Page 383 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Yeah, Bug,” August said hollowly, though his eyes were still glued on the water like he expected Alvara to walk up behind us. “It worked.”

“He took The Crown?”

“He did,” Sire said. “One casualty on my side. No Grayshellians lost by our last count. A few injuries.”

“We lost…” Freya sucked down a sharp breath, her hands fisting against my armor.

“Gio,” I finished. “We lost my Wing-Lieutenant.” And I was the goddamn fucking asshole that gave him hell for the last six months. Not that I could say that. We all had enough shit to deal with already. I didn’t need their pity.

“You have my deepest condolences,” Sire said formally, his jaw feathering.

“You both have mine,” August said, eyes hardening where they fixed on the horizon.

“What now?” Freya breathed, trying and failing to lift her face off my chest.

“Now, we wait,” August started. “The blight⁠—”

I shook my head. “Tomorrow, Porter. We regroup tomorrow.”

Those anguished emerald eyes snapped to my face, and he gave a jerky nod. “Yeah. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”

I dipped my chin and jumped the fuck out of that hell hole. We made our way across the Luminark Manor grass and up the stairs without seeing a soul. The quiet creeped me out, hackles rising until we got inside and found the guards all surrounding an ashen Carrson and exhausted-looking Atreus. There was a huddle hanging onto Cali and another with Jo. Some were crying. Others were blatantly in shock, staring at nothing. I hadn’t seen them like that since we heard Portia’d been killed in The Middle.

Gritting my teeth, I found Orion in the crowd and jerked my head toward the door. Get somebody who’s coherent back on the fucking patrol.

On it. He nodded tightly, making his way for the exit himself. Orion hadn’t ever been fantastic with emotional whiplash anyways.

Freya fought to clear her throat, rasping, “I should⁠—”

“Shut up, Commander. You’ve done enough.”

“They need⁠—”

“They’re fine.”

“Carr—”

“Is still looped around the assassin, debriefing the Wings.”

“He lost a fucking arm⁠—”

“And is alive because of it.”

“The blood loss⁠—”

“Leave the healer shit to Jo, will ya’?”

“Are you… are you mad at me again?”

“Tomorrow, cher. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Bossy Cyrus is hot,” she noted dryly, and a laugh burst out of me before I could contain it. Her eyes flew open, landing on my face. I jostled her gently.

“Tomorrow.”

A little smirk played on her lips, but her lids reluctantly fell closed, and I used my chin to tuck her against my chest. By the time we got to her room, she was half-asleep in my arms and didn’t even seem to mind as I stripped off her armor piece by piece—a mountain of blades now on her bedside table.

I slipped into bed behind her, gritting my teeth when I found her still feverish. I wrapped my arms around her, pressing my bare chest to her sweltering back, and called up my ice as slowly as I could.