Page 254 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Nope. Nope. Hard pass.

I hadn’t clawed my way back to this realm for a reunion. I’d come to return the favor—end the one who ended me. Reagan Stuart had broken the most sacred of the Accords, and I was going to hold her to it. I didn’t give a damn if fate had decided to play matchmaker in the meantime.

Reagan Stuart. Must. Die.

“Freya.”

I did not crawl out of Satan’s asshole of a crypt for giggles and a good time. No. I’d finished two of my trials. I’d reclaimed a relic, at great personal cost, and returned it to the bloodline. And the first trial—the one that started in Uptown—still wasn’t done. I needed that platform. Needed to take back what was mine. Assuming the oracle believed I still had the power to do it.

God. What if I didn’t? What if this body hadn’t grown the way it should’ve? Could a soul come back weaker?

“Freya…”

To my knowledge, reincarnation meant upgrades. More power. More gifts. More knowledge. There was no fear in death because every rebirth carried forward a sharper blade. But now my chest was pounding, fingers tingling as ice roared through my veins—and something else. Slithering. Familiar. Serpentine. Power I hadn’t felt in years, rippling under my skin like a beast uncaged.

“Frey—”

If I couldn’t win—couldn’t beat her—then all of this was for nothing. I’d have to run. Abandon everything. Tell Ally, tell Aren…and disappear into the North. But even then, they’d hunt me. I’d secured Bellaton, but that was just one piece of⁠—

A thunderous crack shattered the room.

My head snapped up, hand flying for the metal tray on the table. Fight first, process later.

Cyrus stood in the doorway, hazel eyes wide and locked on mine. Panic radiated from him.

Then I heard the thuds.

Cali and Carrson were on the floor. Crumpled. Motionless.

I shot to my feet.

“What the fuck—what’s happening?” I choked out.

Cyrus was already moving, pushing through some invisible wall with his eyes squeezed shut like he was in agony. I backed up until the bed hit the backs of my knees, heart hammering as I looked between the two fallen bodies.

“Pull it back,” Cyrus gritted out.

“What?”

“You’re…draining them,” he gasped, staggering as his hand clutched at the armchair for support.

I blinked. No. No, I⁠—

Oh, fuck.

Siphon.

I was siphoning. Stealing their power.

“No.” It came out as a gasp—a feral, cornered thing with too many teeth and nowhere to go.

Cyrus stumbled toward me, hand flying to his ear like something inside had burst. “I won’t…let them…you’re safe,” he wheezed, his hands suddenly cupping my face, as if by touching me he could force stillness into the storm. “You have to stop. Find a safe space. Anchor yourself, Freya. Or you’ll kill us.” He cradled my cheeks, his hands warm and disproportionately gentle. His skin, too pale.

His thumb stroked the scar we shared, even as the color drained from his face.

I shook my head. “I don’t have one,” I whispered, panic unraveling every breath. “There’s never been one.”

Not in this life. Not in any.