Page 120 of Dance of Deception

…Which isexactlywhat we were going for when we built this organization.

But back then, we were young. Younger, at least. And while I can’t speak for the others, for me personally, some of the allure of those earlier…excesseshas faded.

From behind my mask, my eyes drag across the scene in front of me: masked women draped across velvet lounges, dresses slipping low on bare shoulders. Some topless, some wearing even less.

Ten years ago, my cock would have been salivating over this buffet of flesh.

Now? Nothing.

It’s not age that’s done this to me. It’s not that “somewhere along the way I grew up” or “with maturity comes…” whatever bullshit someone wants to pass off as sagely wisdom.

It’s that someone has caught—and held—the attention of my darkness in a way no other woman ever has, no matter how tempting any of them look, laid out like a meal.

There’ve been women before Lyra.

But none has ever comecloseto captivating the monster inside me like she does. None has even remotely sparked the same obsessive fascination, the almost violent need to pry inside her soul; to dig my fingers into it to see what I find when I sift through.

Part of it, I know, is that I’ve never once explored my darker kinks with anyone the way I have with Lyra.

I’ve chased people, yes. But I’ve chasedmen, andnotfor the same reasons I chased her.

I hounded those men for the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the kill.

Lyra’s the first one I’ve chased with the anticipation of feeling her pulse thud beneath my fingers. With a burning need to feel her thighs wrapped around my hips as my dick plunges into her greedy cunt while she’s still trying to catch her breath from the flight.

Now, she’s become the only thing Ieverwant to chase. My favorite obsession.

God help her.

While I’m happy to sit idly by, sipping my wine and watching the hedonism unfold around me, the others aren’t content to be bystanders.

The Bull sprawls on a chaise near the altar, three women draped over him—two blondes and a brunette with deeply tanned skin. Their hands slide over his chest, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt as they giggle playfully beneath their masks.

The Raven is across the room, sitting with another woman, his body angled to her, his hand lazily tracing the stem of his glass. He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t need to.

She’s already his.

I know how he operates. He's noticed everything: the way she breathes, the way her pulse flutters at her throat. She won’t even realize what’s happening until she’s caught in his web, tangled in strings she won’t know how to cut.

I sometimes think The Raven might have been better suited for The Order at Knightsblood. He’s precise. Calculating. But in the end, he’s still Para Bellum through and through.

The Stag is hunting. A pretty girl stands before him. He leans in, his voice low and hypnotic as he reaches up and strokes her jaw with a finger. The girl—another blonde, in a black gown and black choker—looks up at him through her mask, clearly hanging on every word.

You fucking idiot.

Whatever she thinks she’s getting into with him, she isn’t ready for it.

Nobodyis.

I mean, I’ve got my own darkness, and it runsdeep. But The Stag’s?

His darkness is limitless, and there’s no line between play and prey for him.

I take another sip of wine, dragging my gaze over to The Wolf—prowling, of course. I watch as he leads two girls to the entrance of the maze. They follow eagerly, whispering to each other, their laughter breathless.

He’d better remember that it’s almost time for Court to be in session.

I really should be reveling in this excessive world we built with our own hands.

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