Page 98 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Necessary. It was necessary. That General had whipped a mortal man half to death, had relished the sight of Moros sliding that blade over his throat. He’d stood beside that son of a bitch and fed off the human terror seeping through the square, saturating the air.

One of three beside the king before he vanished, according to Ryker, the rebel leader’s son.

Which meant he knew where Ally was. Knew where my wife was being broken bit by bit—my mate, alone in this bottomless hell.

He had to.

Still. The motherfucker wouldn’t give me shit. He wasn’t immune to pain—his agonized screams as I broke him apart certainly rang in my head enough to prove it—but his loyalty to his King outweighed his need for self-preservation.

Or… his fear of him?

He smiled when Ford Ashborne screamed—a retired Navy SEAL. Task Unit Commander. Two Silver Stars. A beloved rebel leader. A husband and father.

Necessary.

If only the bile in my throat could get the memo.

“August?” My sister’s voice sounded just outside the door—hesitant, nervous. And I hated it. That small sound coming from a woman larger than life.

I flexed my shaking hands and balled them into fists. Cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

“We’ve gotta move.”

“Yeah,” I repeated, cracking my neck before I slapped on my best attempt at confidence and opened the door to find her leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one boot propped against the baseboard. We’d ducked inside the Ashbornes’ abandoned business to clean up after the skirmish. We might’ve beaten the enemy back for now, but their hold was too strong here to linger without asking for trouble.

Jade eyes met mine—hollow, the spark of hazel around her pupils nearly gone entirely.

I hated it.

“You alright?” she asked, always seeing too much.

“Fine,” I huffed, wishing I had pockets to slide my hands into to hide their trembling. “You?”

“You know,” she shrugged, “peachy.”

That had been her default answer for months now. Since Santa Bloom. She never cared to elaborate—just changed the subject when I pressed for more. Family trait, apparently.

Clearing my throat, I asked, “Are they here?”

The Northern Paladins were supposed to be the territory guardians here. And we’d responded to a rebel call for aid—and reports of the goddamn king himself in the heart of Asheville—only to find a war hero strung to the executioner’s post, his back a slab of raw, bloody meat.

More than enough reason to knock on a Commander’s door, in my opinion.

“Waiting for you,” she said, her dainty, calloused hand snapping out to latch onto my wrist. When I turned to face her, Freya threw her arms around my center, and I froze, the contact jarring after the atrocities of yet another slaughter in another city under Balaskas rule. I clenched my teeth and sucked a breath through my nose.

Wrong.

Wrong to touch her with the same hands that had just carved a man apart after slaughtering more than I bothered to count.

And maybe she wasn’t the little girl with the frog anymore—maybe the infamous Wraith had sins of her own she was atoning for—but to me, she’d always be my baby sister. Precious. Mine to protect.

Likely too much time passed for fine to be believable, but I exhaled heavily and reluctantly wrapped my arms around her slight frame. She buried her face against my chest, and I jammed my eyes closed to stop their burning. I bowed my head against hers, wrapping her up tighter, breathing in the citrusy scent of her short hair.

My shoulders eased slightly, and I dragged in another steadying breath, clinging to her like the life raft she’d always been.

My Freya.

The one bright spot left.