Page 380 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

It was Alvara’s voice that dragged me from the nightmares. “Get up, please—now,” she pleaded, frantic, throwing something at my feet. “We have to go.”

“Shit,” I breathed, blinking into a deluge of sunlight pouring through the windows. She’d tossed a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed and was already tearing through the closet, yanking out a pair of combat boots and dropping them beside the jeans and T-shirt.

“What’s going on?”

“Your little side piece in there is going to get us all killed. That’s what. We’re going to be attacked—now. Shut up and move.”

That saccharine, bell-like voice, wrapping around words that were anything but sweet, should have pissed me off. It didn’t. Not as Alvara snatched a sweatshirt and started shoving clothes into a backpack with blinding speed. She pulled stacks of cash from a shoebox, stuffed them inside socks, then buried them in the bag—making sure I saw where they went. Then she was beside the bed, stripping bloodied bandages off with quick, brutal efficiency, checking my wounds with the practiced swiftness of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

Only then did I realize the pain was gone.

Had she healed me herself? Had August? Were more of my sisters here?

I didn’t have time to ask, because the woman in question was already yanking a shirt over my head like I was a petulant toddler. The shock finally broke, and I started moving as she lunged for the hoodie.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” She zipped the bag, then tore the bloodstained pants off my legs and motioned for me to hurry. “Listen to me very, very carefully.”

I nodded weakly, shoving my feet into fresh leathers, then the boots.

“There is not a single escape route that doesn’t cost me a member of my family today.” Her throat bobbed, and for a second, her eyes cracked—just enough for the fear to show before it shuttered again. “Every path is a colossal shit show, and it’s his fault. Or—mine, for not anticipating him. For not seeing what he was doing to you.”

She blew out a breath and yanked my hair back into a knot. “You will do exactly as I say—and survive this. I will do everything in my power to make sure it’s not you who dies. Do you understand?”

“No,” I admitted, breathless, as I scrambled to my feet and she looped the backpack over my shoulders.

Then I heard it. The furniture shifting. The familiar voices of my Grayshell family barking orders.

“Why?” I begged. “Just let it be me. If this is our fault, let it be me.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Her voice stayed infuriatingly light, though her words gutted me. “You have a part to play—you’re essential. Not all of us are. And more than that, I will not lose my best friend of all lifetimes. Goddammit, I will see him happy with you. In this life or the next.”

The words hollowed the air, turning my insides icy. Ally seemed to realize she’d said too much. She clapped the backpack and shoved me toward the hall. We moved shoulder to shoulder toward the stairs, her hand wrapped tight around the loop of my bag like she meant to steer me out herself.

“But in order to do that,” she said softly, “you and Aren must survive. Okay?”

She looked at me—really looked—and those piercing green eyes pinned me to the spot. I nodded, throat tight, dread choking every thought since I’d walked away from him.

I knew I’d pissed off fate, but retribution had never come this fast.

We started down the stairs, Ally’s grip anchored to me like she was afraid I’d vanish.

“If I fight him, I fall prey to his commands. I don’t have the strength to break it and survive.” That voice—Bellamy’s voice—hit like a grenade. English. The motherfucker was English. His true voice was a rich, rumbling bass, and it made my skin crawl. Had the accent been an illusion too? Had our entire friendship been one elaborate performance? Seven sisters, the man had softened his godsdamned voice.

Had he lied while buried inside me?

My stomach turned. He’d saved me. Or made me think he had.

Tears welled up, but I blinked them away. “What’s happening? Who’s attacking?”

“Moros Balaskas is coming to claim his ward.”

“Moros?” My shock-riddled brain barely kept up. “His what?”

“Moros of Bellpost. Adrastos is Blood Bound to him—a slave, of sorts.”

“So he’s…not the enemy?” My heart thudded. “What does that mean for my Bond?”