Page 273 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Okay. What else?”

I thought of that day on the field. The way he’d paused battle to call August forward. “He likes a spectacle.”

“A propensity for theatrics?”

“Maybe,” I said, thoughts drifting. “That lines up with Aren’s suspicions. He and Ansel think Adrastos will make a move too public for humans to deny.”

“So…city centers, stadiums, concerts, parades,” Blaz guessed. “Gatherings with too many witnesses to mind-wipe.”

My temples throbbed. Oh, this was a nightmare.

“All coming from different angles,” I finished, heart picking up. “Tell you what, kid. If I can’t reach Ally, I’ll look to you.”

“Gotta find a purpose somewhere,” he muttered.

I grinned at him. “You’ll ascend. Just…stay alive long enough to.”

“That’s the part I’m worried about,” he said, shaking his head as he tilted that bronzed skin back toward the sun. “I feel like a sittin’ duck.”

I slogged up the stairs hours later, exhaustion weighting every bone, but gratitude wasn’t far behind. This body was incredible—little, but mighty. Quick as an asp. The last six weeks of struggle vanished the moment Brody fired an arrow and I caught the damn thing. The ability to draw off anyone I chose was a kind of asset I’d never dared imagine.

A notorious thief returned to rob souls of power. A little on the nose for my sense of humor, but fitting. I could appreciate it.

I made it to my room, snagged a change of clothes, and showered. By the time I padded back out in pajamas with my tac suit folded in my arms, a strange warmth still hummed in my chest. Not just physical. Everything felt lighter.

Some days are so…warm? I didn’t have a better word for it—like floating on hope for the first time in months. Bliss, maybe.

I sat at the vanity, setting my gear aside and snatching the vintage silver brush. Each stroke through my cropped hair gave me space to think. Run tomorrow’s priorities.

Then—shadows stirred in the mirror, curling beside the window like night dripping into the room. I dropped the brush, snatched my blade off the desk, turned, and launched it as they solidified.

The second knife was already in my hand when Cyrus deadpanned, “You missed.”

I arched a brow. “Did I?”

Turning to face him, I was acutely aware these booty shorts were no better than underwear—and the oversized Guns N’ Roses tee had swallowed them whole. He closed his eyes, releasing a breath more snarl than exhale.

I followed his gaze to where my knife had pinned his coat to the wall.

“This was expensive,” he growled.

Relief that he wasn’t a psychopath here to kill me gave way to something more bitter. Irritation, sure. But also that twisted, cold slide of terror—unreasonable, unearned…and very much still there.

“And you can afford to have it fixed,” I hissed, storming toward him with my second blade still pinched between my fingers. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I whisper-yelled, smacking him square in the chest the moment I got within range. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

And why the hell did he look irritated with me? He was the uninvited, entirely unwelcome house guest. Reyna would kill him on sight—or worse, use him to blackmail his mother, who’d probably let him die before conceding defeat.

“Freya,” he bit out.

“I can’t believe you—” Another shove, this one sending his shoulder blades into the wall. “—thought showing up here—” I punched what was promptly declared a too-firm bicep. “—was a good idea!”

“Freya,” he sighed.

“How stupid can you be? Do you know what Reyna would do if she⁠—”

He growled under his breath, snatching my wrists in his broad hands and pinning them between us.

“Would you stop?! It’s like getting beaten by a kitten.”