Page 264 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

I found nothing. But Alvara stilled.

Her eyes were closed. Hands raised slightly. Then, slowly, she began drifting left through the crowd.

And there they were.

Amid the blur of New Yorkers, one woman stood perfectly still. Silver hair spilled to her ribs, cruelty etched into the slant of her smirk. Beside her stood a man, just as unsettling. Navy jacket with gold embroidery. Pale, statuesque. They looked like mirror opposites—male and female, carved from the same mold.

Unmoving.

Unnatural.

Watching.

Ally was shifting before I was, drawing two blades with a growl as she shoved through the crowd. The woman turned with a serpent’s smile before slipping, unhurried, into the nearest alleyway. The man beside her, stone-faced and silent, followed without a word.

We rounded the corner seconds later to find the alley empty. Ally charged in anyway. Her eyes were wild, scanning every crevice, every rooftop, every shadow.

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t look like they were strangers. You’ve seen them before?”

“In the dreams,” she admitted breathlessly. She dropped to one knee in the center of the dark paving stones and picked up a black feather. Straightening, she stared up at the vacant night sky and blew out a shaky breath. “Fuck. It’s him, August. In the dreams—he’s the one who tortures you both. He’s the one who saw me. Who knew I was there.” She spun in a slow circle, scanning rooftops, clouds, anything. “Are they just taunting us now?”

“I don’t know, love.”

“Who am I, August?” Her voice cracked, raw and small. “Where did I come from? Are they all as wicked as my brother?”

I had a sinking suspicion that Adrastos might be the reasonable one of the bunch. If Agamemnon was the bar, we were in trouble. “Still no name?”

“No,” she whispered. “Whoever wove the bind was powerful. Way stronger than me. I’m in over my head, and I know I’m supposed to be your second and help rally a strategy, but I’m drowning, August.” The sky broke open, an icy rain pelting our skin, but she didn’t flinch—just tipped her head back and let it hit her.

“Baby, you’re not supposed to be anything for me other than what you are.”

I plucked the feather from her fingers and tossed it aside so I could fill her hand with mine. I pulled her in close as the emergency exit of the theater clanged open behind us, a wedge of yellow light slicing across the alley. An attendant stepped out, lit a cigarette, and squinted at the storm like it had personally wronged him.

“Perfect timing,” I murmured, glancing down at her. Rain streamed across her cheeks, darkening her lashes. Slowly, I began to sway to the faint music drifting out the door.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice barely audible over the storm.

“Dancing with my wife.”

“But August, the rain⁠—”

“Didn’t bother me on that battlefield. Not about to stop me now.”

Her lips trembled before curling into a smile that lit her from within. She leaned into me, head resting against my chest as we rocked together in the cold. I would’ve given anything to freeze time—just keep her there, warm against me, the beat of her heart syncing with mine.

We moved through that sliver of calm carved between chaos, the two of us alone as the downpour erased everything else. The chill soaked through my clothes, but it was clarifying—a jolt of sharp reality.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“What doesn’t?”

Mind to mind, I whispered:

Who they are. Who you were. You are mine, Ally. You are the second-in-command to Commander Aren Amadeus. The sixth ascension of Grayshell’s third coven. The Angel of Death. Your past lives don’t define you. This one does. And anyone who thinks otherwise can answer to me.