Page 329 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Mine. Thrust.

Mine—thrust.

“I said fuck me, Cyrus,” she demanded, her heels digging into my ass. I chuckled against her lips and then followed her order. Who the hell was I to deny her?

She made the most perfect fucking noise as our bodies slid together, my thumb coming to press against her clit. Each thrust was a claiming. A promise. A prayer. My hands eventually roamed her skin, finding every freckle, every scar, every perfect line. My name on her lips wrecked me. Her trust buried the blade deeper.

She’d warned me she could break me.

As her cunt pulsed tight and her scream echoed off the walls, I knew she already had.

One final pump—and I came, a bellow tearing from my throat with her name carved into it.

I was so fucked.

SIXTY-ONE

HOURGLASS

FREYA

Based on the angle of the sun, we’d contentedly reveled in becoming one congealed tangle of limbs for at least an hour before Cyrus pressed a kiss to my shoulder and abruptly left.

“Cyrus?” I breathed, weirded out when he said nothing. Sitting up, I braced myself on my elbows, peering around the corner into the ensuite bathroom he’d vanished into. Was he…rummaging through her shit? “Cyrus?”

“Uh—gimme a sec.”

“Get your ass back in here,” I complained. “What are you doing?”

“One minute, dammit!” Something clattered—bottles, maybe—and a cabinet slammed.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I muttered, “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?”

His voice echoed from what I assumed was the closet. “I thought your kind didn’t use that name that way.”

My kind. Rolling my eyes, I sat up and pulled the comforter over me, as if modesty could buffer the creeping awkwardness promising my imminent demise. He just…left. What the hell was he doing?

“Blythe is a new friend. Please don’t raid her cupboards.”

“I’ll leave her cash.” What? What was he even talking about?

“Uh, listen Stuart,” I muttered, sliding off the bed. “That was hot and all, but⁠—”

“Sit the hell down—” Was that a faucet? “I’ll be right there.”

Narrowing my eyes, I—naturally—ignored his demand and padded forward on tentative feet. My body was singing, the space between my legs deliciously sore, my soul finally soothed after what had decidedly been the worst night in any incarnation. As it turned out, nobody had ever exaggerated how terrible it was to watch your mate dying. Zero out of ten, do not fucking recommend.

Apparently, my resistance to the concept of a Mate Bond shackling the son of my killer to my soul didn’t interfere with the thing commandeering my heart.

And as it stood, I was in no way, shape, or form ready for him to stop touching me—every caress a reminder that we’d gotten him out. That Aren and Ansel had stabilized him fast enough for Aren to sling him over a shoulder like a sack of grain and get him to safety.

Fuck, I needed to replace that memory with more of him above me—the weight of him the sweetest sin I’d ever willingly made.

“Cyrus,” I hissed, popping my head around the corner like a nosy, apprehensive meerkat.

My breath hitched when I stepped into the bathroom. His beautiful, tattooed back faced me, biteable ass on proud display as he poured something into the tub. I rolled my lower lip between my teeth, admiring the view. Lean or not, every inch of him looked sculpted from clay. Cyrus stepped back, nearly grinning as bubbles foamed to life in the water rapidly filling the basin.

Tears shouldn’t have stung my eyes, but the maybe-not-an-asshole had lit tea lights around the tub. A towel was laid out on the floor. Lavender oil hung in the air. It smelled like one of those pretentious spas August used to send Layla to.