Page 187 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“I know,” she said, almost defensively.

“For all her bullshit, Freya... she really does love our people.”

“I know that. I’m just... surprised you do.”

“Hard to miss.”

“So. What now?”

“Get some rest, sis.”

She deadpanned. “For you, Cyrus. You all but screamed at Atreus. I half expected you to mark your territory.”

Expression just as flat, I turned to look down at her. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Was I wrong?”

“I didn’t say that. But I’m surprised he didn’t push her on it once you left. Freya started demanding answers, and he didn’t question shit about your tantrum. He definitely found it odd that you and Carr are so loyal.”

Not ready to unpack the rest of that, I groused, “It was not a tantrum.”

Cali shrugged half-heartedly. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“I’m the head of security.”

“And I’m her second. You don’t see me pissing in a circle around her.”

“You’d have to leave your labs and report for duty to pretend to give a shit.”

She scowled at me. “I’m at more meetings than you are.”

“I’m present when it’s necessary.”

“And tonight?”

“Was necessary.” When she arched one skeptical brow, I insisted, “I was just doing my job.”

“Yeah. Well. Good luck with that.” She gave my shoulder a solemn squeeze, then jerked her chin toward the stairs. “I’m gonna catch up to Jo. She needs rest.”

I stood there until her footsteps faded, replaying the night and trying to figure out where the hell to start. I still had no answer when I headed for the war room. Around the corner, silence pressed against me. Every step felt like walking into the face of a storm—electric, heavy, charged enough to raise the hair on my arms. I shoved through the doors and found the room empty.

Except for Freya.

Still in that dress, she sat in her usual place at the head of the table, elbows on the marble, hands braced together with her forehead resting against them.

“Tomorrow, Cyrus.” She didn’t bother looking up.

“Freya.” Pain cinched around my throat. I hated that I cared. Hated how little sense it made—not about this bond, not about the fact that she looked so exhausted I could kill every Hawthorne just for putting that slump in her shoulders. Not when she’d rivaled my mother’s soul across so many lives. Not when her betrayer’s blood ran in my veins. None of it made sense. I was furious with her and still wanted to do whatever it took to make her smile like that... for me.

“Please. I can’t do this right now. I need to think.”

Ma moitié. And she was aching.

The thought stopped me cold. I hadn’t let myself look at her that way. How could I? How could she?

Too much had happened. And wanting someone like that—trusting them, relying on them, building your life around them...