Page 137 of Fallacies

The smoke that rises around us, I realize, is the same shade as his irises. It moves in swirls—just like the pigment in his eyes. Like it’s part of him.

I grit my teeth in frustration as he shifts his grip, and my brows furrow when he moves to press his fingertips against the inside of my wrist. My fight gives way to confusion.

“For the nausea,” he whispers.

Then my world goes dark.

33

Lucina

Iwake up groaning, sore from my temples down to my feet.

Cracking my eyes open, I wince at the dim lighting of the room. It’s bright enough to send a throbbing wave of pain through my head. It’s the world's worst hangover—minus any actual fun.

I’m in the same chair I woke up in last time, but instead of watching me from the door, the Hound has made himself comfortable on the two-seat couch in front of the fireplace. He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white undershirt, exposing marked ivory skin. There are three black bands inked into his flesh, circling his left forearm, and on his right is a faded silver marking. My vision is too blurry to truly make it out.

And I’m too focused on not puking to care any further.

I watch him through half-lidded eyes, feeling like I might have the upper hand for a moment—observing him while he thinks I’m still good and unconscious.

I’m not sure what I think I’ll find, but who knows what he might reveal if he thinks no one is watching.

Currently, I’m battling between the reputation that precedes him and what I’ve witnessed firsthand. For me, his reputation consists of stories told at Selumira. Myths. Legends. It seems wrong to believe in those over what’s sitting right in front of me.

But who is sitting right in front of me?

The tendons in his forearm flex as he raises a glass of what looks like whiskey to his lips. He stares intently at the fire, his other arm slung over the back of the couch, thumb mindlessly running across the leather stitching.

His expression is pensive enough that it makes me wonder what thoughts have him so engrossed. What does someone like him even think about?

Maybe that he’s wasting his time helping the girl stumbling her way through the Estate with a plan that she’s too stubborn to admit she needs help executing. Maybe he’s thinking it isn’t worth it—being an accomplice to my murders.

But I didn’t seek him out. He found me. He offered advice I didn’t ask for, and he’s gone out of his way to assist me ever since. I’ve offered him nothing in return.

The Hound swallows whatever he’d taken a sip of, rolling his lips together as if to savor the taste.

Then he looks at me.

My heart stops.

“Would you like some?” He lifts his glass in offering.

I pretend like I’m not startled, forcing myself up straighter as I glance at the full decanter of amber liquid. Every movement sets my head pounding. “No, thank you.”

He knew I was awake.

Lowering the tumbler back to his leg, the Hound refocuses his attention on the fire.

“What is…snaring?” I force out, gripping the armrests when a wave of nausea rolls through, twisting my stomach. “And why does it feel like death?”

He snorts. “It’s a means of travel.”

I raise my brows expectantly.

“It’s a power of mine,” he explains. “It’s intended for capture and transport, and it feels like death because your body isn’t meant to travel that way.”

“Great,” I exhale, closing my eyes for a moment.