Chapter 7 #2
“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.”
Callan looks back at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Lucina, what?”
“When she died,” I attempt to explain, remembering what Sable had told me that night I used the Eldral, “she forfeited her place in the afterlife, and what was left of her soul transformed into the Barrier around Draycott. Everything that made Esme, Esme, is in that Ward.”
He blinks a few times, a bit dumbfounded. “So you’re telling me that the barrier…is your mom?”
I nod, my smile spreading. “Kinda cool, isn’t it?”
He laughs, his breath fanning over my cheeks. “In a morbid kind of way, sure, Chaos, it’s kinda cool. How do you find that out?”
Shit.
My face falls. I hadn’t really thought that through. I can’t very well say, My Velkan, a dead Rogue, who is also my father, gifted me an Eldral, and I used it to talk to my dead grandmother.
“Um…Kimber told me.” I manage to play it off as if it were actually true, and he doesn’t question it.
Callan nods, twirling the end of a curl around his knuckle. “You know,” he starts, “I hate spending time in this office.” His other hand runs across the leather stitching in the armrests. “I dread sitting in this chair…”
“Is this another ploy to get me to come back to bed?”
Callan smiles so wide that a dimple flashes. “No.” Then something more serious flickers across his face. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever enjoyed sitting here.”
My mouth starts moving on impulse, “So, that’s what’s pressing into my back.”
For a moment I’m afraid I’ve ruined a perfectly sweet moment, but then his laughter splits the air, a raspy sound that the whole cabin seems to wake up to. It’s not a jolt awake, but a slow coming back to life, like the golden light flitting in through the windows. The rising sun.
“Yes, Lucina,” Callan sighs, defeated. “That’s what that is.”
Color blooms in my cheeks. “Must be painful.” I slide further back against the armrest with a smirk, but when I try to drag the book with me, Callan snatches it out of my hands.
“I wasn’t done with that?”
He doesn’t seem to care as he silently marks my page, shuts it with a snap, and tosses it onto the table. “But I want your full attention.” His hands slide underneath the blanket, and I shiver when his calloused fingers brush the bare skin beneath my thighs. “Please.”
My heart starts racing, and I feel that silent pull that begs me to get closer. It never goes away. Damn him and whatever kind of spell he’s put on me.
“Fine,” I huff, pushing my hair over my shoulder. “Tell me why you dread sitting in this chair.”
The dark look in his eyes tells me that’s not the kind of attention he was seeking, but I don’t think he minds.
Callan’s hands crest up and over my thigh, toying with the edge of my shorts.
“I don’t know. I guess…I associate it with getting bad news, or late nights that end with no answers.
” He sighs, the mischief on his face fading as he recalls some memory.
“I see this room, and I remember…the look on your face when you found that letter. I remember how awful it felt to watch you leave. After you did, I sat in this chair. For a while,” he admits.
“I think I was punishing myself for it. I was sitting here when I decided to track down Ivy…get you that letter.”
All I can do is stare back at him for a moment. I watch as he takes a deep breath—pulling a lungful of air through his nose before exhaling it slowly. Now I’m certain I’ve ruined a sweet moment. But I didn’t know that I was part of his resentment for this chair. This room, apparently.
I’d been so mad at him that day, and rightfully so, but something about the image of him sitting here as punishment makes the chunk of my heart that belongs to him…sad.
My head tilts, a devious idea taking root in my brain, and as if Callan senses it, his eyes narrow. “Lucina?”
I want to fix it. All of it. That’s what he would do for me.
Without a word, I dig up enough magic to tug the door shut, and Callan flinches at the sound of it slamming. Then I toss the blanket to the side and peel myself out of his lap.
“What are you doing?” He reaches out for my wrist, but I dodge his grasp.
“I’d like to give you a better memory of this chair.” I press my palms into the tops of his thighs, and Callan goes rigid as I sink to my knees before him.
When I look up, I don’t think he’s breathing. “If that’s okay with you?”