Page 331 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“You did die, jackass.”

“Still mad?”

“Nothing your dick can’t remedy.”

A laugh rumbled through his chest, rich and pleased. “I’m gonna thoroughly enjoy this arrangement if that’s how we solve arguments.”

I grinned—not that he could see it—as I leaned back against him. Slowly, I laced our fingers together, palm to palm, and raised his right hand to examine the hooded angel inked across the back of it. Always watching. I turned his arm, scanning through thick wings for the hidden blade. I’d always wanted to ask about the seraphim wings, but after seeing all of Cyrus Stuart, that was no longer the tattoo that squeezed my ribs the hardest.

I would not lift his arm to study that thigh piece. I would not lift his arm to study that goddamn thigh piece.

Nope.

I’d add that to my list of shit to ask the big papa in the sky—if I ever made it there.

Thankfully, Cyrus broke the silence before I could spiral further into symbolism that probably wasn’t even there.

“You gonna tell me what the hell happened while I was out?”

Where would I start?

The soul-rending desperation of watching him try and fail to claw his way back? The hoarse scream that ripped from my throat when Tessa finally overrode the system and that damned plate opened? The panic of not being able to drag his body into the hall before remembering the shadows could do what this vessel never could?

Giving him CPR as the color leached from his lips. One insane instinct to dive into the depths of my well and haul out the electricity I hadn’t realized I’d kept from August.

The stuttered rise of his chest. My guttural sob of relief. The blinding rage that followed.

So many men—Renown and Bellpost alike—slaughtered like animals as my gift eviscerated them, ripping out their power like plugs from sockets.

Aren and Ansel descending like wrathful angels.

Blood. Crimson and black.

Crawlers.

Eleven hours of pure, unrelenting fear that he wouldn’t wake. That my pride had robbed me of something sacred.

Throwing myself at Blythe’s feet and begging for her help.

Clearing my throat, I whispered, “Maybe tomorrow.”

The sound of his teeth grinding was audible. I reached up, stroking his jaw. “Real,” I breathed.

“Real,” he echoed, hands sliding to my waist as he sat us both up. In the next breath, he turned me to face him, eyes drinking me in. Slowly, he shifted me into his lap, gaze locked on mine as he guided his dick to my entrance, notching the tip in place.

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to.

My choice. Still mine, always mine. And he’d honor it—whether or not I continued.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, held his gaze, and lifted myself before easing down, taking him inch by inch through the sweet, sharp bite of stretched skin. The metal beads of his piercing dragged along my inner walls with sinful precision, and a moan bloomed in my chest as I slid down until he was buried inside me.

I gasped, filled entirely, and that stupidly handsome cheek lifted in a restrained grin as his hands worshipped every inch of slick skin they touched.

But it was those citrine eyes—flashing between mine, suddenly unguarded in their quiet pursuit of something eternal—that undid me completely.

And I willingly spent the day losing myself in the son of my enemy.

Freya