Page 125 of Dance of Deception

One of them puts a hand on her shoulder, and I almost break my phone in half.

Suddenly, the blood I just spilled and the violence I just indulged in isn’t nearly enough to calm my monster.

And when she walks off in the direction of a car with the two of them, I seered.

Lyra pulls out her phone. For a second, I tense, waiting for a text from her. But then I see one of those motherfuckers shake his head andput hisfucking handback on her shoulder.

Like she’s his, not decidedlymine.

She puts the phone away and gets into the car.

Blackness rises up inside me. Dark ink smears through my veins.

Time to remind her exactly what kind of monster she married.

24

LYRA

The only soundin the studio is the soft shuffle of my feet against the floor, the slight gasped intake of breath as I power through to the end of the combination.

The mirrors reflect my flushed skin, the rise and fall of my chest. Sweat beads at my temple and trickles down my spine, but the exhaustion is actually a welcome distraction.

I gather up my things, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I should shower here, but it's late and I don’t want to linger. Also, the thought of peeling my clothes off in an empty locker room sends an uneasy prickle down my spine for some reason. I’ll shower at home.

Home.The word still doesn’t feel real when applied to the Barone mansion.

I should hate it there. Part of me still does. The sheer scale of the house swallows me whole. And it still doesn’t feel like mine.

I’m not sure if iteverwill.

But it’s not just the house.

It’shim.

Carmine.

I don’t know what to make of him. Ofus.It’s not as simple anymore as him just being the monster who stormed into my life and tore it to shreds. The cold-blooded man who forced a ring onto my finger.

It's that he makes me feel anchored.

And that scares me.

I shouldn’t feel this way when he’s capable of such violence and brutality. When I’ve seen past the figurative mask and glimpsed the devil lurking behind those cold blue eyes and that perfect bone structure.

But there’s something in the way he looks at me—like I belong to him and he’d raze the world if it was necessary to keep me.

I hate it, but I crave that.

But it’s not even just that, or the memory of his hands on me when he claimed me like he had every right.

It’s the way his presence lingers even when he’s not there. The way his absence feels like a game I don’t know the rules to.

He hasn’t touched me since that night. Hasn’tspokento me. And yet, I feel him everywhere. My skin prickles when he walks into a room, my breath hitches when I catch him watching me.

Because that’s what he does. He watches.

And the worst part? I don’t know if I hate it.

---