Page 423 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

My heart leapt into my throat at the familiar rumble of Adrastos’ voice. Whirling, I blurted, “You’re… staying?”

He hoisted the dresses in his arms. Godsdamned shadow walkers. “You’ve proven you need constant supervision.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be touched or irritated, but surprise certainly won out. “And you’ve volunteered?”

“It would appear you don’t mind my cousins.”

“Right,” I murmured, shifting on my feet under the weight of that stare. Well, fuck me, how did I explain this?

“I already know about the tapestry, Blythe.”

If I could’ve willed myself to have a heart attack on the spot, that statement would’ve done it. Not that I should be surprised by anything anymore.

“Why do you think I let Barry run to the kitchen? Some secrets are best when kept, remember?”

Fate weavers are worth killing for, after all.

Irritation turning my mouth bitter, I narrowed my eyes on him. “Can you wait outside?”

“I know who it’s for, as well, witchling.”

“Of course you do,” I deadpanned.

“It’s my job to know things, Briar.”

I shrugged, sighing as I opened the passageway I’d glamoured just to be safe. Carefully, I unthreaded the enchantment, watching as it dropped like a curtain to reveal⁠—

“What is this?” Horror wrapped a noose around my neck and yanked with a snap so violent my knees threatened to buckle. Nausea bubbled up, and I swayed where I stood, incapable of summoning irritation when my back settled against a hard wall of muscle, if for no other reason than I felt like I was falling. Falling through a void of rot and decay.

Where once there had been intricate braids of gold and emerald, the exterior of the weave was stained crimson, as though I’d sliced myself open and poured myself across the threads. The center was festering. Rotting, gray threads, like ashes. Like Marlana had used her power on the ropes⁠—

Like any chance of…

“Tell me what you see,” Adrastos rumbled, hand coming to splay over my stomach—protectively or possessively or…

“What is this?” I demanded. “What did you do?”

“This wasn’t me.”

I whirled on him, snapping his hand away and shoving him out of the passage. “Delivering her to that monster wasn’t enough for you?!”

The beautiful thing about anger is that it swallows even the most bone-deep emotions. Devastation, shock, or panic—all easily overwhelmed by fury, which is infinitely more palatable.

Fury I currently aimed at the man in front of me. Fists clenched, I snapped, “What is wrong with you? Why must everyone around you suffer so fucking deeply? Huh?”

“Blythe,” he said calmly, settling his broad palms on my shoulders, dipping his chin to force our eyes to meet. “Show me.”

“Answer me honestly. Did you do this?”

“No.”

“Tell me the truth—” Bell. I choked on the name, a pang of longing lancing through my solar plexus.

My stomach sank. Twisted. I almost slipped up because the man staring back at me with heartbreak in his rich brown eyes looked like the man who couldn’t stop saving me. Like the one who’d fished my damn familiar out of a demon nest and hadn’t bothered to tell me about it. Raven had told me herself after I said something unsavory about the growly bastard. The one who’d brought me the world’s strongest margarita unbidden after an especially terrible shift at the hospital. The man who lost his mind with worry when Mags didn’t come home one night. Who refused to let me out of his sight⁠—

Because he needed us, to bring us to Moros, I chastised myself as a ball formed in my throat. I studied his eyes, the sincerity there, all the while a scream built in my chest, because even now, even here, I knew better than to believe a single word he said but…

“I didn’t do this, Blythe. Not even I’m cruel enough to alter the ropes of fate.”