Chris had always known when someone was lying to him; it was an instinct honed over years of half-truths, almost nine years of hiding his true nature, and, now, the constant quiet hum of manipulation that permeated every room Dax ever entered.
So when Lucas spoke, with his every word perfectly measured like he'd rehearsed it for a different war entirely, Chris listened, not because he believed him, but because he wanted to hear where the lie cracked.
His suspicion was a blade, bright and steady. "If you're lying, I'll know," he said. His voice was soft, but it was powerful enough to make even men like Dax pause.
Mia shrank a little on the other end of the line, curling into the couch like she wanted to disappear.
Lucas, infuriatingly, didn't flinch. He leaned closer, green eyes glinting like polished glass. "Then test me," he said. "You want a way out of that glass cage? I'll send you one."
