Page 25 of Dance with the Devil

Yeah. I figured.

But it wasworthit.

I grin, letting the blood dribble free from the corners of my lips. It trickles down my chin, sticky and warm and wet, and I dare him to shoot me.

Try raping her mouth now, asshole.

It wouldn’t have stopped there. I know men like him. If he forced Genevieve to give him oral tonight—especially with me in the same cell—what would have happened the next time he wanted to get off? Would he have decided she needed to spread her legs for him instead. At least he won’t be able to do that with the top of his cock on the floor.

As I prepare for the bullet between my eyes, I feel at peace with my violence. Knowing that I’ve stopped one asshole from hurting Genevieve is enough, even if it costs me my life.

I have faith in Damien Libellula’s reputation. He’ll find her. He’ll save her.

At least one of us will.

Mickey bares his teeth at me. His finger moves a fraction?—

“That’s enough.”

—but he never pulls the trigger.

The second that rich, almost taunting male voice booms into our cell, Mickey bellows out a wounded cry, then removes his finger from the trigger, the cool mouth of the unfired gun from my skin.

He doesn’t shoot me, but he flips the gun quickly, pistol-whipping me in the same cheek that’s already busted. Maybe it’snot fractured, but with the renewed explosion of agony nearly blinding me, it’s hard to tell.

But fuck if I don’t stay on my knees this time. If only to work my jaw, then spit out so fresh blood at Mickey, taunting the bastard the way he deserves… I stay on my knees as he pants, chest heaving, bloody cock a beautiful mess of red.

“You,asshole?—”

“I said, that’s enough, Kelly.” The voice is firmer this time, his words cutting off Mickey’s fury. “You listen to me. I gave you permission to fuck Haven’s mouth so long as you didn’t touch her cunt. Same thing with li’l miss Dragonfly here. But you don’t kill unless it’s on my orders. Do you understand?”

“My cock—” he gasps, wide, staring, tear-filled eyes focusing on the camera in the right corner.

“Yes. I saw what the Sinner did. You put him on his knees, you fool. With his history, did you really think he wouldn’t retaliate?”

Ice slithers down my spine.His history…

Fuck. They don’t just know my name. They don’t just know my affiliation.

My history. The big shot talking over the loudspeaker knows about my stepfather.

How? No one does. Anyone who gave a shit that Chad Rogers was a pedophilic, murdering piece of shit is long dead. The courts didn’t care, giving him the minimum sentence they could for the arson. The fact that three people I fucking loved died paled in comparison to the amount of damage to the neighboring houses. Justice is a joke in Springfield. Is it any wonder I became a criminal after all? I saw what playing by the rules got me.

My stepfather’s hands all over me.

A dead family when I finally fought back.

Enough baggage to stock a department store.

But that’s my cross to bear. Fuck fuck’s sake, it’s the reason I shucked the name ‘Carlos’ in the first place, mockingly rechristening myself as ‘Cross’ instead. My mother and bio father was a born Catholic, like Devil, but after he took off, she stopped believing in God.

Then she met and married Chad, and not even God could save me then.

No one knows. I made sure of it. I mean, when I went into foster care, changing schools three times in two years before I ended up at Springfield West, there were rumors that followed behind me. Rumors that maybe I set the fire, or that I was the one my stepfather was really trying to feed to the flames. It didn’t take long for some punk kids to think I was fucking him, and while that was the one thing Chaddidn’tdo—at least, he didn’t fuck my ass, preferring to see me on my knees in front of him just like Mickey did—it didn’t matter. Kids suck, and I spent my early teen years dealing with that shit, too.

As an adult? I’ve put it behind me as best I could. It’s been almost twenty years. No one should know about my history with that pedo—but this guy does.

How?

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