Page 232 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

I didn’t need to hear him down the line to catch his point. With a sigh, I leaned down to press a kiss to Magnolia’s head.

“Go check on her,” she whispered.

“You sure?” I breathed.

“He seems to be,” she said with a small, almost relieved-sounding laugh.

With a groan, I muttered, “Damn cats. So fucking bossy.”

A great paw batted me in the chest, sending me staggering back a step and Magnolia into a cackle.

I didn’t miss the playful spark in Jason’s eyes at the sound. Couldn’t blame him. Her delight was infectious.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I muttered.

With a harrumph, Jason lay down where I’d just been sitting, no doubt absorbing my body heat through the floor. His tail flicked in annoyance or dismissal—I wasn’t sure which. With a sigh, I snatched the journal, handed it to Mags, and went to find my brother’s widow.

FORTY-FIVE

THE CHANGING OF HANDS

BLYTHE

137 days…

Two days.

For two days, I didn’t see, hear, or think about Adrastos.

Okay. That was a lie.

He was all I thought of. Mostly because once my anger faded, fear kicked in, and I realized how little sense his words made. I tried knocking on his door the second morning for round two, but he didn’t answer, and Bartholomew ushered me to the healers’ wing to help with an influx of more lightning-strike wounds.

For two days, I brewed the tincture in the bathroom cabinets, using bowls and a ladle I’d swiped from the kitchens. It wasn’t a cauldron, and it certainly would’ve been easier with a pestle, but if Nat taught me anything, it was how to think on my feet. If Mags taught me anything, it was to use whatever was at our fingertips and figure the rest out along the way, because no one was coming to save me but me.

On the third morning, the potion’s rich ruby took on a nearly iridescent quality—hints of silver and gold catching the sunlight as I rotated the bowl beside the window. I’d find some vials in the infirmary and swipe a few over the next couple of days to keep it on hand. Could never be too careful—not in these mothercursed walls, where rape was thrown around so trivially it lost its threat.

Not that I’d admit it, but the bastard had made his point.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know I’d been absolved for some godsforsaken reason; it was that I couldn’t look at his smug face without my magic bellowing a barbaric demand for his blood. I couldn’t lock on those rich chocolate eyes without seeing every lie, every deceit, every incurable injury inflicted on my family—Grayshell’s family.

That anger clouded my common sense so severely that I forgot to ask perfectly rational questions. The fact that I’d been cooped up in this room for months on end only lent kindling to the fire.

But he was right. It could be worse—much worse.

Branoc. Kennon. Odessa. I hadn’t seen her since Adrastos gave me the stone. Moros either had her chained to his bed, or she really was as skilled a shifter as Kennon said, because I’d never even spotted her at mealtimes.

If the brothers were alive, were they even on the estate?

Of all the places I could’ve snuck out to—of all the hallways I could’ve walked down to learn more about our enemy—I’d bolted toward Alvara, as if I could make a lick of difference for her in this hell.

Stupid. So stupid.

I’d just tucked the potion away behind stacks of folded towels when a knock sent my heart creeping up my chest and into my throat. I straightened the linens in a rush and whirled for the bathroom door, stepping through just as Adrastos entered, scanning the space as if he expected… something.

Something he clearly didn’t find as he lazily flicked his eyes up to me.

Seven sisters, it was hard to swallow.