Page 205 of Fallacies

Callan rushes forward, another knife in his raised fist, and as soon as I realize what’s happening, my blood runs cold.

Yellow.

My eyes are yellow.

The hilt of the knife leaves his fingertips in slow motion, spiraling through the space between us—and for a split second—in this moment where time crawls…I hope it kills me, and I hope it’s quick. Because surviving this would mean living with the memory of the man who has spent so much time protecting me, being so blinded by his own anger that he doesn’t even know who he’s hurling a dagger at.

I can hear my heart shattering in my ears. I can feel tears welling in my eyes.

And then I move.

One step to the side.

What would have been a perfect hit, straight through my chest, lethal in a way only the Captain would be capable of, splits the skin across my collarbone instead.

It rips the fabric of my clothes wide open, the drag of the blade lasting longer than it should in this pocket of time where nothing feels real anymore. It’s just another nightmare.

But my father isn’t here, lurking in the corner, lingering at the foot of my bed, and I’m not being led down the halls of the Estate by my grandmother. Forced to endure the pain my mother felt the night of the attack.

No, this nightmare is worse because I can’t wake up from it.

Blood spills, warm against my skin, and I wish I could say it hurts, but I feel dull and sharp all at once. Empty and numb. My body doesn’t even feel like my own anymore.

Before I can fully grasp the scope of the situation, time resumes, fast and unforgiving.

I’m jerked back by an arm that wraps around my chest, forcing me away from him. From Callan. From the man that I love.

It’s Salem, I realize, when Pax rushes between us, forcing Callan back, shouting at him to drop the rest of his weapons.

I become so numb I think I might melt into the ground, but the arm around my shoulders—covering the wound at the base of my neck—prevents me from doing so.

All I want to do is fade away. I want to be anything but myself. Anything but the monster reflected in the sharp silver of the eyes still glaring back at me.

It’s a break in his sanity, but it might as well be mine too.

Callan fights against Pax, still too lost in his temper to even realize what he’s done, and I wish I were that far gone.

“Cal!” Pax screams, forcefully shoving him backwards. It’s the most aggressive I’ve ever seen him towards his Captain. His brother. But that final shove seems to do the trick.

Callan blinks, stumbling as he finds his balance, and when he looks up, I watch as he takes in the scene before him with clear eyes.

He notes the discarded knives in the dirt, and his chest rises with a fast breath. Then he sees Pax, his brows furrowing at the distress on his brother’s face. And then he sees me.

He sees the hold the Hound has around my chest and the blood spilling from my shoulder, seeping beneath Salem’s arm. It isn’t until his gaze lifts to mine, meeting hazel eyes instead of the yellow ones he so violently despises, that all the color drains from his face.

His mouth forms the syllables of my name, but in whatever stage of shock I’m in, I can’t hear it, and I don’t think I want to.

I push against the arm wrapped around my chest, and with slight resistance, Salem lets me go. Maybe he sees it too—the regret on Callan’s face.

Or maybe he smells it, permeating the air: guilt and remorse and an impending apology that can’t fix this kind of irreparable damage. The cut is too deep. The cut is still bleeding.

I can’t feel it.

No one says a word. Not Pax, not Grey, not Callan or Salem. No one moves a muscle as I bend, picking up one of the knives.

Pax shifts in front of Callan, then. Barely an inch, and my attention snaps up at the movement.

He must think I’ll throw it back, start a war, give his Captain a wound to match my own. But I thought Pax knew me better than that—I could never fathom hurting somebody I love. That reality would eat me alive, consume me whole, leave me a shell of a being.