Page 37 of Fallacies

He’d said it with such certainty. As if it had happened to him.

I might not want his power to belong to me, but it can’t have a mind of its own either. It’s too risky.

My eyes roam Callan’s sleeping form, one long arm sprawled across the bed and the other tucked under the pillow I’d been lying on.

If I weren’t so helplessly drawn to him, I might have the strength to walk away. But I can’t. Instead, I’ve fallen into something far more dangerous—hope that he means it when he says he’d do anything for me. Hope that he’ll always believe that I’m capable, and worthy, and…important.

I don’t care whose daughter you are.

But he didn’t know who my father was when he said that.

It’s selfish, I know, keeping the truth from him. A secret that might forever change the way he looks at me. I might be more afraid of that reality than I am of the black void at the base of my spine, lurking beneath the bright swirl of Sol magic. At least I can keep it in check. But my feelings for Callan?

There’s no controlling what’s already spiraled.

A wave of guilt tightens in my gut, making me nauseous. Instead of getting back in bed, I slip into the hall, grabbing one of his sweaters on my way out. The cabin is quiet, the sky outside the windows an early morning grey as I pad across the hardwoods.

I crack open the door to the office, mindful of the quiet creak in the hinges. Crossing the room, I gently tug back the curtains until the soft grey light filters in, the beginning of dawn casting shadows over the mess of papers and split-open books that Callan poured over late into the night.

An amber lantern flicks on as I move around the table and sink into Callan’s chair, tucking my legs up between the leather armrests. I begin rifling through the mess until I find the book I’m looking for.

The one about Wards.

Last night during the meeting, I had an idea. But I need to work it out in private, and I need to wait until Initiation is done to share any findings.

Callan said I can’t leave Pirn until then. Being an Ajax would also grant me clearance through the Banyan, and there’s no way in hell I’d risk outing my father’s identity without access to an escape should things go wrong. Like, for example, my secret coming to light, and the Dame choosing to hack off my head or hang me from the Banyan. Maybe Pirn will riot me with pitchforks or try to exorcise the demon out of me.

I flip to the first page in my book, squinting to read the small print, and my eyes snap up when the door hinges creak.

“No,” Callan says with a firm shake of his head. His dark brown hair is all out of sorts, and there’s a soft, sleepy look to his face that is so at odds with his tone. “Come back to bed,” he all but orders, gesturing to the books sprawled out around me. “It’s too early for this.”

I take in the sight of him in the doorway—which he manages to make look a lot smaller than it is. He didn’t bother with a shirt, his inked river of Sol Marks on full display, and I’m jealous of how well he’s holding onto his tan.

My gaze lingers on the massive tattoo.

I’ve learned every Mark. I trace my fingers across the inked lines whenever I get the chance, loving how the raised skin feels beneath my own and loving the way his body responds to the touch. I think he might enjoy it more than I do.

Then, my stare drifts to the loose pants hanging off his hips, the linen much too thin to leave anything to the imagination.

Realizing how long I’ve been staring, I quickly avert my attention back to the book in my lap. “Is that an order?” I ask.

“It can be.”

I huff a laugh, the leather creaking as I lean back in the chair, tugging my legs and the book closer to my chest. “I’m not tired.”

“We don’t have to sleep.”

I roll my eyes up to him, and he smirks.

Despite the sudden rush of adrenaline and how achingly handsome he looks even with what little sleep he got, the memory of my nightmare is too fresh to go back to that room.

Callan exhales when I stay seated, his grin fading into patient understanding. “Fine.” He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the door frame, and disappears down the hall. He rounds the corner a heartbeat later with a blanket tucked under his arm, crossing the room in a few long strides until he’s towering over my chair—his chair.

He flicks his chin for me to get up, and I oblige him. The second I’m standing, he slips onto the worn leather cushion and pulls me into his lap. I fold my bare legs over his, and he drapes the blanket across us. I’m not even sure I need it with how warm his body is, but once I’m settled, he takes a deep breath, exhaling like he’s relieved.

I smile, pulling the book back into my lap. “Is this your way of bringing the bed to me?”

His laugh is low and raspy as one hand comes down to rest on my thigh and the other drapes across the armrest behind me. “I guess so.” Callan moves my hair over my shoulder so he can get a better look at the book. “What are we reading? Wards?” he asks, catching a glimpse of the title.