Page 38 of Fallacies

“Mhm,” I nod, turning the page. “Phoenix gave me an idea.”

“That’s a terrifying thought.”

I shrug. “Sometimes it’s the crazy ones. They have such a unique perspective on things. Fresh eyes and all that.” Callan snorts, but I ignore his skepticism. “What he said was morbid, but it had me thinking—how much Rogue blood would it take to trick the ward? There has to be a threshold.”

“A threshold?” Callan prompts, fingers freezing where they’d been aimlessly tracing circles over my thigh. “Easton said Nix's plan wouldn’t work.”

“Yes, because he has too much Sol in him, not because it wasn’t possible. But what if we could figure out how much Rogue it would take to cross?” I turn my head and meet his hard-set gaze, the silver in his irises more prominent in the early morning light. “The threshold,” I repeat. “The ratio of Rogue to Sol blood.”

Callan’s eyes narrow, and I return my attention to the book, my chest tightening when his stare lingers, searing into the side of my face.

“It’s just an idea,” I throw out with a shrug, turning the page before I’d finished reading it—just to have something to do with my hands. “And we don’t really have any others at the moment.”

His stubble scrapes against my temple, and relief floods me when he presses a warm kiss to my temple. “It’s not a bad idea,” he says finally, resuming the lazy roaming of his hand across my thigh. “You should talk to Easton about it.”

“Okay.” If I can find a way to phrase it without giving myself away, I will. “What’s his story?” I ask. Out of all the guys in the coven, he’s the one I know the least. Well, he and Devon. But I’ve given up on the latter—he’ll open up when he’s ready.

“Easton?” Callan clarifies, and I nod, settling back against the armrest. He lets out a sigh, the hand he has behind me reaching up to play with a strand of my hair. “He’s the oldest in our coven, and he was eleven when Streatham fell. He was raised by Devon’s parents when his own turned out to be real pieces of shit. Laverna is like a mother to him and Devon’s father…” his voice trails off.

“Gone?” I ask, and he nods gravely. A few beats of silence pass between us, and I inhale fully before breaking the quiet. “Callan?”

“Yes, Lucina.” The words roll off his tongue like I’m a child who is about to ask why the sky is blue or why some flowers are red while others are orange.

But my curiosity is concerned with heavier things.

“Tell me about your dad.”

He stiffens beneath me, and I instantly regret asking. My lips part to tell him he doesn’t have to, but then he pulls me closer to him and clears his throat. “I never really got to know him. The memories I have are fuzzy, but everyone says he was invincible…the strongest person they knew. When I was sixteen, May was the one who put it in my head that he might still be alive.” A broken laugh slips out of him. “She said a man like my father had nine lives. More even. At first, I believed in it because it felt good, and the only other thing that felt good at sixteen was…killing Rogues. Revenge and death occupied most of my mind back then.”

I swallow, all too aware of the beast at the base of my spine. All too aware that I’m half of everything he hates. The very thing he wants to rid the world of, sitting in his lap while he plays with my hair.

“And now?” I force some calm into my voice, peering up at him.

Callan sighs, wiping some exhaustion from his eyes. “Now, it holds only a fraction of my brain.’”

“That’s good,” I breathe, forcing his words to sink in as truth.

“Yeah.” He continues toying with one of my curls, completely oblivious to the way my grip has tightened on the book.

I stare back at him, his jaw clenched tight, soft morning light dancing across his neck and the silver chain that rests there. He’s trapped in his head, lost in some memory, but his hands never stop moving. Searching for places on my body to touch. Not in a way that insinuates more—it’s like he’s searching for connection. Something to ground him while his thoughts swirl.

“I think he’s alive.” At my statement, Callan blinks out of whatever faraway place he’d drifted off to. “Your dad. I really do.”

I watch something lighter bloom on his face then. Like a peek of the sun through heavy clouds. Like hope. He presses another kiss to my temple, then sits back, letting me return to my reading.

A few moments pass undisturbed, our silence pleasant, and the soft brush of his fingers never ceases. The quiet has settled enough that when Callan speaks again, it nearly startles me.

“Tell me something about your parents.”

I try not to appear panicked at the question, exhaling a breathy laugh instead. “My real ones or my fake ones?”

“Any of them.”

I take a deep breath, then lower the book, sitting up straighter in his lap. I rifle through the few things I know about my real parents and the broken memories I have of my fake ones. When the perfect tidbit comes to me, I perk up with a smile on my face. “Do you know about the ward that’s been put up along the border of Draycott?”

His dark brows furrow. “Yeah?”

My chin tilts up with pride. “It’s my mom.”