-Mary thread—our only true victory—his mate, the girl with darkness in her veins, had stood beside him in the final battle. She was the key. I just had to figure out how to get her there.

Which was easier said than done. She wasn’t exactly…cooperative.

Eyes shut, I tuned out the others placing bets on the matches below and focused.

Valentine’s Day. Jesus, August must’ve rattled something loose in my brain. It was the perfect excuse. Sappy? Yes. But maybe it would work.

We were talking about England when the vision flared. Did I need to send him there?

The girl rolls her lips, shakes her head, nervously working a silver ring around her finger. A closed door.

Fuck. Okay. Um…what did she like? Chinese?

The door shuts.

Pizza?

She saves pizza for Fridays. Raincheck, Commander.

Sushi?

She just had it with friends, and besides—nothing to wear to someplace nice.

Fuck me. Okay. Um. Mexican?

She briefly considers a burrito, then rejects him. Still no outfit.

With a growl, I centered myself. What if her friend—the blonde—helped her get ready? Picked out a dress?

Her mouth falls open. Black roses in hand, she steps aside to let him in.

Yes. That was something. I dove deeper.

She laughs—pink behind her like a halo. God, she’s pretty. All soft lines and that rare, blinding smile. He wants to taste her⁠—