Page 45 of Dance with the Devil

I wish I could.

“Right. Winter isn’t always watching them, but if he logs in and sees the four of us in here, he’ll know something’s up. Might as well stay here and protect these two while I go check to see what that was.”

“Protecting Genevieve is my job,” rumbles Cross.

Savannah’s eyebrows wing up at the possessive note in his deep voice. “Right. That’s fine. But unless you have a weapon that you’ve neglected to use since you’ve been in here?—”

It’s my turn to choke on my laugh. Since this isn’t the time to explain just how powerful Cross’s jaw can be in the right circumstance, I keep that little tidbit to myself even as he reluctantly admits that we have nothing more than the clothes on our back and the thin blanket covering our cot.

Savannah actually looks thoughtful when he mentions the blanket, but instead of entering into a dick-measuring contest with my lover, my sister-in-law recognizes that it’s better to just accept that Cross feels protective of me.

Cross looks Savannah up and down. If there was any heat in his stare, I might’ve actually been jealous, but he’s more scrutinizing than appreciative of her build. “What about you? Doesn’t look like you have a weapon, either.”

“Couldn’t risk it. I’m pretending to be Camille Hedges. She’s arm candy for this hotshot, Falco, and would never be armed. But that doesn’t mean I’m helpless. Damien’s been teaching me self-defense lessons for months now.”

“Fine,” he concedes. “You can help me protect her.”

Savannah can be a bit of a smart ass at times, too. I learned that once I got to know her. Like Cross, though, she carries the weight of her own traumatic experiences with her. I’m not so sure what they are—only that, if you ask me, being forced tomarry my brother would’ve been traumatic to anyone—but her eyes are as sometimes as sad as Cross’s.

Now? She simply nods, and Cross motions for me to get up and stand by them. Savannah is in front because, well, there’s nowhere she can really hide in this tiny room. Cross is standing at my back, prepared to move if necessary.

I don’t know who I’m expecting when, a few tense minutes later, the footsteps come closer and, instead of it being Luca coming back to tell us everything’s okay, it’s fuckingNoah.

Damn it. Goddamnit.

The gangly guard with the ponytail gapes when he sees that Savannah is in the cell with us. He points at her, points at Cross and me, then races over to the keypad. He came down here with a gun in his hand—not food—and I wonder if that’s because he expected to see Luca.

The door slides open. He marches in and, before he says a word, he raises his gun.

It must be a warning shot. Unless Winter gave the order to take us out after all, but considering his aim is wide and, rather than blow Cross away, his bullet ends up in one of the cinderblocks. It doesn’t matter. The fact is that he shoots past me, closer to Cross, and his instincts have him pushing me out of the way right before he falls forward and ends up on his knees on the floor.

Now I know why Savannah was eyeing our blanket before. With the echo of the gunshot still ringing out, she grabs the blanket, tossing it in front of Noah’s face. It’s only a split second’s distraction, the material blocking his sight just long enough for Savannah to kick out at his knee before he can get off another shot.

Noah stumbles sideways. Instinctively, he throws out his hands—and the gun in his grasp goes flying in front of him even as he twists his body just enough to latch onto Savannah’sslender shoulder, shoving her to the ground. Not expecting his brutal hit, she actually lands on the ground while the big man recovers his balance just in time for his discarded weapon to land by my feet.

I think he’s about to make a break for it, lunging forward to grab his gun. Some part of my instincts—self-preservation perhaps, or the Libellula blood running through my veins—has me swooping down, grabbing the weapon by its butt.

I’ve never held a gun before. I’ve wondered what it would be like, but Damien was careful to keep any firearms out of the house when sixteen-year-old Gen professed an interest in them.

As part of my obsession and morbid curiosity of my brother’s criminal empire, I entertained myself by learning all about the business when I wasn’t playing my part, dancing away my fascination. This one is a semi-automatic pistol with a single round of bullets—but that should be enough, right?

I have every intention of passing it off to Savannah. I mean, she’s the killer here. The enforcer. I’m a ballerina. Cross is an artist. Savannah is a killer… but Savannah is staring in horror as the big brute reaches behind him.

And I realize that Noah must have another gun there.

If he shoots again, he’ll go for Savannah. I can’t go back and tell my brother that his wife got killed because of me. And what if he aims for Cross?—

“Shoot him, Gen,” orders Savannah. “Shoot the fucker!”

I know that death is a part of the life. Damien’s killed before to protect the Family. Vin’s an enforcer with a bicep full of leaves so I can’t even pretend that he’s a Libellula who doesn’t murder. Same with Savannah. She might’ve married into the family name, but she has four leaves.

Four deaths.

Four murders.

I’m not a killer.

But as I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger, I think I’ve just become one.

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