Page 62 of Commanding Blood And Bonds
“Oh, piss off,” he chuckled. “Thought we could use a mood shift. Big guy here looked like you nearly gave him a coronary.”
“That’s because he’s being a baby,” I said sweetly, aiming the jab squarely at Alastair.
“Chivalry,” he began, lips pursed in protest.
“Is dead. Or needs to be. This is survival, Alastair.” I turned back to Blaz. “I don’t like getting punched in the face, but I’ll take pain if it shakes the magic loose. You could help too. You don’t need power to scare mine into showing up.”
Blaz tilted his head. “What do you mean, scare it?”
My ridiculous chaperone sighed. “In desperate circumstances, or when an ascension is proving particularly…stubborn, Aren discovered we could—”
“Beat it out of people,” I cut in. “Let’s not sugarcoat it. It sucks, but it works. And I’m not made of porcelain. We heal fast, so who cares? If the world wasn’t ending, Aren would’ve done it already.”
“If the world wasn’t ending, you’d be in The Middle, and this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”
“Because August didn’t need a few hard shoves?” I snapped. “Aren practically threw everything he had at him trying to bring his memories back. And even now, he and Ally are still dredging.”
I stepped closer—not that it made much of a dent, considering Alastair’s seven-foot shadow was still looming. “If I fail to ascend before the war hits, we both know what that means.”
What I didn’t say—what I wouldn’t say—was that if I couldn’t ascend before I challenged Reagan for her throne, it wouldn’t even matter. I’d be dead long before the battlefield.
Dismantling the Crucible’s assets, I could handle. That was strategy. That was calculation.
But challenging a Paladin matriarch without power equal to or greater than hers? That was suicide. Even if I won, it’d be labeled treason. Disrespect.
And I could live with that.
As long as Reagan ended up in the dirt. If the Paladins knew the full truth—the treason she’d committed, the dishonor she’d been hiding for the last three decades—they would honor my claim. But that required surviving first. And this half-ascended, half-mortal meat sack wasn’t going to cut it.
Alastair looked pained, dragging a hand through his ash-brown hair, eyes lifted skyward like he was asking the creator to bail him out.
“You do realize your brother and your father are two of the scariest motherfuckers alive?”
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “August is harmless.”
He arched a brow. “Tell that to the Renown.”
Okay. Fair point.
“Well. He’s harmless to you.”
Still unimpressed, he cracked his neck and muttered, “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when they lose their goddamn minds.”
Refusing to let him change his mind, I threw my arms around his middle and buried my face in his chest as Blaz stared, wide-eyed.
“Thank you. Thank you. Now please—fuck up my face.”
“What in the Lord’s name happened to you?” Reyna snapped, her disapproving Southern twang cutting through the stillness like a blade.
Loose strands of blonde hair framed her bruised face, the braid she’d worn tucked into itself now frizzed and battered. Fair skin was streaked with sweat and crusted blood, purple bruises and shallow slices already stitching themselves closed. I bit back the retort look who’s talking.
After several painful, unsuccessful attempts to force my magic to rally, I’d retreated here—her study—when Alastair refused to keep pummeling me. The overgrown paperweight had unceremoniously thrown me over his shoulder, dumped me in the foyer, and taken up residence at the dining table with tea and a twin-worthy scowl. I’d staggered to the kitchen for coffee, water, and whatever would numb my aching pride before taking refuge in Reyna’s office.
Now, as she surveyed my wrecked face, her gaze slid to the offerings laid neatly across her desk.
“And what are you doing in my office?”
“Sparring,” I muttered through a jaw that felt like it was still rearranging itself. Fucking broken ascension. Fucking Adrastos. “And delivering your order, Commander.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Mission go poorly?”
