Page 22 of Dance of Deception

He just tilts his head to the side, his black mask reflecting the candlelight like something in a nightmare.

Suddenly, his hand shoots out before I even register it, as if he’s about to slam it into my face.

I yank my head back instinctively, my breath leaving me in a sharp, startled gasp.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles through the massive space.

“I think webothknow you can see just fine,” he growls.

Coldness seeps into my veins as the horrifying reality of my situation begins to settle over my soul. He lets the silence stretch, his head still tilted slightly in that unsettling, savage way.

“And you’re a terrible liar.”

I force myself to breathe. To keep from completely unraveling.

“I didn’t mean for the blindfold to slip,” I whisper. “It just…happened.”

His posture doesn’t shift. But something in the air around him does.

Like he’s considering something.

Consideringme.

He reaches out again. This time, his fingers slide under the edge of my mask, the gold ring with the black stone on his finger scraping my cheek as he strokes one thick finger against it, slowly and deliberately. He pushes his finger higher, and suddenly, I feel him pull at the blindfold. He tugs it with two fingers, slipping it down from my eyes and letting it drop around my neck, leaving my mask in place.

My stomach tightens. I need to get out of here. I have to run.

But to where? Andhow?

The Hound steps back slightly, but if anything, that’s worse. Because now, his posture is almost relaxed. Like this is just a game to him.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he says, voice curling around the words. “The same choice, actually, that I gave the man you whose sentencing you just inadvertently saw carried out. You can stay and fight?—”

He nods at the table of nightmarish weapons, including the knife hejustused, now sticky with blood.

My throat tightens.

“—or you can choose flight.”

My stomach plummets.

His lips curve into a smirk beneath his mask. “Either way, you’ll entertain me.”

I shake my head, my pulse jangling. “W-what does that mean?”

“It means,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “if you’re not interested in proving you’re stronger than me—and I wouldn’t suggest that—you can try to prove you’refasterthan me.”

My mind races.

I can’t fight him. Not in a million fucking years. He’s at least a foot taller than my five and a half feet, his shoulders are twice as wide as mine, and he looks like he lifts mid-sized SUVs to warm up at the gym.

There isn’t a single scenario where I win a fight against this monster.

But running?

That's a risk, too. But a smaller one than fighting him.

I have no idea what’s beyond this room. But I do know I don’t want to find out what happens if I stay with this man who is watching me like a god playing with a mortal.

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