Page 18 of Dance of Deception

I take a deep breath. And then, I dance.

At first, it’s hard to ignore the cage, the blindfold, and the suffocating weight of unseen eyes pressing in from all sides. But then the music swells, filling my heart and body, and I let go.

My body moves on instinct, feet gliding across the floor, arms slicing the air. My muscles remember the choreography, shifting through movements as the tempo builds and the rhythm pulses through me.

This part is easy. Dancing is the one thing that has always made sense to me, has always grounded me and gotten me through the madder, more dangerous chapters of my life.

Then, horribly, as I whirl, the fabric of my blindfold under the mask shifts. It’s not much—a tiny sliver of movement, a miniscule tug beneath my mask.

But suddenly…

I cansee.

My pulse jangles, my skin instantly tingling all over.

I can see where I am, through the gleaming gold bars of the huge cage I’m dancing in.

Holy shit…

The space is massive, cavernous, the architecture breathtaking yet ominous—like a gothic cathedral without windows, illuminated only by the flicker of candlelight and low, golden chandeliers.

I shouldn’t be seeing this.

There will be consequences.

Sheer panic roars through my veins as I spin, half expecting to see guards or who even knows what racing over to throw me out on the street or far, far worse.

But I don’t see anything except the other cages with the other dancers moving to the same music floating through my own earbuds.

No one can tell I can see.

It’s a thin strand of hope, but I cling to it for dear life, forcing myself to keep dancing as I turn on the balls of my feet, my arms cutting through the air.

Even as I keep dancing, my eyes scan the space, absorbing details I was never meant to witness.

It’s like a scene out of an ancient Roman orgy. Or some decadent party that laughing French nobility would attend while the rabble starved outside.

Tables stretch across the room, heavy with platters overflowing with lavish silver platters of food. Wine flows freely, poured into ornate goblets, spilled onto waiting tongues, dripping down open throats.

Bodies drape over chaise lounges and velvet settees, only half-dressed or not at all.

Everyone, however, is wearing a mask.

Limbs tangle in lazy, languid pleasure. Some guests whisper in hushed, intimate tones, others laugh huskily as fingers skim over skin, as teeth graze throats, as hands disappear into layers of silk and lace.

I flinch as I rip my gaze away, my stomach knotting.

What. The.Fuck.

It’s pure, erotic opulence. It’s madness, like something out ofCaligula.

I should be disgusted. I should be terrified. I’m…not.

Not entirely.

Because beneath the fear and the sheer, breathless panic of being caught, something else stirs deep in my stomach.

Curiosity.

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