Page 79 of Fallacies

Then he grits out, “Name your price, Hound.”

Well, I’ll be fucking damned.

I can’t help but smile. It spreads slowly across my face—hellish and sated. “My price is freedom.”

19

Lucina

The bed is cold, and the cabin is quiet.

At first, I really don’t want to open my eyes. With them closed, I might be able to hide from myself a little bit longer.

Callan never came to bed. His side is still made up. He stayed by me through the aftershocks of my coven learning the truth, though it wasn’t pretty and he didn’t say much. Most of them never seemed to be affected by who my mother was, but I doubt they will ever come to terms with who my father is—he took too much from them.

It’s not like I can blame them, either. I doubt I’ll ever come to terms with it either. I might not have been there that night, when my father oversaw the sacking of a beautiful city, but I’ve spent plenty of time with the victims that survived it. I’ve been living amongst them for months.

What I can’t understand is how Esme was involved. The night I used the Eldral, Sable swore my mother was innocent and I believed her. I still do. But then what was her relationship with my father? Him being Rogue and her being Sol…I highly doubt there was any real love involved. On top of their differences in power, I was born after the attack on Streatham. After my father ran out and captured Esme’s people. They would have been sworn enemies.

Unless they’d been working together all along.

Scrubbing my face, I force that thought from my brain and flip onto my back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Everything will be fine. It has to be.

Pax was the first one to tell me it would be okay. He knows better than anyone else that our parents don’t make us who we are. Hunter is coming around too, and so is Phoenix. Even Easton and Devon looked somewhat accepting once I reminded them that I’m the key to getting their families back—the only person who can cross the blood ward. But I can tell that I’ve hurt them. All of them. And it’s going to take some time to build that trust back.

But with Callan…it feels irreparable.

He stood silently beside me until his coven left, and I think a little piece of me shriveled when he turned without a word and shut himself in his office for the remainder of the night.

I haven’t gone in. Haven’t knocked. But I imagine him sitting silently in that chair. Confused, upset, and betrayed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he snuck out the window just to avoid running into me.

For a few hours, I waited in the living room. Then I lingered by the office door, hesitant to knock, but I couldn’t drum up the courage. I was too afraid of the rejection. So instead, I mopped down the hall and crawled into bed, giving in to a useless habit I had as a child, and screamed into my pillow.

It didn’t help.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the hurt I put on his face. I imagine him sitting in that chair, staring off at nothing. Every time I flip my pillow over and readjust the sheets, the silence swells around me again, and then all I can hear is the step he took away from me. All I can hear is his confession that he loved me.

It’s only been a few hours, but trying to respect his space is getting to be agonizing. It’s not like I can control this. If I could change it, I would, but I can’t.

Callan told me he didn’t care whose daughter I was. He told me he loved me, and isn’t that what love is? Accepting someone for who they are? Demons and all?

I know I kept it from him, and I know that’s probably why he’s upset, but this wasn’t some white lie or stupid secret. What I just told them puts me in danger, and if he were in my position, he’d be hesitant to reveal the truth, too.

Defiance blooms in my blood, causing me to sit straight up in bed.

This is stupid. I’m still the same person I’ve always been; he’s just fully aware of my baggage now. Of all my secrets. But I’m still me, and I’m tired of sulking here in his bed, drowning in one of his shirts like some pathetic lovesick puppy. He will either take me as I am or…

I don’t give myself time to dwell on the alternative, swinging my legs out of the bed and marching to the bedroom door. Exhaling all the air in my lungs, I twist the knob and step out into the hall.

Riding on my newfound confidence, I raise my fist to knock, but I freeze in front of the office door, a tightness in my chest preventing me from doing so. My breath gets trapped in my lungs, and my legs go stiff as boards.

I’m about to accept defeat when the latch clicks, and the door cracks open.

I hold my breath, scared my exhale will make too much sound. The door swings open further, and I slowly lift my gaze to the room.

The office is dark, lit only by a single lantern, and the curtains are drawn, beams of moonlight spilling across the floor. Callan sits in his chair, his black t-shirt wrinkled and his hair a mess. He has his elbow propped on the armrest, his thumb and forefinger cradling his jaw, staring out at the papers before him.