Page 340 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Be back in five.”

“I’ll be here,” he muttered.

I popped my neck and headed outside. The humidity wrapped around me like wet wool, and for one stupid second I resisted the urge to check my phone again.

She was fine. She had to be fine.

A sharp sting lit up my neck, and I slapped at it—only to feel metal under my fingers. My vision swayed. I yanked a blue dart free and stared at it in horror.

Fuck.

My knees buckled as the ground tipped sideways. I tried to shout for Carr, but my throat was locked up. I flexed my hands, willing my body to fight, but it was like my muscles were underwater.

Two masked figures stepped from the shadows, dressed like Paladins.

I staggered into a defensive stance, but my body wasn’t cooperating. The smaller one closed the distance in a blink, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head up. I couldn’t stop him.

He cocked his arm to strike—and the last thought I had before everything went black was that Freya was gonna be so fucking pissed if I was late.

God knows how long I was out before I came to in a cold, musty stone room. A sliver of moonlight painted the floor. Chains scraped when I moved, my wrists chafed and burning from the metal restraints. I tried to sit up, only to choke on the pain lancing down my spine. Something scraped—metal against metal—and I turned, blinking against the dark.

A hooded figure stood by the door. Broad-shouldered. Not quite big enough to be Lonan.

Slowly, he turned. A low chuckle spilled out as he stepped into the light. That fucking swagger.

No. No way.

He crouched in front of me, blade in hand. My eyes locked on one sapphire and one amber eye—familiar, cruel, and bright as ever.

“I told you this wasn’t over,” he whispered, grinning with all the victory of a vow made good.

Freya

What the fuck.

I tossed my too-silent phone onto the couch and resumed pacing.

I didn’t care for being on this side of the river. Or for the tricks I’d pulled to get inside his building undetected. And I really, really didn’t care for the fact that Cyrus should’ve been home three hours ago. With every tick of the clock, breathing got harder—my body aching like I’d run a goddamn marathon.

Texts—unanswered.

Calls—ignored.

Dinner—threatening to reappear.

Crossing the length of the apartment again, I suddenly understood why Ansel kept that dented cigarette tin in his pocket. Something—anything—to keep his hands busy. To keep from stabbing something.

He was fine. It was Cyrus. He was clever. Dangerous in close quarters. Irritatingly resourceful.

We were fine.

Everything was fine.

With a grumble, I collapsed onto his bed, whispering a silent thank-you that he hadn’t let housekeeping wash his sheets—because every inch of this ridiculous-thread-count duvet still smelled like him. Leather and heat and that subtle citrus he pretended wasn’t cologne.

I suddenly regretted scrubbing his scent from my skin after our…whatever that was. Weekend of orgasms. I hated myself for caring this much. For missing him this much. For aching like he’d been mine forever and not just…briefly.