Page 157 of Dance of Deception

Carmine is already cutting through the crowd as they all turn to stare at me.

I stumble back. I don’t even know why I’m running, just know that I can’t breathe, and I need air.

I shove through the doors, the cool night air hitting me like a slap, my pulse a thumping drumbeat in my ears. My hands shake and my vision blurs as I brace against the wall outside.

This can’t be real.

Arkadi's fuckingdead.

I almost scream when my phone buzzes. I flinch, yanking it out of my pocket and staring down at the text message.

My blood turns to ice.

The text is from the same anonymous number.

Unknown

Tick tock, Lyra. Find concrete evidence linking Carmine to the Black Court or your mother suffers.

The next text is a photo of my mother, asleep on the couch in my old apartment, a newspaper with today’s date lying next to her.

My hand flies to my mouth and my pulse slams against my ribs as one more text comes through.

Unknown

You have 72 hours…moya dorogaya doch’.

I have only a vague idea that Carmine is bellowing my name before everything goes black.

32

CARMINE

Lyra sleepsas if she’s still running.

Her breath is slow, but every so often, a twitch jolts through her and I watch her brow furrow and her lips part with a soft, barely-there murmur. Like her body doesn't realize that she’s safe now.

I exhale, running a hand over my jaw, tension still wound tight beneath my skin. I knew the news would hit her hard. I knew the second I looked up and saw the bar TVs switch from the game to the breaking news, saw the images of the bunker on the screen.

But I wasn’t expecting her to shut down completely like this.

She looks fragile curled up against the sheets, her breathing steady but too shallow, like part of her is still bracing for impact.

A dangerous, possessive feeling roars through me. I remember thinking before that this is something I have never felt for anyone but family. But it's even stronger than that. This cuts into my very skin and burns like fire.

My phone vibrates against the nightstand.

The Stag

I’m here.

I glance at Lyra one last time before sliding off the bed.

The house is silent as I make my way downstairs and into the backyard, along the narrow stone path that leads to the rose garden my mother, Giada, loved to care for so much.

It’s getting overgrown these days, the blooms tangled together in a way that’s more wild than elegant. I frown. I should fix that.

The Stag is waiting for me.

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