Page 155 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

To place our people first.

To place the war first.

Especially now.

Ansel, Saraya, Alastair—all dead. Alvara in enemy hands. Brody would become my successor, Alec our interim second-in-command. Except August fucking Porter had other ideas. Our little rookie ordered Alec to stand the fuck down. To do as Ally commanded and live long enough to raise his daughter. With Commands issued and our hands tied, my autonomy mattered to the mission more than it ever had.

My confidence that Grayshell could carry on without me? Gone with Ansel and my second. Burned with the boats I never saw crumble into the sea.

Ally’s last order was to get our people back to Grayshell. Lead from the front. So that was what I’d do.

Regret covered every inch of my mate, but her choices were minted. So were mine. Feelings be damned, we were both ordained to finish the paths we’d chosen on the night of the equinox.

Unable to say any of that aloud, I cupped her stunning face between my palms and pressed my lips to her forehead. A shudder tore through me when she melted into my touch.

Something between a sob and a gasp escaped her as she climbed into my lap, sending propriety straight out the window.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her no.

Didn’t have the strength to not wrap my arms around her as she straddled me, hands flying to my nape, my hair, my face, needing to touch every part of me—make sure I was real.

And I sure as shit didn’t have the discipline to stop her when her mouth crashed onto mine.

Relief, adoration, need, terror—they hit all at once, burning through me like liquor swallowed far too quickly. Her desperation—her acceptance—soothed something that had shattered when she rejected our bond. Ally had been right. Mags ran because she was scared. After centuries leading souls with every imaginable gift and every variety of bullshit, I was mortified my second had needed to mediate between my head and my heart. I knew better. Should’ve known better. Advising someone through fresh heartbreak was an entirely different game than bleeding through it yourself.

If she’d panicked and run on any other night, my instinct to give her space wouldn’t have been catastrophic. Timing damned us as much as fear.

But her touch—her need for me now—made one thing painfully clear. I wasn’t alone in this. Not really. Maybe I never had been. Maybe neither of us had a fucking clue how to navigate it, but at least we were damned to be lost together.

My hands found her waist, dragged up her side, and my body flared to life beneath her touch. I parted her lips with mine, needing the taste of her, the feel of her. She answered just as greedily, fingers tangling in my short hair, one palm pressed possessively to the back of my head as though she’d keep me there if I tried to pull away.

The world could’ve been burning around us and I still would’ve wanted her. Heat bloomed as I wrapped her hair around my fist and tipped her head aside. Canines lengthening, heart pounding, I fought the need to mark her and instead peppered kisses down her throat, teeth grazing her clavicle before my mouth found the tattooed curve of her shoulder.

Mine.

In this life or the next, this brilliantly terrifying soul would be mine.

Mags rolled from my lap onto the bed and pulled me with her until I hovered over her. Her hands clawed at the hem of my shirt, desperate for bare skin.

Taller. She’d gotten taller in her slumber. Leaner too, much to my displeasure. My body adjusted easily enough, but I swallowed her whimper as my palm skimmed the unfamiliar contours of her dips and curves.

Fuck, I needed her. Needed to take her. Claim her. Remind us both how fucking good we were together. The way her legs locked around my hips and her nails raked my back told me she was just as desperate to drown reality in connection and smother heartache beneath pleasure.

Then her hand closed around my erection, and reality caught me by the throat. I froze, trembling with restraint as I broke the kiss and rested my forehead against hers.

“We can’t,” I panted, the words bitter medicine—necessary and foul. “I can’t.”

She sucked in a breath and went rigid, though her hands stayed on my face, silky thumbs tracing beneath my eye where a scar I’d guarded for centuries no longer marked the skin.

“I can’t,” I repeated, watching silver flood the aquas seared into my soul.

“Fucking Guardian Bond.” She gave a jerky nod as tears spilled. Fuck, they nearly killed me.

Her hands settled against my chest, pressing lightly as if to guide me away.

I couldn’t. Not yet. Couldn’t let go.

My fault. Mine that fear got the better of her. Mine that I’d never learned how to be direct without worrying I’d spook her. How had I led souls for centuries with so little conflict, only to fumble the one that mattered most? Worse, there was no fixing this now. Only finishing it.