Page 309 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

He balked. “Why would I speak Latin?”

“Seems like something Reyna would insist on,” I muttered as he hefted an entire cart of books into the room. God help us.

“I’ll send it to Dad and Aren,” I said. With every tome he stacked on the table, Cyrus and I both slumped a little more—but we joined him in the sitting area, settling into the cushions with shared dread.

“Might as well get started.”

“Should I call Carr and Cali?” Cyrus asked.

I glanced at Blaz.

He shrugged. “About time for a family reunion.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

FAMILY REUNION

CYRUS

A sharp pain yanked me from sleep—but the flash of blue daggers for eyes had me jolting upright, reaching for a blade that wasn’t there. Freya was asleep, curled into my chest, books draped haphazardly across both our laps after studying until the sun threatened the horizon. I lurched up, a protective hand snapping forward, throwing shadows.

The stone-faced female cut them down with a shield.

“Get. Up,” she snapped, dagger in hand. Her voice was honed steel, her features even sharper—but something about her struck me as familiar. A relative of the Grayshellian Goddess, Fae, perhaps.

A low rumble of laughter followed.

“Freya, wake up,” I barked, tension coiled in my spine.

A mountain of a man stood at the foot of the bed, grinning like this was the highlight of his month. Beside him, a silver-eyed male looked far more likely to slit my throat. But it was the grinning brute who clicked the puzzle into place.

“You’re Aren Amadeus.”

“And you’re dead,” the female snarled, flipping her knife to throw.

“Oh, come on,” Aren said, voice warm. “Like Freya would let her guard down if he were a threat, Lana—honestly.”

“Paladin punk,” she growled, lip curled. Freya stirred beside me, cleared her throat, and joined me—calmer, though not much clearer-eyed.

“Mom?”

“Get up.”

“Let the girl wake,” the dark-haired man chided gently—but his eyes never left me, the warning in them unmistakable.

“Oh shit,” Carr’s voice came from the doorway. He stepped in with Calypso and Blaz, all three balancing trays of food. The blonde still trying to bore a hole through my skull was the only one who didn’t pivot to face them.

“Dad? Aren? What are you doing here—is August?!” Freya was up and moving in two seconds flat, abandoning her book beside me as I followed in her wake.

“He’s fine, babygirl. But we’ve got a mission, and we move now.”

“Fuckity-fuck-fuck,” she muttered, already racing for her armor. I stayed rooted, still caught in the tension between me and the ice-veined woman who’d birthed the girl I⁠—

“Cyrus Stuart,” I said, standing tall, extending a hand.

She didn’t take it. Just flicked her gaze down like the gesture itself was offensive, then met my eyes again with unconcealed disdain.

Aren cleared his throat and stepped forward, nearly elbowing her aside. “Nice to meet you, Prince Cyrus Stuart.”