Page 42 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Not mine, Green.” Bellamy’s corded arms bulged where they crossed over his chest, a chuff of humor leaving him. “Look closer.”

The nomad waited patiently while I studied the board. Only when I drew a breath of recognition—one move from doom or one from victory—and snapped my eyes to his stony expression did the beautiful bastard smile, something like pride tilting his lips.

“When defeat appears to be one move away, victory often is too. It’s up to you whether you exploit the opening.” He uncrossed his arms and reached up to yank the tie from his hair. “So, what are you going to do, Sweetheart? Take the opening or keep playing defense?”

I bit my lip, found the ring on my middle finger, and twisted it as I reassessed my position. Swallowing the anticipation lodged in my throat, I nodded and made my move. “Checkmate…”

Crimson coating the blade impaled through Alvara…

“You’re faster without me. Go! Bring the injured to the parking lot…”

I sucked down a ragged breath, my mind wrenching me back into my body. Pulse hammering, skin clammy with cold sweat, I jolted upright.

I squeezed my eyes shut and fought to steady the hot rasp of breath clawing through my ribs as I pulled my knees against my chest.

Breathe.

I needed to breathe.

In for four. Hold for five. Out for six.

Good girl. Do another.

My eyes stung as my mind conjured Aren’s voice from the depths.

Always his voice.

Swallowing a sob, I repeated the pattern. Once. Twice.

By the fifth, my heart had slowed, and I blinked away the film separating me from the world. Somewhere beyond the fog inside my mind, the sounds of the bunker filtered through the vents. Chatter. The screech of chairs. The distant scent of what had to be Chef’s French toast.

My stomach growled mutinously.

One by one, I pressed my short nails into the pads of my thumbs, feeling the sweet bite against my fingers. I breathed through the sharp sensation, stopping just short of breaking the skin. Sometimes physical pain was my mind’s best anchor in a sea of endless grief.

War was an atrocity I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

Refusing to remain idle as the Devil’s plaything, I rolled out of bed and planted my feet on the cold floor, scrunching my toes against the concrete for something to grasp. Something to ground me.

The hardest thing I’d ever done was lose Aren. It was an agony previously unfathomable. Indescribable. Haunting every breath and every beat of my heart.

My fault.

My fucking fault.

The second hardest was getting out of bed every godsdamned day to fulfill my promise to him. The days were long. Often, I worked an entire shift at one of the mortal hospitals before returning here to help wherever I could.

By the time I reached the medical bay, Kenna was already sitting in the chair beside the door, her brown eyes fixed vacantly on the opposite wall. A thin sheen of sweat glimmered across her rich tawny skin beneath the steady fluorescents.

“How’s it been?” I asked, making a beeline for the steel sink beside her to wash up.

“No new names on the fatality report. Two GSWs. Recovery progressing as expected.”

Death remained silent, so I nodded as I dried my hands, tossed the towel into the hamper, and collapsed into the chair beside her, still exhausted. Letting my head loll sideways, I caught Kenna’s weary gaze.

“And?”

“And nothing. You look dead inside.”