Page 253 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Oh, will you please shut up?” he bit out, knuckles whitening where his hand hovered over his blade.

“I don’t think I will. Tha⁠—”

“Freya!” he barked, the sharpness of it cutting clean through my tirade. I went still. “Listen to me. Cyrus had to act fast to keep you here and not in a cell. You get that, right?”

I looked around again. Took in the room. The art, the espresso bar, the castle-sized bed.

And it hit all at once—what he’d done. What they’d all done.

Calypso stepped forward, her voice gentler than his. “What my cousin means is—we know this is overwhelming. Ascension’s hard even when you choose it. But Freya—Cyrus defended you. He stood in front of the council. He dueled Nix.”

The floor disappeared.

Vision spun.

Chest tightened.

Head pounded.

Heart raced.

Fear dug into my ribs with its claws and tried to rip out what little calm I had left.

When I finally managed to speak, my voice barely existed. “Is he⁠—?”

“He’s fine!” Calypso rushed to say, stepping closer. Concern darkened her eyes. “He won.”

Why did those two words hit me like a punch to the sternum?

Relief geysered up, unbidden and unwanted. My eyes stung, breathing shallow.

I didn’t even like the bastard.

So why did I care that he was still breathing?

The relief soured quickly into guilt.

“Nix is…” My gaze shifted to Carrson. He didn’t look grieved—just pissed.

“Exiled,” Cali said, concern yielding to a flicker of anger. “Mother forced Cy to yield, but he won, Freya. Gloriously. It was dicey for a minute—always is with a proper match—but he came out on top.”

My hands gripped my head, as if that could hold the information inside. “I think I sit now.”

A breathy laugh escaped her as she guided me to a settee beside a coffee table stacked with treats.

She was being nice. But there were few things I loathed more than feeling like someone’s punchline. And if she wasn’t Cyrus’ sister—and hadn’t just kept me from falling off the edge of existence—I might’ve punched her square in the throat.

This wasn’t funny.

Nothing about this was funny.

I was vaguely aware of her gently pressing my head between my knees, rubbing my back. Vaguely aware of Carrson growling about what the fuck was wrong with me, and Cali scolding him for being an insensitive asshole. But the toilet bowl that was my brain was already spiraling. Fast. And I was the captain of this shit-boat circling the drain.

Because my killer’s son was my mate.

My killer’s. Son. Was my mate?

No.