Page 192 of Fallacies

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Blood pools around his body, seeping into the fabric of the Hound’s pants from where his knees are pressed into the hard ground on either side of him.

I suck in a deep breath. “Salem!”

He falls forward, his palms slamming into the floor.

I watch his lungs inflate, the sides of his torso expanding wide—once. Twice. Three times. On the exhale of his third breath, he straightens, keeping his back to me as he stands and gracefully steps over the Rogue.

When the damage is revealed, bile shoots up my throat.

I was right. He doesn’t have a face anymore.

Tearing my gaze from the sight, I swallow against the burn in my chest, my attention drifting to the figure walking towards me.

Salem takes one long step to my side, and I flinch when his arm juts out, realizing with slight embarrassment that he’s only offering me his hand.

My wide stare trails up the expanse of his forearm, rivulets of blood in different states of drying caked into his clothes, soaked fabric clinging to his chest as it rises and falls with deep, sated breaths. My gaze lifts further, stopping abruptly on his face.

There’s tension in his jaw, the bone locked painfully tight, and his nostrils flare as he inhales. Whatever he scents softens the line between his brows, and his expression becomes eerily soft and… calm?

But it’s his eyes that give him away.

There’s a storm raging within them. The color is vibrant, almost as bright as they are when he Snares—fractured blue shards swimming through his irises. Glittering like the sapphire of the Eldral my father gave me.

It would be a mistake to call them beautiful when there’s a very clear warning in them. A violence I would never want to be on the receiving end of. But it isn’t directed at me. It’s a lingering anger.

Preparing myself for the motion, I take his hand, holding back a groan as he hauls me to my feet. The Hound's fingers shift to my elbow, gripping me hard enough to keep me upright.

“Thanks,” I exhale, the words scratching my raw throat.

The pain still lingers, but it’s stabbing from a distance. It pierces hard enough now and then that my body jolts, but the jabs aren’t nearly as potent.

I go to inhale a deeper breath, but it catches in my lungs when Salem’s hand comes up beneath my jaw, lifting my face to his.

My heart stops beating.

The glow in his eyes dims as he searches my irises, the pads of his fingers cool and tight against my neck. A shallow exhale slips past my lips, my body having fallen into some state of shock.

“I’m fine,” I rush out, certain he can smell as much. There’s no need for…whatever this is.

His expression remains unreadable as he stares back at me, his grip firm. Deep, rhythmic breaths pulling at his chest, so heavy it slows the rapid pace of my own.

“Salem.” I tug at his hold, and he releases me, dragging in a deep breath as he does.

I watch him back up a step, putting some distance between us.

“Sorry it took so long,” he finally speaks, his voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. He nods to something behind me, and when I look back, I nearly hurl at the sight of the southern corridor.

There’s got to be at least a dozen bodies, thoroughly mutilated and lying lifeless in the hall. Blood covers every surface, every square inch. It’s splattered against the paneled walls, pooling on the shiny floor, dripping from the sconces…

An absolute massacre.

I turn back to the Hound, completely mystified, and suddenly I understand. I’m not sure why I couldn’t grasp it before. Maybe it was because of how adamant he was in helping me. Or the frequent sly grins and harmless sarcasm. But I couldn’t find it in me to be afraid—not in the way I knew I should fear the Hound—and I get it now. The clarity is undeniable.

It isn’t just the bloodbath behind me that finally triggers my fear receptors. It’s the knowledge that he did it with a fraction of his power.

A fraction.