Page 251 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

Pain. Endless, soul-rending pain.

Golden-hazel eyes stricken with agony. A metronome heartbeat under my fingers.

Cyrus…claiming me as his mate. Offering absolution.

Oh God. He’d meant it.

My heart bolted. Like it could outrun what had happened—what was still happening.

Cyrus and Calypso, cleaning the blood from my skin.

Jo and Calypso, guiding me into the clothes I now wore.

Long stretches of darkness, interrupted by citrine eyes watching from above a book he wasn’t reading. A quiet gathering of Paladins at the foot of the bed.

Talking about me.

Lying for me.

Fuck me.

“Where is Cyrus?” I asked again, this time sharper—my voice one thread from unraveling. I turned—and found myself face to face with Calypso. She’d stepped closer without me noticing, now holding two cups of coffee, lifting one toward me.

Behind her, a gorgeous espresso bar gleamed—copper and warm wood, with a milk frother to boot.

Last time I saw this woman, I was strung up in chains. She’d watched like it was a chess match.

“I added something stronger,” she said. “Seems like it’s gonna be a long morning.”

“First—thank you,” I said, accepting the mug and sniffing it deeply. No way I wasn’t checking it first.

She grinned. “If I was gonna poison you, we’d have just left that bullet in your chest.”

“Touché.” I took a long sip. Bailey’s. Definitely Bailey’s. A warm, blessed burn followed. So—Reaper bullets could be survived, apparently. If you got to them fast enough. I didn’t want to know how many hadn’t.

“Second—why are you being so nice to me? Third—how long was I out? And fourth—where is Cyrus?”

“First, you’re welcome. Second, because I always liked you. After you ransacked my labs, you returned everything—and your notations were wildly helpful. Genuinely. Unconventional, but effective. After Cyrus filled me in, I chose to forgive you,” she said, rapid-fire, her breezy Southern cadence somehow making it all harder to absorb. “As for three—you were healin’ for about twenty-four hours. Then you dropped into an ascension sleep for another sixty.”

Sixty?

“Cyrus didn’t wanta’ leave you,” she added, “but if the plan’s gonna work, he had to act quickly.”

“Plan?” I asked, gulping down mouthfuls of the burning liquid. Sixty divided by twenty-four was…God, I was not awake enough for math. Just over two, plus one for healing.

Three and a half days.

I’d missed three days.

As if realizing it flicked a switch, my body suddenly screamed in protest—my stomach trying to crawl up my spine in search of food, my throat dry as the damn Sahara.

“Start with coffee. Let me summon Cyrus—he should really be the one to explain everything.”

“You know, I, uh…” I set the cup down on an antique side table, head spinning. My heart pounded. If Reagan got her hands on me, I was twelve kinds of dead. I needed out. Abort mission. Finding a door home with Aren suddenly sounded like the greatest idea I’d ever had. Better that than getting my throat slit. Again. “I should be going. Really. Thank you—so much—for, uh, not killing me, for the clothes, and the coffee.”

“Freya.” Her voice softened. Sympathy carved a fine line between her brows. “Cyrus went to great lengths to ensure you’re safe here.”

“Right,” I muttered, more scoff than statement. Great. I mirrored her careful calm and tried for sincerity. “I appreciate it—truly—but I need to go home. Trust me, you don’t want my brother banging down your door looking for me.”