Page 54 of Dance of Deception

I move like I’m letting every thought I don’t want to have bleed out. Every memory, every fear, every lingering touch from the other night—fromhim—that shouldn’t have felt so good, but did.

I don’t dare open my eyes, but I can feel the weight of his gaze dragging over my skin.

It shouldn’t make me feel the way it does.

When I finally stop, I’m panting, my chest rising and falling, and I shudder when I realize Carmine is no longer standing in the audience, looking up at me. Somehow, while I was dancing, he made his way up onto the stage, and now he steps a bit closer, melting out of the shadows and coming into the light.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He keeps moving—more likeprowling—toward me. I want to say it’s because I’m exhausted from running through the piece again, but no. It’s the piercing, unhinged, almost inhuman glint in his eyes that pins me in place, forcing me to stand there until he’s looming over me again, the citrusy scent of him swirling through my senses.

His hand slips into his pocket. For a brief second, part of me wonders if he’s about to pull out a gun and tie off this loose end right here and now.

But Carmine doesn’t pull out a gun. Nor does he murder me on stage like something out of an angsty Baz Luhrmann movie.

He just extends his hand, palm down, like he’s holding something.

“Your hand,” he growls.

Slowly, shivering, I raise mine. And suddenly, he’s dropping something into my open palm.

My breath hitches as I stare at Aunt Alison’s necklace, my brain trying to make sense of how it’s here in my hand again.

…That’s when I realize it’s wet. And sticky.

Andred.

My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at the blood staining my palm and the delicate necklace chain. I almost drop the fucking thing, then Carmine closes my hand around it with his.

My pulse skips violently.

He smiles. But it’s not friendly. Not one bit.

“Your debt to Grigori Popov has been settled,” he growls. “Bought out, if you will.”

I stare at my closed fist, my fingers trembling.

“But I didn’t buy off your debt, little dancer,” Carmine continues, his voice silk and steel.

I look up. He smiles coldly.

“I boughtyou.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

He lifts a hand, brushes my cheek. “You’re going to marry me, Lyra,” he murmurs. “You belong tomenow.”

The whole world glitches around me. Reality doesn’t quite make sense for a second. As if I’m watching a movie and the stream buffers.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

Literally.

And I realize, slower than I should, that both of those things are directly related to the fact that he’s just wrapped a powerful, veined hand around my throat, his fingers sinking into my flesh.

Choking me.

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