Page 126 of Dance of Deception

I also don’t know if I want him to stay away, or force him to break the distance he’s put between us.

Don’t know if I want to run away entirely, or run so he will chase me again.

He makes me remember things I’ve tried to forget. Things I’ve buried so deep that I sometimes forget they’re even there—until they come roaring out in the blackest part of the night.

Dark things. Twisted things. Things I’ve always been ashamed of wanting.

But Carmine sees them, and he doesn’t let me hide from them.

And now, no matter how much I try to shove it down or try to tell myself that I shouldn’t want what I do?—

I can’t unsee what’s inside me.

I can’t forget the way I responded to him.

And I sure ashellcan’t pretend it isn’t still there, lurking beneath my skin, waiting for him to rip it out again to show it to me.

I tighten my grip on my bag and exhale decisively, forcing the thoughts away. I step outside into the cold night air, hoping it will clear my head. The alley is dark, just a dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cutting through the shadows. My breath fogs and I pull my coat tighter around me, shifting my bag on my shoulder.

Then I feel it.

The familiar, awful prickle of being watched—though it's not the same sensation I get when it’s Carmine.

A figure steps out from the shadows, and my stomach clenches.

Marcus Chen smiles a sneering smile. “Hello, Lyra,” he says smoothly, like we’re old friends.

Of all the people to show up in the dead of night, it had to be Marcus; AKA the motherfucker who runs The Truth Report. The same asshole whose been peddling lies about me and my connections to my father’s crimes for years.

And he’s not alone. Chris Hodgkins lingers just behind him.

Heart-wrenching images of Jordana Hodgkins’ face in the newspapers flash through my mind, along with the nauseating headlines about atrocities that happened twenty feet beneath the floor of the very kitchen I ate in every night.

The pure, seething hatred on Chris’s face the night he found me in the bodega isn’t as sharp now. He’s tense, thoughtful, his fists curling and uncurling like he’s trying to make a decision. Like he’s notentirelyconvinced of what he's about to do.

Marcus, though? He’s convinced.

He steps forward, blocking my path. “Late night?”

I stiffen, forcing a blank expression even as my blood turns to ice in my veins. “Get away from me, Marcus.” I swallow heavily. “You can’t be near me. Restraining order, remember?”

His lips curve. “Fuck the restraining order.” He glances back at Chris, then nods toward the street. “We have things to discuss. Some hard questions for you.”

I shift, my grip tightening on my bag. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Marcus’s smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I think you haveeverythingto say to me.”

I take a step back. Suddenly, his one hand lands heavily on my shoulder. The other opens his coat just a bit.

I see the cold glint of metal.

Agun.

My breath catches. Marcus leans in, voice low. “I’d hate for this to get messy. But the people aredonewith your lies.”

A sharp pulse of fear zips through me. I glance at Chris. His jaw is tight, his eyes flicking between us.

He doesn’t like this.

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