Page 29 of Dance of Deception

It's worse this time. Because now I know what I’m being kept from seeing.

She leads me to an elevator, then a waiting car. The car door opens, and a hand helps me inside before we pull away.

Ten or so minutes later, I'm blinking against the cold night air, blindfold removed, my breath clouding in front of me as I finger the envelope with my pay.

I’m standing in the exact same place I was picked up. Like none of it ever happened.

But it did.

My heart is still racing, my skin still burning, my mind still spiraling with the memory of him. The car that dropped me off pulls away, and without wasting a second, I turn andrun.

I don’t stop until I’m back at my apartment.

5

THE HOUND

The airin the inner sanctum thrums with power.

The space is old and grand, steeped in history that smells of leather and smoke. Walls lined with gilt-edged books stretch up to a vaulted ceiling, dark wood gleaming in the glow of flickering candlelight. A fire crackles low in the massive stone hearth, casting shifting shadows across the mahogany and deep green velvet furniture.

Tonight, we aren’t alone.

The women who sat masked and elegant in the audience earlier now lounge around the room, draped over the furniture like courtesans in an emperor’s court.

Some perch near the bar, sipping wine from crystal goblets, whispering amongst themselves as they steal furtive, daring glances at us. Others are bolder, pressing themselves close, their hands casually lingering as they graze a shoulder, a forearm, a jawline.

They came here for the thrill of proximity, like groupies after a Stones concert.

I step in, shaking off the vestiges of the hunt, rolling my shoulders and closing the heavy door behind me.

The Wolf turns first. A woman is already nestled in his lap, her fingers trailing lazy circles against his collarbone through his half-unbuttoned shirt, blissfully unaware of the beast she’s trying to tame.

“Where the fuck were you?”

He never just asks a question. It’s always growled, sharp and restless, like he’s barely leashed.

I ignore the tension crackling off him as I head over to the bar for a drink. “Just dealing with a loose end.”

The Wolf narrows his eyes, shoulders coiled tight.

“What kind of loose end?”

I let the silence stretch, make him wait for an answer I don’t intend to give.

The Wolf is wound too tight. Always restless, always hunting. He thrives on bloodshed like it’s oxygen, wears his aggression like a second skin.

The others might enjoy the kill.

The Wolf needs it.

But that’s why we get along so well.

Because I do too.

I shrug, my voice even. “One that's been taken care of.”

He’s silent a moment, dragging a hand through his hair. I swear I canfeelhis grin behind his mask, sharp and feral.

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