Page 68 of Dance of Deception

Not enough to erase the feeling of Carmine’s hands on me. To undo the memory of his voice in my ear, darkly possessive, telling me I belong to him.

Not enough to wash away the texts.

I force a smile as Evelina nudges me, yelling something over the music. I nod, pretending I heard, pretending I’m here, present, in this moment.

I’m not.

I’m still two nights ago, in a dark, candlelit bathroom, with Carmine pressing me against the wall and breaking me apart and making me drip all over his hand like it was his right.

The way he touched me, made mealmostcome, and then licked his fingers after—like he was tasting victory.

And the worst part?

I let him. Because part of me craved it.

Except thatisn’tthe worst part. No, the worst part is the texts—the ones that sent a cold rush of terror through my veins, drowning out even Carmine’s lingering touch.

It was that last message that’s had me barely able to sleep the last two nights.

Unknown

You’ll pay dearly for putting me away, moya dorogaya doch’.

My darling daughter.

That’s what my father used to call me.

My stomach lurches.

I know it’s not possible. Ghosts don’t exist. Arkadi is dead, stabbed in his own cell in prison four months ago.

I’ve spent two nights convincing myself that this is just another one ofthem—the conspiracy nuts who rage-listen to podcasts like “The Truth Report”. The lunatics who just can’t leave me the fuck alone.

My phone number has been leaked online before. Or my email, or even an actual physical address.

Sometimes it’s the people who hate me, the ones so sure that I knew, that I helped, that I should’ve rotted in prison alongside him.

Sometimes it’s worse and it’s the ones who fetishize what Arkadi did. The ones who want to talk to me, touch me, include me in their obsession with him.

But those texts the other night were different.

I press my fingers against my temples, forcing a breath through my nose.

It’s just another crazy.

Another stalker, another freak, another desperate loser with way too much time on their hands.

Deep in my gut, something twists.

“Here.”

My thoughts scatter as a hand delicately takes my empty margarita glass and replaces it with a fresh one. I blink away the remnants of terror, lifting my eyes over the salted rim of my drink to see Milena grinning at me, holding one of her own.

“To…” Her brows knit for a second before she shrugs and clinks her glass to mine. “Marital bliss?”

Naomi snorts loudly before she catches herself. Evelina rolls her eyes, and Brooklyn giggles.

I arch a brow, smirking dryly at my friend. “Did you seriously just say ‘marital bliss’?”

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