Page 253 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

I scanned the water, trees, cliffside. Nothing. No friend or foe beyond the bird now pelting Cyrus’ chest with pebbles. Nothing to explain how the hell they’d gotten out of the river.

Both men were battered. Bleeding. Cyrus’ wings bent in so many wrong directions I almost didn’t want him to wake. But God, I needed to know he was okay. Alive. That brilliant mind intact.

“Cyrus.” His name came out prayer, breath, command. None of it mattered if he was breathing. “Cyrus, come back.” Tears rolled unchecked down my cheeks as I clung to his armor despite the blood soaking through. “Come back. Please. God, Cyrus, please. Come back and hate me for another day. Tell me how stupid my plans are. I… I need you. I need to tell you your dumb ideas about the Roman are ridiculous but kinda brilliant, and I think you might be onto something.”

A rattling groan snapped my eyes wide. My hands hovered helplessly as I funneled what little healing magic I’d managed to siphon into his chest.

“Say… it again.”

A desperate sob ripped out of me, hands snapping to cup his face.

“Someone… write that… down.” The cracked gasp felt like knives in my own chest. “Date… it.”

“What?” I whimpered, tears spilling onto his armor as a desperate smile fought its way onto my face.

“You… said… I was right.” Every syllable sounded agonizing.

Another sob broke loose as I threw myself over him, pressing my head to his chest.

“Ow.”

“Shut up,” I sniffled.

“Ma moitié,” he rasped, one hand settling between my shoulder blades. I bawled into his chest while his thumb traced slow lines over my back. So softly I almost missed it, Cyrus whispered, “You came.”

“Always,” I breathed, afraid speaking louder might shatter whatever panic-born truce had settled between us—whatever concussion haze let him touch me without flinching away. Because the truth was, it really was that simple.

When he’d promised he would always come for me, it had sounded inevitable. A sentence handed down by some asshole in the sky. But sitting there, counting every hard beat of his heart, I finally understood it was a choice. Every damn day, I could choose the bond or walk away.

He’d been given the same.

And through all his grief, anger, and every knot of confusion I could feel down the bond…

Through all the bullshit in our heads neither of us knew shit about verbalizing…

Cyrus hadn’t gone anywhere.

He’d stayed.

He answered every call for aid, every mission, every half-baked scheme, and watched my back. Begrudgingly. With fewer words than a mime most days.

But he didn’t walk away.

He’d sensed something wrong, disobeyed a direct order, and come for me at the lodge.

Fuck, he’d just thrown himself off a cliff to save August.

Sucking back a cry, I snapped, “You beautiful fucking idiot.”

“Your… brother?” There it was. Not The Great Commander. Not King Calloway. Not even August.

Jesus Christ, I felt like an imbecile.

“Breathing,” I confirmed, watching August’s chest rise and fall beside us.

“Good… gonna… kill ’im… later,” he groaned, feathers rustling. A laugh escaped me—raspy, desperate, closer to hysteria than humor, but seriously, what the fuck?

His hand stilled against my back.