Page 70 of Breaker

“You’re going to rip my dress,” I snap.

Surprisingly, he lets me go.

“That would be a shame. It’s a lovely dress.” His eyes slip down the sleek red fabric, his greedy eyes drinking in the way it shapes to my body, then back to the red mask over my eyes. “It looks good on you.”

I’m surprised he doesn’t recognize it. It was my mother’s favorite, after all.

I touch my mask, the little wristlet purse holding my phone and the envelope hitting my arm, reminding me I need to act tonight. With a wicked grin, I trail my finger along the red feather on the side of my mask. His gaze follows my hand then dips lower, roaming over me like he has a right to look at me so hungrily. Like he’s picturing all the ways he’s going to fuck me the second those papers are signed.

Memories make my skin itch, and my nails hurt.

“I never thought such a bloody color would look good on a redhead, but you pull it off, Cora.”

I step toward him, feigning worry as I press the back of my hand to his forehead. “Are you okay, Zane?” I ask. “Your compliments are concerning.”

He smirks, brushing my hand away. “Fitting you came as lust. Lust. Slut. The perfect anagram for Cora Julian.”

“Ah, and he’s back.” I give him a sultry smile. “Actually, I came as wrath.” I point to his overly decorated mask. Asshole came as greed, his green, silky mask covered with gemstones around his eyes and down the cheeks. “I see you didn’t even bother to hide what you truly are.”

A playful wink. “No point.” He gestures to me. “But how pretty your wrath, Cora.”

My smile shows my teeth. “My wrath is quite vengeful.”

“So feisty for someone so small.” Zane does that whole body perusal again, making me regret allowing myself to get snared by his games, and I step further from him. “Tell me, Cora, did you fuck all of them? At the same time?” Zane takes a step closer, leaning down to whisper. “How does that work? One in each hole? What was the fourth one doing while the other three were busy fucking you like a common whore?”

“Common whores give great hand jobs,” I say as I hold up my hands, waggling my fingers. I lean in, conspiratorial, “But you forget Delly was with me in the club. Plenty of available holes for them that night.”

He doesn’t like that. I can tell by the slight way his jaw clenches. His obsession with her verges on pathetic.

Zane leans in, looking me square in the eye and it takes everything in me not to shy away from him. “Do you know who they are, Cora? What they did?”

“I know who you are and what you did.”

That makes his eyes narrow. I should keep my mouth shut but can’t seem to control it lately. Right when I’m about to tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, music from the open doors drifts out, and my heart starts to pound.

I brush past Zane, shrugging him off when he tries to grab my arm and walk back into the large open room where people mill about, talking, laughing, and drinking a bit too much.

In the corner, near the bar, a group of people gathers around the large grand piano, watching whoever’s sitting at the piano pluck out the delicate tune.

One I recognize.

I heard it enough times in the three weeks I was there.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I suck in a lungful, hoping to ease this sharp pain in my chest. There were several nights when I was there, and I’d hear the music coming from the large room at the back of the house. I’d creep downstairs, only to find the door locked as one of the men sat inside, playing the same song repeatedly. Delly sat with me a few times, holding me as I cried.

It seemed impossible that someone could make the music sound so hollow. So desperate. So lost. But it matched how I felt most of my life—confused by the shit life I was given. At times, it was angry, the piano becoming stormy and loud before it would smooth out, the tune suddenly delicate but full of sadness.

It’s what I feel right now. Angry and Sad. So confused.

“You alright?” Clyde asks, stepping in next to me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I smile weakly, leaning to the side to see if I can spot the person playing. I want to ask them the name of the song. I want to curl up and cry.

“I think I want to go home,” I say, touching his arm. Clyde’s wearing his perfect tux and all-black mask. I don’t have to ask to know that he came as—wrath like me, but in the form of death.

He peels his eyes off the group around the piano and nods, but Zane comes up behind me and hooks his arm in mine. “Ready to make another round, fiancé?”

“Fuck off, Zane,” I say, casting a pleading look at Clyde as Zane pulls me away.

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