Page 8 of The Game

“And I never will,” I say bitingly, standing and adjusting the silk rope of my black robe. After fluffing out my hair, I exit the dressing rooms, making my way down the dark, narrow hall as blue and purple lights pulse to the beat of the music. The heels strapped to my ankles have blisters already forming on my toes, but at least I’ll be in the air for the majority of the night before I have to sink to my knees before my new master.

Pausing before the chipped black doors, I muster my courage, shoving away everything that hurts me; the death of Vasily, my mother, the men I love and the deplorable words I said to them to keep them safe, the friends I also left behind without any reasoning. I have nothing left, nothing but this insane need to protect them as they always protected me.

Their fatal mistake was in killing my father.

But as soon as the thoughts threaten to choke me harder than Tristan ever did, the door is thrown open so angrily it crashes into the wall and leaves a dent. I jump out of the way as the man pauses, my heart skittering in my chest in fear before I recognize him. Crossing my arms, I level him with a glare.

“Seriously, freak?”

The door swings closed, cutting off the view and sounds and scent of all manner of debauchery. He wears a circus master’s suit in silky hues of black, likely to match his black hair that is slicked back across his skull, which also matches the black band of thick eyeshadow across two of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. His chin is narrow, his lips full, his jaw cut and angular, tattoos of skeletons peeking through his collar. He is slim in build but strong in thanks to his specific skill set.

As soon as that sick smile curls on his lips and he leans over me, my shoulders bunch up to my ears, and I avert my eyes from his penetrating gaze.

“Lost, little bunny?”

We clearly have a mutual dislike of one another, cemented by the fact that he is the only male here in this godforsaken place that performs. All the other women gravitate toward him, whether because of his looks or the fact that they think maybe he can somehow save them. My hatred is simple; he has the upper hand, could help get some of the younger ones out of here and feign innocence, but he seems to like performing, swallowing knives and fire and chopping his actresses in half (not literally, obviously, though I have my suspicions).

“Fuck off, Marilyn Manson.”

“Ooh,” he says, pursing his lips as though my insult has had the capacity to hurt him at all. I doubt anything affects his emotions. He’s that freak in high school that paints his nails black and goes to band camp every summer. “Careful, little miss sunshine. Use that sass on anyone else and they’ll have you bent over their knee.”

Electricity jolts my veins at the picture he paints in my mind, and as much as I try to hide it, that thought sounds…well, good. My devils are etched into every fiber of my being, and they’ve ruined all other men for me, but they’ve also given me an insatiable appetite for the darkness they coaxed out of my soul. Imagining any other man doing that to me fucking sickens me, but the thirst is still there, undeniable and unable to be slaked.

Even more hopeless and frustrated than before, I attempt to shove past him, but his long fingers curl around my bicep and dig in. He leans down, face inches from mine, and the stark cerulean blue of his eyes makes my heart stutter for reasons I try not to think too hard on. After a second, one side of his lips twitch up.

“Good luck tonight. You’ll need it.”

My heart skips a beat as clammy dread claims every inch of my skin.

“Why?” I say, taking his bait so easily it nauseates me.

“Uncle dearest has some important friends in town.”

As soon as he releases me and chuckles darkly, I slump against the wall, wide eyes watching his retreat. How the fuck does he know? I’ve been so careful! So utterly ashamed that my own flesh and blood is the very person to abuse me and torment me in such a way. Does he think that by ascending those stairs every night I am gaining some type of preferential treatment here? Because if so, he’s really missing the mark, and his speculation just infuriates me even more.

And then, that little, nasty voice in the back of my mind reminds me of the fact that I am a hypocritical bitch that had little to no problem fucking her step-brothers. Tears pool, but I fight them off, throwing my robe onto the hook and strutting out into the middle of the performance floor as naked as the day I was born, and without one ounce of emotion left in my soul.

For even if I somehow made it out of here, I know one thing for certain; they will never take me back after what I did.

CHAPTER5

Jameson

Drip, drip, drip. The constantsound of the leaking roof is my metronome, my way to keep time in this dark, dank space. Cavernous echoes of thuds and the scurrying and squeak of rats lurking in the dark would frighten most, but I am me. I am the most dangerous thing in this empty warehouse, and all the creatures and phantoms seem to know it, settling down into silence, to watch me as I pass by and pray I don’t take my fury out on them instead.

Frowning as I sweep another corner, my mind drifts to our cousin, Maks. His older sister Violet has strayed from the family against their father’s wishes, so she went to her brother for help. We all know the stories, of how she moved to New York and he let her run wild. Now she’s shacked up with the Rusalka’s, a family I despise to my core. While in school together in Moscow, Benjamin Rusalka flayed a squirrel in front of our younger cousins and performed a vivisection.

I’m one to have a strong stomach, but at eight years old, some things are too dark even for those who have it woven into their DNA.

Needless to say, hearing my beloved cousin’s screams of pain and terror should’ve shocked me, but they didn’t. If anyone can find her, it will be Maks, and whoever hurt her will pay with their death.

My thoughts shift to Alice, as they often do when I am alone. After tonight, Nick will give us the information we desire, but what do we do with it? Follow after someone who despises us, who tricked us? Do we take her and teach her a lesson about crossing the Stefanovs? I know, as soon as I sift through each option, that none will work. My body simply aches to touch hers, to feel her breathing against me and know she is safe, even if she hates me, us. Something happened to make her run, something spooked her, forced her hand, but without her father in her life anymore, we’re at a loss as to whom.

The screech of a nesting gull snaps my attention upwards at the same moment my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and answer on the third ring, not bothering to see who it is. I already have a feeling.

“Nick?”

“In my trunk is a first aid kit,” he says lowly, his voice trembling around the edges. Ice grips my rib cage. “Bring it to me, call the others. I’m in…”

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