Page 276 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“All the time.”

“You’re mostly tolerable after coffee, according to Carr.”

“Cujo can mind his own business.”

“He has been. Fate marked you as our business. He filled the gap when I couldn’t get control of myself.”

“Grief is a cruel companion, Cyrus. We can’t judge ourselves too harshly.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Make excuses.”

“I assure you I’ve done far more egregious things while grieving my loved ones. Like. I dunno? Tying four grown-ass men to a pyre.” I flashed a wicked smile that seemed to hit him like a bullet to the chest. Wrong thing to say?

He huffed out a heavy breath, then worked the candy across his tongue for a few minutes. I wielded every ounce of self-control to let him. He was talking. That was more than I could ask for in the last months.

“I don’t know how to do this.” The admission landed heavy between us.

“Me either, dude. We weren’t exactly given the best role models.”

“Stop. I mean it. I am not my parents.”

“I know.”

“Their bullshit doesn’t fix this.”

“Neither does pretending they gave you the tools you need right now when they obviously left you to your own devices. Ansel and Lana are amazing souls, but… they taught me shit about communication. I’ve been averse to touchy-feely shit in every incarnation since.”

“Touchy feely shit?” He arched one golden brow.

“That is the official clinical term for whatever we’re attempting here.”

He just held my stare—for so long I shifted on the edge of the bed, my neck beginning to protest the angle.

“Come here,” he finally breathed.

“What?” I gasped, confusion pinching my brows together.

“Come here,” he repeated, slower this time. When I didn’t move, his hands found my waist. Tugged. My heart climbed my throat like a crawler through the sewers. I was pretty certain it was about to force-eject itself from my mouth when he gave my hips another firm pull.

Tentatively, I rotated, easing onto the bed. Careful not to crush his wings, I followed his lead until I straddled him.

Too much.

Too much eye contact. Too much of his hands roaming over my waist, slipping beneath my shirt and sending oxygen flooding into my lungs like he’d broken a dam I hadn’t known was starving me.

Cyrus gently settled me onto his hips, and my hands found the chiseled plane of his stomach. I traced the dips of his Adonis belt without thinking, butterflies throwing a rave in my belly at the contact.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispered, but his hands tightened on my hips when I leaned away, confusion and hurt a toxic cocktail in my chest. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said again. “Words aren’t my strong suit. At least not the kind you speak.”

“As opposed to the kind you think?”

He squeezed the sensitive space where my abs met my hipbone, and I squirmed at the tickle. The fucker just smirked up at me. “As opposed to writing, smart-ass.”

“Oh. You gonna compose a limerick for me?”