Page 168 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Oh, do shut up,” she muttered without looking up.

“You know, I don’t think I will.”

But then the door creaked open again, and a group of Paladins strode in. My stomach dropped as I scanned their silhouettes, hunting for the demon mask Lonan had been besotted with.

Seven fabric Paladin masks. No demon. My breath eased—until it stuttered again at the sight of a familiar silhouette breaking from the group and striding toward me.

Oh, shit.

Cyrus Stuart.

Son of Reagan and Ciaran Stuart. Prince of the Southern Paladins. My personal nightmare. He stopped just outside headbutt range, well within my personal space, a smug glint in his eyes. He dragged his gaze over my suspended form like I was some prize cow at market. Each slow step around me felt like a strip of skin peeled away. He paused at my side, where my mobility was most limited—smart bastard.

I could feel his breath on my face as I tilted my chin and gave him the most feral grin I had left. My mouth tasted like iron, my lip split, my neck throbbing like hell. God, I had to be an absolute mess.

Whatever they’d drugged me with had a base of reaper’s venom—less toxic, but no less effective.

Was this what Agamemnon dosed Ally with?

A blade slipped free from a sheath at Cyrus’s wrist. My gaze dropped to the ace of spades etched into the metal near the guard. Maybe I would’ve appreciated the humor if I wasn’t seconds from screaming.

I sucked in my gut as the dagger hovered over my belly. Somewhere, Aren had a lesson on mentally preparing for pain. On surviving torture. I tried and failed to recall it.

Cyrus smelled like cedarwood and leather, like campfire smoke and clean tobacco. The scent bit at my senses as he pressed the dagger’s tip against my stomach and dragged it slowly upward. Between my breasts. Over my clavicle. My heart thundered.

He flicked the knife until the edge bit into the skin just over my artery. Then used the flat to lift my chin.

“As much as I enjoy my women smiling in chains,” he whispered, his mask brushing my ear, “you’re a bit young for my taste.”

Revulsion burned in my gut. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you, pretty girl…” he purred, the blade guiding my face back toward him, “are insane.”

I narrowed my eyes and laced brown sugar into my voice. “Yeah. But you already knew that. Comes with the reputation.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was smiling beneath the mask.

He shook his head and said, “If I unlock you, will you try to sterilize me again like a rabid animal, or can we talk like civilized beings?”

“I’ve been called many things in many lives,” I said, smirking, “but I’m not sure civilized was ever one of them.”

“No, I don’t suppose you were, were you, Valora? Souls focused on civility make particularly pathetic Paladins.”

His use of my old name iced my veins. So, the rumors were true—he was as clever as they said. But hearing it confirmed? That tightened the noose. If he figured out what my strikes were actually meant to do, this would get infinitely harder. Assuming I could get out before Lonan arrived to collect on the debt.

My stomach twisted at the thought.

I resisted the urge to glance up at the guards—no need to tip my hand. Instead, I shrugged, nodding as if genuinely evaluating his statement, even though the motion ignited fire across my upper body.

My hands remained numb, magic refusing to surface. I could feel it, a distant echo far beneath the skin—but there was no answering pull, no surge. Magic lived in the blood. And with no blood flow…

Oh, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

“Hello, Pot? Meet Kettle,” I drawled, grinning—though my confidence wavered when my canines didn’t descend. Damn, that vial was potent. I wondered if a mouthful of this bastard’s blood might counter it.

“If you unlock me,” I offered sweetly, “I solemnly swear to be a very good little prisoner.”

“I’m sure you would. Is that why Lonan was willing to bargain to bring you in? What do you owe him, little one?”