Page 413 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Mine.

A groan that sounded an awful lot like that fucking word ripped out of my chest as I finally came inside her, hot release painting the deepest parts of her… and it would never be enough.

Only after I’d emptied myself in her core did I collapse beside her, wrapping my arms around her limp frame and turning her onto her side, yanking her against my chest. She was my perfect little fucking spoon.

Fit me like a damn glove.

We drifted in and out of consciousness, wrapped in each other, for what was likely a few hours before I finally—grudgingly—leaned back just enough to trace every ridge of her spine. The dimples at her lower back. Memorizing each tiny freckle painted over her creamy skin.

“Well,” Freya sighed contentedly. “If Paris fucked anything like you do, I can’t even blame Helen for starting that war.”

I chuckled into her short hair, grateful she’d left just enough length for me to get my fingers into it. Pushing it off her face, I ran my hands down her neck, her shoulder, her arm… and paused.

Like a switch had flipped, a light went on in the recess of my brain.

“What happened to Paris?” I’d asked when my mother knew our enemy as Lonan.

“Ask yourself that again later, little historian.”

Paris.

Paris of Troy.

Paris, the prince who couldn’t keep his hands to himself and fell in love with Helen of Sparta. Paris, the idiot who spirited her away from her husband and handed the Greeks the pretext for the war they’d always wanted.

Helen. The face that launched a thousand ships. Shackled to a monster—a fate worse than death—watching a civilization burn for her, helpless to stop what they’d set in motion by bringing her inside those famed walls.

I’d tossed the lore of Troy aside because it was too obvious—not nearly underhanded enough for the prince of many names.

But had…

Had Adrastos known he’d bring Alvara behind Bellpost walls that day in my office? Or was Helen… Blythe?

Had he known his actions would bring about the fall of their fortress—had he known August would burn everything in his path to get back to his mate…

“Cyrus?” Freya said, turning to look at me, concern pinching her pretty little features.

“What did you just say?”

EIGHTY-THREE

THE PITS

ALVARA

“Why am I the only one in these leathers?” I asked, not for the first time, as Marlana gingerly braided my hair. She was a bit slower than usual—her fingers not quite as deft, as though whatever bastard had put a blade in her shoulder had struck truer than we knew.

As if damage still lingered within the tissue and sinew, just beyond the healer’s reach.

“I believe Ro is trying to trigger your past lives, El.” Even her voice seemed frailer than it had been, and I glanced down as she checked the bindings on the armor strapped to my chest before straightening the peculiar leather pleating of the skirt. Ancient, somehow. Even if I couldn’t explain how I knew it, I did. Apparently, it was Bellpost’s belief that new souls were to cut their teeth in the ring, against traitors to the crown. I was no different.

They’d started me on weaklings—women just as emaciated as I was—gradually bringing in opponents with more muscle on their frames, better gifts in their veins. I still wasn’t particularly… healthy looking. Whatever I’d endured at the end of my mortal life had left its scars. But much to Marlana and Moros’ pleasure, I took to a blade better than I took to speaking.

It felt… like an extension of me, rather than a weapon.

I nodded, straightening as irritation simmered. Naturally inclined to violence or not, somehow it felt… belittling to be made a spectacle of, even if it was tradition.

“And those were…” I prompted irritably.