Page 8 of Dance with the Devil

FASCINATION

GENEVIEVE

SIX WEEKS LATER

As I flip idly through the book of tattoo designs I snagged from his waiting room, it hits me that I’m playing a dangerous game. I know I am, but I can’t stop myself from rolling the dice anyway and taking my turn.

That’s exactly what I did earlier today. I made it obvious to Damien and Savannah that I planned on having breakfast, a stretch, and then returning to my studio to train after the stress of the last couple of weeks where I pointedly turned on the music before convincing Christopher to pick me up and drop me off on the West Side to steal a few hours away with Cross.

After I tapped on the front door of Sinners & Saints, the tattoo parlor he owns, he invited me in before he flipped the garish neon sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ so that we could do exactly what we’ve been doing since I first met him at the Devil’s Playground: hang out and talk and… well. That’s about all.

Not for a lack of trying on my part, either. Which is probably why I’m still drawn to him like a moth to a flame, completely aware that I’m risking everything by getting closer and closer, but unable to stay away regardless.

Damien’s bound to catch on to my obsession eventually. When I only snuck out with Christopher once every few weeks, it was easy to pick a night when the darker side of the Dragonflies kept him occupied; instead of the dinners and the public meets where I was allowed out with my brother as my chaperone, those nights when he conducted other business in the shadows, convinced I was locked away on the third floor. Then came Savannah, and he focused on keeping his wife inside of the manor with him while I crawled out of my window every chance I got.

If I’m not seeing him every day, I’m staying up all night, talking to him through text or over the phone. I get antsy if I got too long without hearing the way his deep rasps, “Butterfly,” and I know what I’m risking by being so reckless… but I’m already in too deep to stop.

Especially since, two weeks ago, I thought it was all over…

The sneaking around. The thrill of dashing to the back of the manor where Cross would be waiting for me on his motorcycle on the nights when I couldn’t ask Christopher to bring me. Pulling on the helmet he picked up just for me, both for safety reasons and because I insisted—something that Cross completely agreed with—that I should keep my face covered whenever we were on the East End of Springfield together.

My brother owns the entire territory. All it would take is one of his men to see me out with Cross for Damien to hear about it. It wouldn’t matter that I refused to be microchipped like Orion, Savannah’s cat; or, for that matter, Savannah herself. I’d have a tracker in my arm and my butt back in my room before I could blink.

That’s why I refused to say anything about my budding relationship with the Sinner. I couldn’t stand the idea of overprotective Damien butting his nose in before I can even figure out what it’s brewing between Cross and me—but when I nearly killed Orion two weeks ago and desperately needed a ride and support to bring the unconscious cat to a vet, I had no choice.

The clinic we went to first was closed. Damien was suddenly missing. My big cousin wanted to figure out what was going on with Dame, and as panicked as Savannah was over Orion’s state, she was determined to track down her husband.

That left me with the cat. I was worried about my brother, too, obviously, but Orion… what happened to him was my fault. Both because I believed Dr. Liz when she told me that the shot was to help the poor orange-and-white cat with his shitting problems, then when I administered the injection without second-guessing why a human doc would care so much about a feline patient.

I trusted her. When I tweaked my chronic ankle injury about two months ago, she was the one who helped me with it. Especially since she already knew about Orion’s constipation issues because I’d foolishly asked her for advice about him being all stopped up, it made sense when she said her vet friend suggested the meds for Savannah’s cat.

Of course, I know better now. The doctor was working with a rival gangster—Jimmy Winter—and using me as a pawn in her own twisted plan that would end with Damien’s new wife dead and Dr. Liz taking Savannah’s place. Only Jimmy Winter wantedDamiendead, and if it wasn’t for Savannah and Vin charging across town to save the day, that might’ve happened.

Not that I’m supposed to know about any of that. Damien came back to the East End beat to hell, and Vin had a pair of bullet holes in him that he’s still recovering from. FollowingDame’s lead, Savannah blew past all of my questions about what happened, though I’ll give her credit: once Damien was safe and sound, she was only concerned with how Orion was.

The answer: sedated, but alive. The vet I eventually got him in to see assured me that, within a few more hours, he’d be thirsty and lethargic, but he should recover quickly. He did, and Savannah was so incredibly elated, she purposely neglected to ask any questions about the friend I called to go to the vet with me.

Vin couldn’t ask, either. He was getting patched up by a Sinner doctor since Savannah killed ours—and, yup, that’s something else Damien didn’t want me to know—and by the time he was home again, so much had happened, he forgot to badger me about the ‘he’ I mentioned.

Forgot or, knowing Vin, he’s just biding his time. He probably didn’t want to set Damien off on the heels of my brother being drugged, tied up, and worked over by a rival, and with all Dragonflies on high alert after such a close call, he’s being careful while also dealing with his own recovery. Doesn’t matter that the rival—like Dr. Liz—is dead now. Damien has a reputation to protect. Vin’s his bodyguard, and there’s no limit to what my cousin will do to protect Damien in every way that counts.

Dangerous, Gen. It’s a dangerous game…

So, yeah. I didn’t have to admit that I’ve been spending all of the time I can with a stranger to them because none of my family actually pushed me to tell them why Cross da Silva—a member of the Sinners Syndicate, and the tattooist who is very quickly leaving his mark on my heart—floored his motorcycle across town to hold my hand as I turned into a nervous wreck inside the vet’s office. They weren’t affiliated with the Dragonflies—at least, they didn’t have the trademark symbol on their window orfront door—and even if they were, that wouldn’t have stopped me from leaning on Cross.

Friends. I sigh, both in appreciation of the floral design he drew in his book and frustration that I’m head over heels for a man who clearly thinks of me more like a little sister than a prospective lover. I learned that Cross is older than he appears—thirty to my twenty-five—and even if he insists the slight age gap doesn’t bother him, I’m not so sure about that.

I made it clear that I was into him. He made it clear that we can be friends. No more. No less. He’s someone I could trust to drop everything if I called him, even after knowing him for barely more than a month, and he proved it that day—but despite the heated look he gets in his eyes sometime when I glance over at him and see him staring, he’s putting up shields between us.

I want more than that. Of course I do. From the moment he showed me that napkin and I saw the beautiful butterfly he drew for me, I’ve wanted to experience my firsteverythingswith this man in particular.

Christopher thinks I’m being impulsive. He’s not wrong. I’ve spent my whole life being coddled by my older brother. I found serenity in my dancing, and fascination in the world outside my gilded cage bars, and with Cross… there’s something there, something I struggle to understand or deny. I see him and Iwant. I want things I’ve never had, and even if this quiet friendship is all he can offer me, I’ll take it.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a Libellula? It’s that, with the right amount of grit, determination, and ruthlessness, I can have it all.

Damien wanted Springfield. He has it. He claimed Savannah. She wears his dragonfly on his skin and the leaves of an enforcer on the back of her arm.

I want a relationship—anyrelationship—with my sensitive artist.

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