Page 172 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Curling my body toward my wrists, I climbed the chains—arms trembling, muscles screaming. My hands were barely functional, and each pull made me want to sob. But I forced them to move.

Thank you, Aren. Thank you, August. Thank you, Brody and Reyna, for every sit-up and Russian pull-up you ever made me do.

The clang of combat echoed through the steel walls as blood hit the floor.

I climbed.

My abs were on fire. This would end one of two ways—and both were going to hurt like hell.

I climbed until my numb fingers could take no more, then, whispering, “Fuck me,” I let go.

And for three glorious seconds, I was flying.

Cyrus

Freya.

Fucking.

Porter.

Anyone but her.

The one soul I owed a life debt to was the same I’d been tasked to deliver to a man I knew nothing about.

Her mask had done its job, perfectly hiding the pale scar on her cheekbone—one that mirrored my own. A shared reminder of the night me and the boys went too far. We’d been cocky little shits, high on the blood in our veins, convinced the Wings were ours for the taking. Titles destined. Power assumed. Our inflated pubescent egos left us blind to consequence.

She’d had every right to leave me in that freezing lake. But our thirteen-year-old victim had risked her own neck to go back in when I didn’t come up. She saved my fucking life. And I’d just repaid her by poisoning her—injecting her with venom that left her powerless.

Once Cali’s drugs turned the Wraith docile, we manacled her tiny wrists and suspended her before daring to strip her weapons. If there was one thing I’d learned about this infernal demon, it was never to stand within reach of her with anything she could use.

I shoved back her hood, releasing a spill of short red hair. My heart clawed into my throat, disbelief the only thing keeping it from breaching.

Then Cali yanked off the mask.

No more doubt.

“Well. I’ll be damned,” Cali breathed.

“Holy fuck,” Carr muttered, pacing. Nix stepped closer, but I shot out an arm to block him.

The last time we’d seen Freya Porter—in that music camp—we’d terrorized her. She’d snapped, slashing wildly with a knife she had no idea how to use but a soul fierce enough to wield it anyway. Nix had taken his opportunity—too eagerly. Even then, I’d noticed her. The way people whispered jailbait behind closed doors made more sense now, knowing a soul had inhabited that porcelain body.

But Nix’s words, his hands…they’d been wrong then. They were wrong now. I wasn’t about to let him cross that line again.

This woman had survived The Crucible. Maybe a lifetime ago, but part of her still bore the Paladin insignia.

And without her, my parents would’ve collected a corpse that summer, not a son. Not an heir to punish for his disgrace.

What Lonan did to her was Lonan’s problem.

A life saved. A debt paid. Imbalance, righted.

And maybe, if I played this right, I’d settle whatever cryptic deal my mother had made with the masked man.

Then I could pretend our paths had never crossed.

That Bellpost’s ghost had never resurfaced.