Page 155 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

I turned to Carr, still panting, sweat trickling down my temple.

“Thought I…” My voice trailed off. I scanned the lot, the road, the building. Nothing. “Saw something.”

“Okay…but we gotta go. Your Ma’s meeting’s in half an hour. Last briefing before the ghost trap.”

THIRTY-ONE

THE BEGINNING

ALVARA

August’s beautiful Valentine’s Day date would’ve been a lot more fun if I wasn’t juggling the fate of every soul I knew in the palm of my hand. Chaos was unfolding all around us, and it felt like every thirty seconds I had to fire off a new text.

We’d tag-teamed with Kingsley and Freya to flush out a Renown nest after an Adrastos lead turned out to be a bust. Since then, I’d been busy keeping our allies afloat.

Marcus was about to get ambushed by those second hierarchy assholes wearing crowns.

Freya was in for a world of pain—but she came out okay in every thread. And something needed to happen there for her to bring in the numbers we saw in our best-case scenarios. I had Brody on standby, wrapping up his own to-do list.

My Hail Mary trip to England yesterday, hoping to bait Adrastos, did absolutely nothing. Now, the visions were down to blurred colors and the occasional middle finger. Motherfucker.

Aren was the hardest to leave alone. Our bond made it impossible not to obsess over his every move. His date night was flickering through my head like a damn strobe light.

At seven-thirty, August finally plucked the phone from my hand with a sigh.

“Ally. Baby. Love of my lives. Is anyone we love dying?”

I scowled.

“Will any of these messages change the final tally?”

Pouting, I crossed my arms like a sulking child.

“Then I am begging you. Not even for the whole night. Just…give me one hour. An undivided hour with my mate, on what might be our only Valentine’s Day.”

“You’re right,” I whispered, eyes burning at the weight of it. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re saving the world. It’s expected. But just…be with me, okay?”

Blinking back tears, I squeezed his hand and looked around for the first time all evening. He’d done it. Planned the perfect night for us—and I hadn’t been present for a second of it. Not the Broadway play, not the drive, not a single word he’d said.

Fuck. Me.

August looked sinful in a sleek black suit, his hair tamed for the first time in months. My dress was stunning—some ungodly expensive fabric that dipped and hugged in all the right places, making my long, lean frame look deceptively feminine. For once, I actually had a shape.

Low lighting set the mood, candles flickering off single-stem roses in slender crystal vases. A man and woman sang opera softly on the far side of the room. A plate of manicotti I hadn’t even noticed being delivered sat in front of me, steaming and garnished.

Smiling weakly up at August, I whispered, “You’re right. It’s perfect. Thank you, baby.”

“You’re perfect.”

I shook my head, gaze darting away from his. “A perfect mate wouldn’t have to be a martyr.”

“I’m not giving up,” he said gently. “We’ll find another way.”

“Maybe,” I murmured to avoid the fight. But there was no other way. I’d looked. A hundred-thousand times, I’d looked.

We were the price.