Page 100 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“What now?” I asked, once I could trust my voice not to crack.

“Now, we scan your biometrics into the system, and I show you around. If shit hits the fan, Freya, you get our people here. Should something happen to Ally, you bring August.”

There were worse fates, I supposed, than joining their ranks as a secret keeper. At least this way, the three of us would have each other—just like Ally, Aren, Alec, and Fae did. Like August did now. Maybe my timing hadn’t been an accident. Maybe I’d come back to shoulder the burden with the ones who carried it best. And the fact that he chose to share it with me?

That was everything.

I nodded, throat too tight to speak. He glanced at the screen, and I lifted my hand. Ansel chuckled and guided me over to the reader, scanning my prints.

“Now,” he said, fingers flying across the keys. “While the system’s doing its thing—what was it you said you needed our help with? Ally has Aren and me meeting with mortals all week, but tonight is yours.”

I flashed him a watery smile, scrambling to pull the mission back to the front of my mind.

Reagan. Right. Reagan was going down—before the horsemen opened the gates. And if I had to burn every thread she’d ever woven to do it, so be it.

“Reyna says Reagan’s son is obsessed with history. Our history, specifically. But apparently he’s not above collecting rare items and tomes, mortal or otherwise. Think anyone in the coven has something that might lure him out if I dangle the right carrot?”

Ansel studied me for a long moment, weighing something behind his eyes. The machine chirped softly, and he dropped my hand and entered another command.

“I can think of a few things we’ve picked up over the years,” he said at last. “But first—are we getting the carrot back?”

“I make no promises,” I said, grinning. “But I’ll do my best.”

With a wry smile, he turned back toward the door. “You gonna tell me why we’re baiting her kid if you’re not planning to use him as leverage?”

TWENTY-ONE

ROGUES

CYRUS

The black leather of my gloves creaked as I tightened my grip on the arms of the metal chair. Round and round, I rolled a strawberry-flavored hard candy across my tongue, eyes locked on the psychopath tied to a matching chair across the interrogation room. Chin dipped, mask up, I watched Nix lower into a squat, two Wings flanking the perp as he screamed behind a blood-soaked gag.

Luckily, the masked man’s tip about O’Haire had panned out. Unfortunately, that meant I had to deliver on my end—and he didn’t strike me as the patient type.

I had to admit, it was a refreshing change not being on the receiving end of my cousin’s brutality. Watching him stalk the metal table of instruments, pacing like a tiger about to pounce, was almost enjoyable. Mother might not have sanctioned these side missions, but our Heiress had. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say the smile in his eyes meant Nix was enjoying this.

“If I take out your gag and you scream, I’ll pluck your fucking teeth out one by one,” he said flatly, pliers dangling from his hand. “Your whining hurts my head. Things that irritate me don’t get to keep existing. Got it?”

The wide-eyed bastard nodded frantically, whimpering around the gag. Nix yanked it free and offered a bottle of water—more mercy than he deserved, and a waste of plastic, if you asked me. After wiping a mix of blood and spit from his face, Nix stared him down and repeated the question.

“Where are the kids, man? Simple transaction—save your life, give me a location.”

The beauty of Nix’s warped view of balance was that it kept him flexible—especially if it meant dishing out some justice. He’d never admit it, but the way he lit up around my cousins’ kids told me the dickhead might actually care.

And while we might not have known what to do with a bust the size of the O’Haire ring, luckily enough, I knew of a rather uptight pain in my ass that might.

Not that it mattered. This piece of shit wasn’t walking out of here. Nix knew it. I knew it. And judging by the pinch of Spencer O’Haire’s brow, he knew it too.

“I-I d-don’t know anything,” he stammered, eyes darting from Nix’s hooded face to ours. Still squirming in his restraints, wrists rubbed raw. Nix pressed a hand to the bullet wound in his leg, and O’Haire squealed like the pig he was.

“I swear, you’ve got the wrong guy!”

“Hear that, Nightwatch?” Nix said, head tilted, voice mockingly bright. He turned just enough to meet my gaze. “Got the wrong guy.”

I sighed, glanced at the clock, and rose slowly from my chair. My eyes stayed locked on the target as I strolled toward the table of instruments, rolling the candy in my mouth. I grabbed a crowbar without ceremony, crossed the room—and swung.

Bone shattered with a sickening crack. His hand, still bound to the chair, caved under the force of the blow. Nix flinched back just in time to dodge the blood spray, but no one else moved as the perp screamed.