Page 111 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Watch your mouth,” I growled, hiding the ache his words shot through my blood. I remembered. Remembered that spark of light—of hope—when her voice slammed through my head. The instant the bond clicked. And now…

“Or what?!” He stalked forward. “The woman enslaved your father—forced him to kneel. Wielded her Command over you and Cali. Time and again. She was a cruel queen at best, and a fucking cunt⁠—”

Anger climbed through my ribs, and my fist cracked into his jaw. He stumbled back, but those eyes didn’t ignite when they lifted to mine. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his skin.

“You’re lost, man. And the worst part is she fucking did it for you.”

“Don’t kid yourself into believing she wasn’t planning this outcome from day fucking one.”

“Oh, she was. But the drama? The theatrics? The pyre? That was for you, Cyrus. She turned her mission into a spectacle because that treasonous bitch hurt you.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Look at me,” he growled. I locked onto those dark blues, heavy with bitterness. “Far be it for me to defend Maleficent, but here we fucking are. She has the skill set to infiltrate this manor ten times over. In and out. Slit Reagan’s throat in her goddamn sleep with none of us the wiser.” He ignored my flinch. “But then none of us would’ve known. She picked her trials to serve the people. To expose the truth. And I found her in your apartment that night two seconds from ripping her hair out because she couldn’t find you.”

I deadpanned. “She’s a world-renowned actress, Carr.” Every legend said so.

“She’s your mate, asshole. And when she realized what they were doing to you—” He shook his head and stalked toward the bench to yank up his shirt. “If you’re gonna be mad, be mad at me. I coerced her into tugging on that bond. Not Freya. Me. She refused to accept it without telling you everything, and Cali and I forced her hand so we could get a read on you. Find you. Make sure you were whole. Make sure we had time to strategize.”

All I could do was stare at him and absorb the quiet fury in his eyes. At me. At the situation. Whatever the hell it was.

“If she cared—if we became more important than the mission—she would’ve told me.”

“She tried, man. The queen beat her to it.”

“She should’ve told me,” I repeated, the words stuck on a loop while the memory of her scheming burned behind my sternum.

“So you’re conveniently forgetting that your own flesh and blood—your goddamn mother—had you torn to pieces? Let my brother carve his fucking name into your ribs and beat you bloody? That’s what dragged the Wraith out of hiding. The same Wraith you drooled over in every legend for her cunning and ruthless dedication to justice and balance. You cannot fetishize the idea and condemn the reality, Cyrus. Freya held true to her character, and somehow you’re shocked.”

The whole goddamn situation was fucked. So fucked I wanted to rage at him just for saying it aloud. Of course I hadn’t forgotten. How the hell could I?

“You know what?” he muttered, shaking his head as he yanked the shirt over it. “I hope she picks him.” My stomach dropped, but he wasn’t finished. “I hope Atreus is twice the prince and thrice the man you are, because this is pathetic. And my queen deserves better. Maybe the prince of the assassins will stand in her grief instead of leaving her to face it alone, because I dunno if you’ve noticed, Cyrus, but your mate is in agony.” He turned away and stalked toward the doorway. “She might swagger and slap on smiles in the field, but what happened to you—and then in that ring, in Santa Bloom after—broke her. And you abandoned her to it.”

And with that, my cousin marched from the room, still shaking his head.

I stared after him, jaw aching.

Betrayal burrowed deeper into my spine, threatening to snap it in two.

My chest throbbed where that bond had flickered so briefly, a deep bruise wrapped around my soul.

Because she said she’d consider it.

And Goddamn me for giving a shit.

TWENTY

THE PRISONER

ALVARA

It was remarkable how quickly they left me alone, if only to pray.

A pious girl, devout in her faith, evidently earned the solitude I so desperately craved. I glanced over my shoulder one last time before pulling the edge of my cloak over my head and stepping out into the rain.

A servant’s cloak. Whether she’d noticed it missing, I did not know. I would do my best to return it before she had need of it.

The cold bite of fog caressed my skin as I hurried through the brisk evening, head lowered to avoid the eyes of passersby who might recognize my face. Though plain, the smuggled garment was warm—wool fastened with a simple brooch.