Page 143 of Fallacies

“My hand? No.”

“The magic, asshole.”

I’m only vaguely aware that I’ve just called the devil’s right hand an asshole. I’m too focused on not doing it again when I see his mouth twitch.

“No.” He shakes his head. “It won’t hurt.”

Before I can lose the morsel of courage I’ve found, I take his hand.

His skin is cool compared to the heat seeping through mine. I was expecting it to feel rough and calloused, but his hand is soft. Firm.

Shifting his grip, he slides his palm down my wrist and wraps his fingers around my forearm, covering it completely.

I swallow against the swell of fear in my throat and move my hand to mimic his hold. My fingers barely make it halfway around his arm, my thumb resting over the first band in his tattoo, and I swear the mark is thrumming. Vibrating with a heartbeat of its own.

I don’t realize how intently I’m staring at it until he speaks, his voice startling my focus.

“I’ll start, and if I say something you don’t agree with, speak up. There’s no undoing this, Lucina.”

I nod. “Okay.”

As soon as I voice my agreement, a rush of power fills the room. It swirls up and around us—unseen but felt. Very much felt. It’s dark, cunning, and ancient. So demanding that I feel the need to stand straighter in its presence.

The Hound's eyes flare with the sudden rush of magic, a wave of vibrant color striking the blue of his irises. It rises within him just as it rises around us.

“I will find the remaining sources,” he begins, seemingly unaffected by the sheer force pressing in from all sides. “I’ll help you kill them, take down the ward, and free the Captures. Every single one of them. When it’s over⁠—”

“When they’re safe,” I correct him.

“When they’re safe,” he amends, “I’ll take you to Alaric, fulfill my deal with him for freedom, and I won’t leave Onyile without you.”

“Alive?” I know it isn’t something he can promise, but I ask for it anyway. It feels selfish—wishing for my safety in the wake of everything else he’s just sworn.

“I won’t leave without you, period.”

His words leave their mark, imprinting in the rush of magic around us, then settling over our joined hands. It seeps all the way down—bone deep.

I’m entranced by it for a moment, until I realize he’s finished speaking and is watching me expectantly.

My turn.

Forcing some air into my lungs, I lift my gaze to his. “Assuming I make it out of Onyile alive,” I start, “and as long as it stays in the best interest of my people,” I add, “I will, to the best of my ability, help you break the curse on our Disciples.”

At the conclusion of my sentence, something foreign spreads beneath my skin.

It starts at the tips of my fingers, crawls up my arm, and vanishes somewhere within me. The sensation ceases as quickly as it came on.

My eyes are wide as I look back at him. “Is that it?”

He nods. “That’s it.”

I snatch my arm from his and take a step back. “Good.” My heart is still pounding a mile a minute, and I have no idea how to slow it down.

“So…” I rub at my forearm, itching the odd tingling feeling that lingers there. “How long do you think it will take to find the sources?”

The Hound shrugs, rolling out his wrist and shoving his hands into his pockets. “An hour or so.”

I gape at him. “Seriously?”