Page 128 of Dance of Deception

“Liar.”

His hand slams against the table, the sound like a gunshot in the oppressive quiet of our corner of the bar. I jump, my nails biting into my skin.

“You honestly expect me to believe you weren’t part of it?” Marcus’ voice is colder now, sharper, each word cutting like a scalpel. “That you’re just somepoor, innocent victim?”

Kevin laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’re just as dirty as he was, bitch. Which of the girls did you diddle, hmm? How many didyourape, you fucking disgusting piece of shit?”

The words hit hard. My stomach lurches so violently I think I might be sick right here at the table.

As dirty as he was.

I can’t breathe.

The walls of the bar feel like they’re closing in, my vision blurring at the edges. My chest tightens. Please. Not here. Not now.

I can hear my own pulse roaring deafeningly in my skull. I try to find something to latch onto. A breath. A thought. A single moment that isn’t this.

But all I see and hear is him.

My father’s shadow stretching across the cold tile floor of that house, his voice turning soft when he wanted something.

I can’t be that.

Ican’t.

Marcus doesn’t stop. His words keep chipping away at the foundation I’ve spent years trying to rebuild. The world is tilting. My chest is too tight, my breath too short and rapid.

The accusations slice me apart bit by bit. I can’t think, can’t move.

The door to the bar swings open.

The atmosphere changes instantly, killing the quiet murmur of the bar, and a charged silence settles over the room as Carmine surges in.

Not just walking. Consuming the space.

He's a storm rolling in, dark and violent, the kind of thing that makes people duck for cover. His normally ice blues eyes are almost black as they sweep over the bar until they lock with mine.

Possessiveness ignites in his gaze—a raw, seething kind of fury.

In an instant he's crossing to our booth. Chris immediately scrambles out of his seat and backs away. When Carmine gets to us he says nothing, his black presence chilling the whole space as his hand wraps like iron around my wrist.

“Let’s go,” he snarls viciously. “Now.”

He all but yanks me out of the booth, then whirls, dragging me stumbling and numb behind him as he storms to the door.

I try to explain, but I can’t breathe. The panic, the adrenaline, it’s too much?—

My legs give out just as we get to the door.

Carmine barely catches me, his demeanor shifting from anger to something else entirely. Everything about him changes. His entire body locks up, his grip tightening—not in anger now, but in brutal protectiveness.

His hand fists the neck of my hoodie, pulling me to him, his other hand tilting my chin up. His thumb brushes my jaw, his eyes melting from arctic fury to raw intensity as his brow furrows.

“What did they do to you, little dancer?” he murmurs quietly, his voice edged like the blade of a knife.

I can barely breathe or think. But I manage to whisper, “That's Marcus Chen.”

Carmine goes still.

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