Page 124 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Jesus—I hadn’t even heard them come in. But there they were. Ansel and Alana Callahan, leaning in the doorway and looking thoroughly unimpressed. You didn’t become Grayshell’s assassins by accident, I supposed. But still.

My soul mother’s jaw was ticking so violently it was a miracle she didn’t have TMJ. My heart grew wings, but got lodged in my throat, making speech impossible.

Reyna straightened like a wilting flower spotting sunlight. Formality seemed to be the only thing holding her together. “Would it be too much to ask for an announcement before you enter my home?”

“That depends on whether you’re capable of keeping our calling safe,” Lana said, striding into the room, eyes pinned on me with barely veiled retribution.

“Apologies. Smelled her blood,” Ansel offered, like that made it okay. As if souls were nothing more than beasts tracking their wounded. To drive the image home, the Old General added, “You know how it goes.”

Reyna inhaled slowly, tightening her robe as though it might restrain her irritation. “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, you both look well.”

Lana huffed and brushed my blood-matted hair away to examine the newly healed skin beneath. Ansel dipped his chin in acknowledgment and said, “We come with news. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in business attire before we deliver it, Queen Gwyne?”

Ass kisser, I thought. And if I wasn’t mistaken, Lana’s lips twitched. But Ansel kept his chin lifted, gaze pointedly above Reyna’s neckline.

“Very well,” she replied curtly, arms still tight around herself like she’d caught a chill. “My son will escort you to the study.”

When Blaz closed the three of us inside Reyna’s office, my soul parents finally relaxed. Lana’s gaze softened with that uncharacteristic gentleness she reserved just for me, her mouth pinched as she scanned me for injuries Carlton might’ve missed.

“Body aches, but I’m okay,” I assured.

“Fucking Adrastos,” Lana muttered, biting her lip.

“I don’t think this one was his fault,” I said with a laugh, gently pushing past her to wrap my arms around Ansel, burying my face in his chest. I exhaled into the comforting sound of his rumbling chuckle. “Hey, old man.”

“Good to see you, babygirl.”

“Can you two focus?” Lana snapped. Never one for sentiment.

“An hour in the Middle would set you right as rain,” Ansel explained, studying me with a little more restraint than Lana—but his chrome eyes were sharp.

I was already shaking my head. “We don’t have time for that. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

“And what, pray tell, was worth spilling your blood this time?” Ansel guided me to one of Reyna’s armchairs, settling in beside me.

“I was going after the reaper’s bullets. We’re trying to figure out how they’re making them before everything goes to hell and we have no way to defend ourselves.” My words froze Lana mid-step, her back to us as she stared into the night. But Ansel’s expression barely changed—just a subtle narrowing of his eyes. A tell I wouldn’t have caught if I hadn’t studied him for a lifetime.

“What went south?” he asked.

“The Stuart boy, I believe. He was after it too.”

“Your prior report implied he was the one distributing it,” he said clinically, concern taking a backseat to duty. In a world of chaos, his steadiness was a godsend.

“That was my hypothesis.”

“Did tonight change your prior conclusion?”

Scratching the back of my head, I replayed my encounter with the Wings and their ringleader. “It might’ve,” I admitted, the words more question than conclusion.

“Walk me through it,” Ansel said. “We’ll see what adds up.”

So I did. In painstaking detail. Because the truth was, I needed eyes on them. I needed a face to go with Cyrus Stuart’s name, beyond the haunted hazel eyes behind his mask. And more than anything, I needed to know whether they were the ones crafting those soul-slaying bullets—or if my old friends were hunting the monsters responsible, same as us.

I finished with Lainalei and Makena scooping me off the bridge and getting me here. Then I pulled my eyes from the dark estate and locked onto the steel of Grayshell’s right hand. He clasped his silver tin between still fingers, the corner pressed against his lips as he thought.

“You hesitated,” he said flatly, no accusation—just truth.

“No, I—” But shaking my head wasn’t enough to dissuade him.