Page 19 of Dance with the Devil

He’s right. “Someone’s coming.” I know better than to hope after three long days, but I feel it pushing against my chest anyway. “Do you think it’s someone coming to let us go?”

I can tell how much it hurts him to have to dash my hopes like this, but if there’s one thing I can expect from Cross, it’s thathe won’t lie to me. “If it was someone on our side, I’m pretty sure the footsteps would be louder, or we wouldn’t hear them at all.”

True. “Then who do you think it is?”

He doesn’t answer. He just motions for me to stay on the cot while he eases himself to his feet, positioning himself between the glass door and me.

The footsteps get a tiny bit louder, but there’s a leisureliness to the rhythm that tells me Cross is right: whoever is coming, they’re not here to save us.

Though they are here to finallyfeedus.

It’s two men. Both of them have white skin and dark hair, and that’s where the similarities end. The man on the left is at least a head taller than the one on the right. He has his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, with his face narrow and thin, his expression almost bored; he has that strung-out look a lot of older addicts have. The other man is thicker, though I wouldn’t say fat, and he’s about the same age: late thirties, early forties. Though, like his friend, it could be a history of drug abuse that ages him, because the way his round face pinches a little, he looks like he might be on Breeze right now.

The second guy immediately gives me the creeps, and not just because I’m pretty sure he’s high. I can’t really say why except for how bright his eyes get when he peeks through the glass and his gaze settles on me. He makes me feel dirty, and yeah. I haven’t showered in days. But this is a slimy, sleezy, oily sensation slicking my skin as he looks me over, darting his tongue out, playing with the corner of his mouth.

Ew.

I scoot a little, ducking behind Cross. Not even the steaming pile of white noodles he’s holding on the plate in his hand is enough to entice me to sit there and let this creep eye-fuck me like that.

The shorter guy peers at Cross next. He nods. “So you’re Carlos da Silva.”

Carlos? Who is?—

Oh, holy hell. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, Gen. Did you really think that his birth name was ‘Cross’? Of course he has a real name… and after six weeks, I probably should’ve known that.

Damien would have. There isn’t anyone he wouldn’t have gotten into bed with—or thought about doing it—without knowing every single detail about them, down to their blood type and shoe size.

These guys know more about him than I do. They know Cross’s real name—and they know mine, too.

“And Genevieve Libellula,” he says, gaze back on me again, “the Dragonfly princess.”

I fist my hands into the scratchy material of the blanket beneath me. I fuckinghateit when people treat me like a mafia princess. Actually calling me one? I already didn’t like these two, but now I loathe the second man in particular.

The other man nods his head. So preoccupied by the plate of pasta his friend had, I didn’t notice that the taller idiot has a gun in his hand.

He waves it now, moving over to the keypad. He presses four buttons—I hear four beeps—and, for the first time since we’ve been in here, the glass door opens with a hiss, sliding just enough to allow the shorter man through.

“Go on,” the tall guy says. “I got your back. Bring in the tray.”

“Gotcha, Noah. Hold the door.”

The shorter man turns slightly to fit his thicker bulk in through the gap. A quick daring look at Cross has him taking a few pointed steps back before the shorter guy drops the plate on the cot next to me. Some of the alfredo sauce splashes onto my wrinkled sundress, but I ignore the white dots on the palepink material, raising my eyebrows at the sloppy plate of noodles instead.

“Bon appetit, sweetheart.”

Ooh. My skin crawls as he leers at me, using a sickly sweet tone to call me ‘sweetheart’. But when he gestures with his chin at the fork that toppled to the edge of the plate, I realize he’s serious.

He really thinks I’m just gonna scarf this down.

Well. At least I know why they kept us hungry for so long. My hunger returning with a vengeance, I almostdo.

But then my brain kicks in and I wrinkle my nose. “How do I know this is safe?”

I want to eat it. My mouth is watering. Do I care that alfredo sauce has always been a no-no food for me? I can just hear Madame’s derisive sneer that I was dare have, heaven forbid,heavy cream, but the tantalizing aroma of garlic drowns her out. I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m twenty-five, I have a womanly figure now, and if I want some alfredo, I’m gonna have some alfredo.

But though I can drown out Madame, my brother’s drawn-out sigh and dry, “You ate a meal prepared for you by the enemy, Gen?,” is enough to have me swallowing the saliva in my mouth as I look wistfully down at the plate of pasta before shaking my head.

The taller man smirks, voice carrying through the glass. “You owe me twenty, Mickey. I told you that the princess here would look down her nose at anything we offer.”

---