Page 55 of Fallacies

There’s a flutter in my stomach, and now I know I’m blushing. “Shouldn’t that come from him, then?”

“Probably,” Gemma sighs. “But it’s true. The last time I saw Callan this…mad about something, he was sixteen and had just killed his first Rogue.” In the reflection of the mirror, I see her shiver.

“Mad?” I ask, turning to reach for the dress laid out beside her.

“Mad,” she confirms. “As in insane. Lost his mind a bit. It was all he could think about for a while—revenge. It was the only thing that made him feel better when nothing else could. And after he grew out of that, he was kind of numb for a while. He needed something to make him feel alive again.” She smiles up at me. “Callan doesn’t do anything halfway. If he cares, he cares. I’m just glad that you’re one of the things he cares for.”

I look down at the soft, beaded material in my hands, trying to just accept the compliment instead of drowning in the guilt that follows.

I exhale, releasing all my reservations. “Me too.”

Gemma reaches out and squeezes my hand, then jumps off the bed to search for some shoes while I step carefully into what’s probably the nicest thing I’ve ever worn.

Selene got it for me, and I think I’ll let her pick out my clothes from now on. The dress is made of a deep jade fabric that ripples like silk, tiny beads in the same hue woven across it in a pattern that reminds me of the sea. Swirls and whirls of what look like thunderous waves trail over the front and up the bodice. There are two straps over the shoulders, a straight neckline, and fabric that falls midway down my thigh. The skirt moves like liquid, true to its resemblance to the sea.

It’s beautiful, but more importantly, I feel confident that I can run in it. My only gripe is that there’s nowhere to hide any weapons.

Gemma appears behind me, helping me get the zipper up, and when I turn back around, she’s holding out a pair of gold heels, her smile hopeful.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Lucina.”

“Absolutely not.”

I reach for a different pair of shoes, and she points an accusatory finger at the ones I’ve selected. “You can’t wear those boots with that dress.”

“G, I had to cross a wooden plank over a ravine and crawl through a muddy swamp in Albatross while being chased by two Boglen impersonators. I won’t be caught dead in heels.”

Wearing tennis shoes would be an insult to the dress, but the boots have outlasted many hours dancing at Selumira, and they are the most comfortable out of the acceptable options. Shoving socked feet into the boots, I force my heels to the bottom and stand.

Gemma has given up on the heels, the tall strappy things dangling at her side. Her other hand is propped on her hip, and there’s amusement in her eyes when I look back at her. “So, that’s why you’re wearing those shorts under that dress?”

“Yup.” I round the bed, pulling two daggers out of the nightstand drawer, and Gemma sighs when I slide one under the waistband of my shorts and the other into the side of my boot.

Once armored, I look around the room for something else to procrastinate with, ignoring the sinking of the sun outside the window.

Sensing my hesitation, Gemma grabs me by the shoulders, squeezing until she gets my attention. “You’re going to be fine. If boys can do it, you can do it,” she repeats, and I roll my eyes.

“They aren’t boys, Gemma. They’re⁠—”

“If boys can do it, you can do it. Come on,” she gestures for me to repeat it back to her. “Say it.”

“Gemma.”

“Say. It.” She tilts her chin up, waiting patiently. “I won’t let you leave until you do.”

I take in all the air my lungs can hold, and then I exhale fully, trying not to laugh at the words that are about to come out of my mouth. “If boys can do it, I can do it.”

“Atta girl.” She winks, pleased enough with my declaration that she releases me and opens the bedroom door to the sound of voices filtering down the hallway. “Let’s go,” Gemma urges, and I follow her out before my legs can lock me in place.

Gods.

Pax and Hunter are in the kitchen, glasses clinking mid-cheers when Gemma and I enter. They’re both dressed in suits, black jackets over white button-downs, and black belts looped through their perfectly pressed slacks. They even went through the effort of brushing back their hair.

I cut off Pax’s low whistle at my appearance with a glare, nodding to the glasses they hold and the amber liquid inside. “Give me one of those, please.”

“Me too,” Gemma adds, and Hunter smirks as he reaches around to grab the decanter of whiskey off the counter.