Page 142 of Fallacies

He’s lost his fucking mind.

A laugh slips free anyway. “Gods,” I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face. There’s no amusement in my smile. It’s pure disbelief. Bafflement. Exhaustion probably.

“You don’t believe me?”

“You’re fucking insane.” I don’t deliver it as an insult, but as an absolute fact.

“Lucina, we won’t get anywhere if you refuse to trust me.”

I laugh again.

He crosses the space between us. “Give me one good reason why you won’t.”

I don’t shrink before him. I stand taller. “Because you’re the⁠—”

“Because I’m the Hound doesn’t count.”

“Says. You.”

He glares down at me, not angry, but frustrated. Jaw tight, shoulders tense, crystal blue eyes swimming with what’s left of his patience. He’s close enough that if he had any imperfections on his face, I’d be able to see them, but he doesn’t. It isn’t fair.

“What would you like me to do?” he asks.

My face falls at the question—at how softly he spoke it.

“You’re smart to be cautious of me, and I mean that earnestly,” he tells me. “I could have taken you days ago. We’d be halfway to Onyile by now, and you would have had no choice in the matter. I could have told the Umbra that Alesi is dead. I could have left you in the hall with the Baron’s body and sent someone else to find you there. You think I’m insane?” the Hound asks. “I think I am too. Fifty years is a long time—you’re my ticket to freedom—and I’m standing here bargaining for your trust. I don’t need to lure you into a trap, Lucina. If my intentions were nefarious, you wouldn’t know until you woke up at Alaric’s feet. I can promise you that.”

I swallow, hoping he can’t see the dwindling of my defiance. The shrinking of my reservations.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asks again. “Take you to dinner? Swap secrets? Tell you every horrible thing I’ve ever done? I could draw up a contract, bind us to a deal, whatever you⁠—”

“Yes.”

At my response, his expression sharpens. “Yes to what?”

I chew on my bottom lip, buying myself time to decide fully that this is what I want, but the longer I sit there, the more I believe that it’s the only thing that makes sense. The only way I can be sure he’ll hold up his end of the bargain. And I don’t necessarily need to trust him to do it.

“The contract,” I voice. “Bind us to a deal.”

The Hound’s head tilts as he tries to determine if I’m serious or not. “That’s what you want?”

Callan’s going to fucking kill me, but this isn’t about him. It isn’t about me either. It’s not about the Hound, or the King, or the Countess. It’s about the people who took me in, gave me a home, allowed me a chance to belong somewhere. It’s about my friends, my chosen family, my mother…

I’m playing chess—moving my piece with the intention of ending the game or, at the very least, changing it. Those were his words, not mine.

We have gut feelings, as humans do, but ours are guided by magic. Ancient and powerful and wise. Promise me you’ll listen to it and never, ever hesitate.

“Yes,” I exhale.

The Hound watches me a second longer, allowing me another chance to change my mind, but I stand firm on my decision.

He moves closer, standing only inches in front of me. I can breathe, I remind myself, as his gaze falls between us.

I look down, my inhale catching in my throat when I see the hand he offers—the arm with the banded tattoos. When I hesitate to take it, he flexes his fingers, shifting his hand palm up.

“They’re clean,” he assures me, as if that has anything to do with it.

“Is it going to hurt?” I blurt out.