Page 330 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Cyrus?” I asked, unable to hide the emotion from my voice.

“Come here,” he breathed, extending one long arm toward me.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I dropped the comforter, lifted my chin, and closed the distance. He pulled me into his beautiful inked arms—heat seeping into my skin—as he traced gentle fingers across my back.

“What are you doing?” I murmured, a cold flicker of fear scraping down my spine. Smart Cyrus, I could handle. Primal, erotic Cyrus? A sight to behold, though I was trying very hard to forget why he was so good at that.

But sweet Cyrus? That was fucking terrifying.

“Thank you,” he breathed, not answering the question, but still managing to make my knees buckle in a way I resented. Weak. This man would make me weak if we kept down this path.

Wrinkling my nose, I muttered, “If you thank me for my v-card, my ovaries will shrivel into microscopic raisins.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “As much as I’m relishing knowing I’m the only man to fuck that pretty pussy, no. That’s not what I had in mind.”

“Oh. Well. Do carry on then.” Blessedly, my tone was light despite the flush heating my cheeks. Look, I’d had lovers in past lives—none of them shabby—but what the actual fuck had that soul-altering, mind-melting insanity been? I was pretty sure I’d glimpsed the pearly gates before spiraling back into my trembling body.

“Thank you for saving my life. Again,” he added with a rueful smile that turned my pulse traitorous. “Would’a been a shame to miss that.”

“Agreed.”

“And thank you for trusting me with your body. Hottest moment of my life.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the smile from breaking through. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? It hadn’t been intentional—just the natural result of every boy my age being a fuckwit not worth my time.

Once I ascended, my intolerance for their bullshit had made so much sense.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then turned toward the bath, fishing a washcloth from the water.

“Stay.” With that single command, he knelt, sending a conspiracy of tiny ravens fluttering in my chest as he pressed a kiss to my sternum and lifted the cloth to my skin.

“You don’t⁠—”

“For once in your fucking life, Freya, just let it happen.”

A snort caught in my throat at the warning in his tone. Swallowing the panic swelling in my chest, I shut up and let him lift one calf, angling my leg to clean the inside of my thigh with agonizing gentleness. Then, with painful precision, he repeated the process.

By the time he finally rose and tossed the cloth aside, I felt more stripped bare than when I’d been splayed out on that bed for him. He guided me into the tub, and I groaned as the heat enveloped my body—sting trailing across sore skin.

I looked up at a man who was more deity than soul. Cyrus’s luscious hair fell loose around his shoulders, lids heavy with lust, that satisfied curve ghosting across his mouth. That mouth—the one that had mapped every inch of me like a cartographer at war with God.

And that cock. He’d filled me with a pain so sweet I’d thank him for splitting me in two.

Damn, he was tall—languidly stretching above me as he leaned one forearm against the tub’s framing wall. Every lean line, every tendon beneath inked skin, had my mouth salivating. He stared until I gave him the faintest nod.

Then, without hesitation, Cyrus climbed over the lip of the tub and slipped in behind me—long legs wrapping snugly around my hips as he hissed at the heat.

“Is it a universal trait that women wanna bathe in Satan’s seventh spa?”

Chuckling, I said, “You guessed correctly.”

That was it. Without another word, we shimmied down to fit his lanky frame into Blythe’s oversized tub, his arms wrapping around my chest as we both leaned back until the water reached my sternum, lapping gently at the emergency drain. Clearly, this place had not been designed with Paladin-sized males in mind.

My eyes slipped closed as his lips found my neck. He nibbled at my earlobe, kissed along my jaw, drawing a hum of satisfaction from deep in my chest. He cupped water in his palms, pouring it over my collarbones, soaking my shoulders and chest before reaching for soap. Lathering his hands, he brought them to my skin—softly cupping my breasts and lavishing my nipples between slick fingers.

“Didn’t take you for a sap,” I murmured, craning my neck to kiss his jawline in thanks. Every touch felt divine. Unfair.

“I’m not. Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, squeezing my hips between his thighs. “I’ll blame it on the almost dyin’.”