Page 146 of Dance of Deception

What the fuck.

I go straight to her, dropping to my knees, my heart pounding so hard it’s deafening. I grab her shoulders, shaking her gently, then harder.

“Lyra.”

No response.

“LYRA.”

Still nothing.

Her breathing is rapid, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow gasps like she’s having a panic attack. Like this is adissociative state so deep I don’t even know if she realizes she’s still breathing.

Her eyes flicker, as if she’s staring at something far away.

I look down.

The photos are everywhere, spread out in sharp, glossy bursts of horror.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’ve seen the subject matter before: they’re shots of Arkadi’s little shop of horrors beneath the unassuming suburban home Lyra grew up in.

How did a monster like that bring someone like her into the world?

Rage boils up my spine, but I shove it down. She needs me.

She’s shaking now, her body rocking, lips murmuring something I can’t hear. Her nails dig into her arms, like she’s trying to ground herself but failing.

I can’t let her disappear.

I haul her into my arms, holding her so tight I feel the tremors racing through her.

“Breathe deep, baby,” I murmur, voice rough, commanding.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

I move fast, bolting straight to the showers. I charge to one of the showerheads, step under, and slam the water on full force.

Ice-cold spray hammers down on us, soaking my shirt, plastering her hair to her face.

Her body jerks in my arms, fingers twitching against my chest, breath catching violently in her throat.

Her eyes go wide, haunted and broken, but she’s still not here.

I cradle the back of her head, bringing her closer, forcing her to feel the solid weight of me holding her together.

“Look at me, Lyra,” I snarl.

She doesn’t even blink.

“LOOK AT ME!”

Still nothing.

No.

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