Page 153 of Corrupted Heart

“No,” I blurt, shaking my head as the room spins. “No, you?—”

“Vanish.”

“You don’t get to use that fucking word! I love you!” I choke.

She flinches, like I’ve just struck her. Another tear trickles down her cheek.

“If you really love me,” she says coldly, “you’ll listen to me, and let me walk out that door.”

Her eyes lock with mine. All the pain in the universe shatters behind them. Without another word, she turns and she walks out.

And my world crumbles.

29

KRATOS

I give her twelve hours.

For twelve hours, I allow her to be away from me. To ignore my calls and texts. To not be in our bed.

After that, I snap.

She’s not getting away from me that easily. My monster won’t let her. I won’t let her.

Fuck the safe word. We’re not playing a game anymore. This is real. This is for keeps.

She’s not at her old apartment when I check. I slip a few hundred bucks to the doorman, and he confirms he hasn’t seen her in weeks.

She could be at Vito’s place, or with any of her brothers. But going to those places asking if they’ve seen her is going to raise questions I can’t answer yet. Questions I don’t have the time or patience to answer.

So I try the Mercury Opera House. But when I slip into my usual spot behind the curtains in the private box, my heart sinks. I see her friends, Naomi and Milena. I even spot the two bitches who left her in that alley that night.

No Bianca.

That’s when my skin starts crawling with a nervous, dangerous energy.

Something’s wrong if she’s not here. I know how much dance means to her. I know from her own mouth that she’s literally only ever taken three days off in eighteen years of ballet.

Even with everything that’s just happened, she wouldn’t not be here. Dance is her therapy.

Still, I wait until the bitter end, hoping for Bianca to stumble in late with an apology.

She never comes.

My nervous energy turns to full blown panic as I sit in the darkened box. The stage is empty now, but I’m still glaring down at it, as if I might finally see her pirouette onto the stage.

Eventually, I head down. I poke my head into the dressing room; by now, the other dancers have changed and left. I open a few of the lockers, until I know the one I’ve come to is hers.

It smells like her. The scent makes something in my chest tighten.

Inside, there’s a picture of the two of us, from our wedding no less, tacked to the back wall. It’d be easy to roll my eyes at the memory of the utterly staged shot taken by the photographer no one asked Ya-ya to hire for the day. But when I pluck it out of her locker and look at it closely, a crooked smile spontaneously splits my lips.

“Kratos?”

Slowly, I turn. When I see who it is, my mouth twists angrily.

Alicia Houghton flashes me a weak smile from the doorway of the dressing room. “I know you don’t like me,” she says quietly, her hands twisting in front of her. “But I… I really need to tell you something.”

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