Page 296 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

She’s…different, I thought lamely. Lacking a more apt word, I added, Fragmented.

It felt cruel. But Magnolia Green’s mind was a mosaic: jagged and colorful, soldered together by something stronger. ‘Different’ didn’t begin to cover it.

From one moment to the next, my access to her psyche shifted drastically. When emotion surged, her mind opened wide. I could dissect it—her love, her guilt, her dread—all laid bare, puzzle pieces easy enough to place. But something else restrained her. Something I couldn’t name. There were glimpses of surface-level observation and sentiment, but not the depths. And beneath it all, a haunting sense—like she carried the residue of a thousand battles, none of them kind. A shadow I could only ever associate with death. But that couldn’t be. She was a new soul, woven into a fresh body. There was nothing in her demeanor to suggest she’d survived war. Had she absorbed it? When her mother died? Or perhaps her sisters’ tragic deaths left an imprint deeper than I could see.

The trouble wasn’t merely that Magnolia was written in a foreign language. It was that—even now—with her and Blythe in the same room, I could not separate them in any future I glimpsed. Every vision where she existed, Blythe was present. Every triumph, every heartbreak—constant.

They were so painfully entangled, I had never seen anything like it. And our coven was nothing if not interdependent. So, that was saying something.

Blythe—the little blonde healer—radiated warmth in every sense. Like Aren, everything she did was saturated in sincerity: her laughter, her awkwardness, even her discomfort. I envied her presence. Her mind was crystalline—open water, all the way to the bottom. Her reading would be fully saturated in color, should she offer it.

You’re staring, my love, August thought, amusement rich in his tone.

Very astute.

Maybe…don’t? he offered playfully.

I canted my head, but did not look away from Magnolia. Love for Aren and Blythe, even the Callahans, poured from her in palpable waves. One name kept surfacing—Bellamy. Worry. Fear. Guilt. The emotions alternated, dredging him up again and again. My palms itched to touch her and unearth his memory in full. I didn’t care for the loyalty she assigned him, though gratitude, perhaps, explained it. He was her protector—and I needed to understand how their threads intertwined.

I did not avert my gaze as I projected my inquiry toward the Old General seated across the room. Ansel, have you met the Bellpost nomads?

Two of them.

How many are there?

A small coven. She names three.

Bellamy…

Barry and Smith I’ve encountered. The third’s a detective. Frequently occupied.

Can we arrange a meet?

We need every capable soul we can find, he replied. I believe, should you ask, Magnolia will be inclined to assist.

I scowled as no vision came. Confusion tightened my focus on Ansel. I wouldn’t be so certain.

Visions still unreliable?

They’ve improved, August interjected. But it varies, depending on her energy reserves.

Your encounter with the serpent depleted you?

I shook my head. No. At least, I didn’t think so.

Blythe rose from where she sat beside her sister and ambled toward me, all sweetness and sunbeams. She was careful not to brush against my exposed skin, her thoughts telegraphing her intention as she summoned a hoodie from the rack. I slid my gloves on, softening my expression as she settled beside me, grinning.

“Aren says you and August are Soul Bound, in addition to being mates. Is that true?”

Confusion prickled as her thoughts drifted toward threads, stripes, and tangled lines. But my heart stilled when I sensed her belief that our Bond was incorrectly tied.

No fucking way. I only knew one other person that could see destiny’s ropes.

Narrowing my eyes, I asked softly, “Fate weaver?”

Her oceanic eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder, nervous.

She doesn’t know, I thought into her mind, amused by her blinking surprise. Come now. You knew exactly what I was when you stepped through that door.