Page 173 of Fallacies

“Is this one of your torture techniques?” I ask him.

“You gave yourself that hangover.”

“And you're intentionally making it worse.”

“No,” he corrects me. “The only beam of sunlight in Streatham is perfectly lined up with your position on the couch. That’s not my torture. That’s Fate telling you to get up.”

I snort, forcing myself to stand. “Agree to disagree.”

Salem shakes his head. “It’s not torture.” His gaze drifts to the window. “If I had forced you into a hangover, tied you to a chair and sewn your eyes open, you might have an argument, but even then you⁠—”

He quiets abruptly when he notices the look of revulsion on my face.

“It’s not torture,” he sighs.

“Apparently not.”

I make a mental note to never mention torture around the Hound again and cautiously make my way over to the window—keeping one eye on him.

The crumbled city of Streatham comes into view, and with how high the Estate rises, I can see all the way to the border of the continent. The barren plains of Griseo stretched flat on the horizon line.

I suppose when the city wasn’t a pile of ashes and stone, the view from this window was probably beautiful. Exceptionally beautiful at night, I’m sure. For a moment, I get lost in imagining the twinkle of lights. Soft music drifting up from the cobblestone streets.

Swallowing against the rising nausea, I absorb the rare beam of sunlight. If it really was Fate, then I’m assuming she wants me to have it.

As the warmth funnels into my veins, I can almost imagine being with Gemma by the lake, halfway through a pitcher of some fruity cocktail that she’s come up with. As wild as it was, I miss the summer. I miss those moments where everything felt…normal.

It’s the same way I miss summers in Draycott with Ivy or playing in the woods as a kid with Jude.

I turn from the window when enough heat buzzes beneath my skin to flush my cheeks, restoring life into the achy shell I woke up in. “Can I use your bathroom?” I ask him.

Salem looks over at me from where he stands—propped against the bed with his arms folded over his chest. Wordlessly, he gestures to the door on the opposite side of the room.

I’m positive that I stink. It’s been what? Two, three days?

I’ve been running around the Estate, sleeping in broom closets, burning bodies in the woods, and being Snared within an inch of my life. I’m surprised someone like him, with his supernatural sense of smell, didn’t throw me into a bathtub yesterday.

“I’m going to take a bath,” I tell him. “Are you…?” I give his appearance a once-over.

He looks ready to walk out the door. Shoes laced, cuff links and belt included. His hair is brushed back, so dark it’s almost blue, and I’m pretty sure he shaved. The ivory skin on his jaw is more prominent without yesterday’s stubble.

Salem settles back against the mattress and squares his shoulders towards the window. “I’ll wait here.”

“I’ll be quick.”

He shakes his head. “Take your time.”

I pause before entering the bathroom, brow quirked as I turn back to face him. “Are you saying I stink?”

Salem doesn’t even look my way. “Terribly.”

Maybe it’s the brutal honesty, the bluntness in his tone, or the lingering whiskey in my system, but a laugh bursts out of me. It’s louder than I had anticipated, and he looks over at me at the sound.

“Sorry,” I shake my head, swallowing against more laughter. “That’s…funny.”

His head tilts. “Being told you stink?”

“No,” another laugh slips out, “your repulsion to lying. It’s brutal but…refreshing.”