Page 384 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

With a content little sigh, she relaxed into my arms. I did the same now that she was back in them.

Brilliant, psychotic, reckless, ball-buster of a woman.

She’d fucking chopped off Carrson’s arm tonight rather than lose him. How she’d known it would work was beyond me, but it was her quick mind that kept him Earthside. I’d owe her my gratitude for the rest of our lives for that alone.

Whether she’d known what Atreus could do with that sword, I’d find out tomorrow.

One casualty, and her plan was in action. From a strategy standpoint, it was a victorious operation, if not without losses.

Moros fell for Marcus’ impressive imitation Crown—the two of us had collaborated for the last few days to get it just right. To make sure his spellwork held the same gravitational pull as the real deal.

And now, like August said, all we had to do was wait.

Freya

I woke to the blanket of a warm breeze through the window and the song of a downpour so thick I could only have been in the South. Energy still crackled in my veins, vibrating for release against my sternum, like it could buzz its way out. I’d practiced siphoning and releasing a lot of magic in the last year, but nothing hit quite like a roundhouse to the face the way draining a Balaskas did.

Or…

Not a Balaskas.

We had little time to dig further into the Arlo Amadeus theory. Based on the buzzing in my skull, I sure as shit wouldn’t be sitting still and staring at ink on a page.

The soft saw of a snore had me peeling my eyes open and freezing. I expected one blond shadow walker in my bed—his arm heavy where it lay over my hips, the gentle whoosh of warm breath across my hair. What I hadn’t expected was three bonus men, like the start of some crazy porno where they came to fix my copy machine or something.

Carr slept on the sofa in front of the fireplace; an orange tabby cat curled into a ball on his stomach. His new, shiny arm was in a sling against his chest. Atreus fucking Hawthorne and Vik took the accompanying chairs. The sleek black and fluffy white cats that refused to give me any peace were tucked beneath their long legs.

That was a whole lot of testosterone for one bedroom.

And a whole not-a-lot of privacy for a man I owed a conversation.

Swallowing thickly, I stiffly turned onto my back, holding my breath like that would make the creak of the mattress shut the hell up, and finally onto my other side, where I found bleary citrine eyes blinking back at me.

Hey, I pressed into his mind.

Cyrus wasn’t exactly the bestower of smiles. They were rare and hard-earned, and even rarer in the last six months. But he had this way of…

Softening.

Something in his eyes melted away like the last snowbank when the days kissed spring. When the sun finally shoved through the clouds with enough force to strip off sweaters in favor of basking in its light. No pomp. No circumstance. Just… Cyrus. Gentling in a way that made me want to sing like a vitamin D-soaked canary.

Hi, he pressed back. How ya’ feelin’?

Like a raccoon that bathed in espresso.

There it was—a hint of that smile that cauterized the broken pieces of my heart, welding them back together. Hopefully that will soften the blow.

Blow?

We’re out.

Of the closet? Yes, Cyrus, I do believe the burning of the pyre made our relationship public knowledge.

He lazily lifted his hand just enough to give my nose a flick. Of coffee, smartass. I see you’re back to your usual self.

Disappointed?

Spring took a solid back step toward winter, something harsher nipping at the light I was so desperate to earn. Maybe.