Page 274 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Tell that to your Achilles.”

“It healed just fine.”

“Answer me.”

He flashed a crooked grin that tugged left, but his flat, unreadable eyes killed the act. “I was just dying to see you and couldn’t stay away,” he said mockingly. “Is that what you wanna hear, Porter?”

“No, you asshole. I want to know why you’re in the heart of Bellaton territory after Nix nearly started a war, and I told you to wait for my goddamn call.”

I shoved again, and he chuckled low in his throat—then abruptly shifted his grip, anchoring one arm and wrenching me around with the other. My back hit his chest, my arms crossed tight over my own ribs. A chill skittered up my spine as he lowered the scruff of his cheek to my ear.

“Technically, I was the one who suggested waiting for your call,” he murmured, breath ghosting hot across my skin. “And you’re a hell of a lot more pliable with your guard down.”

He shoved me forward, and I whirled on him, heart thundering. Brows lifted, he looked skyward like he was begging the heavens for patience, then reached down and yanked my knife from the wall—and his jacket.

Holding it up, he glared at me. “Rude.”

Rolling my eyes, I sauntered forward and plucked it from his outstretched fingers. “You know what’s rude? Appearing in someone’s bedroom like a fucking poltergeist.” On that note, I was absolutely altering the wards on this room because what the actual fuck. I turned on my heel and marched back across the space. “So,” I snapped, flicking my fingers to cast a bubble shield around us. “Why are you here?”

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, mouth ajar like he could see the spell. “Fuck, you learn fast.”

“I remember fast,” I corrected, turning to face him and plopping into the armchair beside the balcony. “I was just waiting on my damn power-up, thank you very much.”

“Right,” he muttered, wincing as he shrugged off his peacoat.

“Focus,” I said, snapping my fingers like I was training a particularly stubborn dog.

“Just a long day, okay?”

My eyes narrowed. “M’kay. And why aren’t you with Fluffy?”

“Freya,” he growled, hurling his coat onto my bed as he lumbered to the chair beside mine.

“You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks, ma moitié,” he drawled.

“I did not miss needing to translate insults in two languages, let me tell you.” That earned the smallest of smiles as he crossed one wrist over the other and planted them on his forehead, leaning back until he overflowed the chair like a grown man squeezed into a kindergarten seat.

“What the hell happened to you, anyway?”

“My mother.”

My blood simmered. I huffed, tugging my shirt lower over my thighs even though his eyes were closed. “What now?”

“Cali and she got into it, and—like an idiot—I jumped in the middle. We both ended up running gauntlets all day.”

“Jesus,” I breathed. I’d only run a gauntlet once in my Paladin years, during battle prep: one soul against six Wings, or a Guard team, on repeat with no rest. Just wave after wave until you either collapsed or bled out or begged for death to come quicker. Officially, it was a training exercise. Unofficially, it was punishment via performance.

Clever, really.

To fail was dishonor. To fall and not rise before the next wave? Dishonor. To do anything but fight? Dishonor.

So, essentially, she wanted to humiliate them—then remind them who they served.

“Nice. Very maternal of her.”

“Mmf,” he harrumphed, and as I studied his profile, I realized he was rapidly fading—each breath slower than the last.