Page 44 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

I hadn’t.

My glare must’ve said as much because the brute snickered, a ghost of amusement tugging at his lips. It was brief—that crack in his grief before it vanished behind his eyes, the memory of his twin’s death no doubt erasing it.

There was guilt in joy when loss permeated the world around us.

Survivors—left to face a world without so many.

Happiness—no matter how brief—tasted bitter. Like dishonor rather than a basic human emotion. Even when we faked it for those around us, plastering on smiles for mothers and their terrified children or assuring humans that we were making progress.

“I won’t,” I finally whispered.

Judging by the shadows in his eyes, Jax understood more deeply than he was willing to admit.

Clearing my throat, I demanded, “Now, show me what ails you, my handsome friend.”

An unguarded snort. The hint of a smirk, both aimed at me as his eyes softened.

With a begrudging sigh, he stripped off his undershirt.

My breath caught.

Because his little bumps and bruises were riddled with black veining.

“Jax,” I bit out, my eyes snapping to his as he shrugged.

My hands were already glowing above the worst of the wounds when Kenna appeared beside me and went straight to work.

“Nothing my Hazelharborians can’t fix,” he declared, entirely unbothered.

“Seven sisters, Ajax.” I gritted my teeth as my magic reached into the wound, wrapped around the demonic power poisoning his veins, and pulled. The echo of boots against concrete grew louder.

“I’m fine,” he boomed in that convincing baritone of his.

Grasping for anything to discuss other than the demonic curse creeping deeper into his body, I demanded, “Where the hell are you guys from, anyway? You’re not actually Greek.”

He chuckled, then winced as my magic tore at the infection, which only dug its talons into him more deeply.

“We were born in⁠—”

“Dr. Green!”

We both looked up to see Tessa Westerlund, her tight braids swept into a high ponytail, bracing her hands on her hips as though she’d sprinted through the base to the healers’ wing. Those cerulean eyes locked on mine, fear pinching her stunning features.

“August,” she panted.

Jax and I exchanged wary glances before focusing on our messenger.

“We received a distress signal from his suit maybe five minutes ago, and according to his telemetry, his vitals are through the roof.”

NINE

MESSENGER

AUGUST

Four months, four days, seventeen hours since they took my wife…