Page 43 of Dance with the Devil

Besides, I knew what he was really asking me. Knowing full well that I was a virgin before Winter forced us to fuck for the camera, he’s checking to see how my pussy is recovering from all the attention he gave it last night. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t bleeding anymore, or that I wasn’t super achy and tender down below.

My initial retort was to tell him to ram a cucumber up his ass a couple of times, then tell me howhefeels, but that was the rejection trying to run my mouth. After how gentle and supportive he was last night, both when we knew Winter was watching, and later, when it was just us under the blanket, I thought that sex might’ve done something to bring us even closer.

But that’s the Gen living in a fantasy world. The Gen who is naive enough to believe in things like ‘love at first sight’ and a hero who will do anything to save her. Twice now, Cross was pushed to do something he obviously didn’t want to in the name of protectingme. To keep Mickey away from me, and to prevent Noah from firing his gun at my knees.

And what happened after that? With at least an audience of one, I finally got to see what it was like to sleep with Cross da Silva.

As much as I could, I enjoyed it, and I have only Cross to thank for that. He talked me through it, even going so far as to eat my pussy first so that I would be aroused enough to take him. He was gentle and kind; the perfect lover, just like I knew he would be. If it wasn’t for the fact that he seems to think that herapedme…

I know that’s what’s running through his mind. Last night, when he thought I was asleep, he whispered as much. He apologized for forcing himself on me, as though he was the one who decided to fuck me on the cot instead of the both of us being threatened into the act. He sounded so mournful and upset, Icouldn’t bring myself to tell him that I heard him—and that he was wrong.

And that brings me to why I’m glaring at the camera while holding my shoe.

It’s all I have. My shoes and the clothes on my back, so I might as well make do with what I’ve got.

I wing it at the camera. Damn it. My aim is so shot, I miss it by, like, three feet.

“What are you doing?” Cross asks as my shoe hits the tile of our cell.

I snatch it back. “I hate these stupid fucking cameras,” I grumble. They’ve bothered me all along, but it’s been three weeks.Three weeks.I almost forget about them for a time before Winter inevitably reminds me that they’re there. And after last night…

“Are you trying to break it?”

“Why not? I know it’s unlikely. I know there’s two of them, so smashing the lenses on both… probably not going to happen. He’s probably still listening to every damn word we say anyway, but…” I sigh, shoulders slumping. Feeling frustrated and rejected andangryat this whole awful situation, I drop the shoe, jamming my foot back into it. “Forget it. I needed something to do to distract me.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Mainly because he’s gotta be doing the same thing. If I know Cross—and, by now, I think Imight—then he’s obsessing over last night in a way that can’t be healthy.

I can’t even talk to him about it. Once we knew for sure that the cameras worked, we made a pact not to say anything that Winter could use against us unless we keep our backs to the cameras and our voices down. Even then, with my luck, he has microphones or other types of surveillance equipment in here.

Winter gets a kick out of reminding us that he’s constantly watching. Any time Cross leans in, trying to whisper to me, his smarmy, obnoxious voice cuts through the cell. The only time we seem to have a little privacy is our designated ‘night’; with the lights never turning off, we have to use other clues to figure out what time it might be.

It’s firmly in the ‘day’ part of our routine. Baker came by earlier to slide a plate of somewhat stale blueberry muffins into the room. No Noah. No Luca. I remember how they mentioned that Luca was supposed to be bringing another woman down here, replacing the Haven woman who was ‘relocated’—whatever the hellthatmeans—and I wonder if that’s where he is now.

Before Winter interrupted us the other night, Cross was able to press his lips to my ears and whisper that the new guard, Luca, isn’t just another one of Winter’s goons. He’s Luca St. James, the Devil of Springfield’s personal driver, who used to live in the town of Hamilton, the next state over from where we live. He’s been a respected sinner for the last three years, and if he’s here? That means two things to Cross: that Devil sent him, and that wherever we are, it’s near Hamilton.

I thought that meant he was our way out. He might still be, but if so, there’s some real shitty timing going on. He wasn’t there when Baker and Noah came in, telling us they wanted to watch us fuck, and if they found us earlier, maybe that would never have happened.

Maybe Cross wouldn’t be sitting on the opposite side of the cage as though he can’t get far enough away from me…

He straightens from his slight slouch. “Incoming,” he mutters.

He’s right. I hear footsteps, heavy ones, including therap-tap-tapof a pair of heels stutter-stepping down the hallway.

My gut goes tight. Part of me wonders if, now that Winter got what he wanted on his camera, there isn’t any more use for Cross and me. Especially if Winter arranged for a new prisoner, he might not want to deal with the Sinners Syndicate or the Dragonflies now. Plus, I feel bad for her. She has no idea what she’s walking into?—

—and then I see her profile as she’s marched between Luca and Noah past the glass door of our cell and I think I might’ve jumped the gun on that one.

Because just like how Cross recognized Luca, I know that woman’s face. Her hair is shorter than it was when I saw her weeks ago. She’s dyed it again, making it more auburn than mahogany, and she has it in an updo that I’ve never seen her wear before.

Her clothes are different, too. Instead of the comfortable sweater and jeans she usually wears when she’s lounging in the TV room with Damien, Vin, Orion, and me, she has on a tight maroon dress with long sleeves that flare out around her wrists. Her three-inch-high heels are the same color, and nearly as pointed as the stiletto I hope she’s hiding under that dress.

Savannah.

That’sSavannah.

Holyshit.

A bubble of relief mixed with hope rises up my throat. I forced it back, refusing to give away the fact that I recognize her. Especially when Noah grabs her arm, shoving her faster past my cell, and she’s careful not to glance my way.

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