Page 73 of Dance of Deception

But I’ve never wanted anything serious. Not women, not relationships, not any of the shit that makes men go soft.

I’vehadwomen—plenty of them. More than I can count. Some hung around longer than others. Some played the part of the doting girlfriend before they realized I wasn’t built for love, or romance, or happily ever after.

But they were all just temporary distractions.

No one ever really made me feel anything, untilher.

The little dancer who had the audacity to think she could threaten me and walk away unscathed.

I can’t stop thinking about her, and the darkness inside me has latched onto her in a way I don’t understand.

It’s not just her beauty, or the way my hands seem to have become fixated on touching her andconqueringher skin one square inch at a time. It’s not just that she’s cunning, or that she got one over on me.

There’s just something nameless about her that calls to the blackness inside me.

Maybe it’s that she ran, made me chase her.

She played a game with me I’ve always craved but never explored—not in the way I explored it with her.

Maybe it’s that she still refuses to break, in spite of the fact that she’s terrified of me and knows she should know better. Still tries to fight. Still pushes back.

Where most people cower in front of me, she defies. Where most people fold when I make it clear they’ve lost, she keeps going.

I've never come across another creature like her.

And thatfascinatesme.

Doomsday has already been alerted that we’ll be coming through, so they're ready for us when we stroll in. The fact that we just strolled in with five extras—i.e., Lyra and her friends—doesn’t faze the staff in the slightest as they escort us through the pulsing club to our booth in the VIP section.

It doesn’t exactly hurt that Laz is a part owner of the place.

Doomsday is used to mafia patrons, especially in the VIP section, though the place is far more known for its Russian clientele than the likes of Nero, Nico, and me. I’m sure the three of us being here with Roman Nikitin, Laz Kislev, Mikhail Javanovic and Bane Antonov is raising some eyebrows in certain circles. But they can wonder all they want.

There are some reasons that won’t be spoken about outside of a certain courtroom. But there are others that anyone could see if they bothered to look. Like the fact that a lot of us went to Knightsblood University together—the ultra-exclusive “Ivy League Alternative” outside the city that caters almost exclusively to the heirs of various criminal empires. Or that a lot of us were in the same club at that school together—Para Bellum, to be exact.

At the end of it all, simplygiving a shitabout who you’re seen hanging out with is something the older generations seemed to have worried about far more than us. In Pop's day, he wouldn’t have been caught dead clubbing with members of the Bratva.

But our generation? We don’t give a fuck.

The VIP section is exactly what you’d expect—set on a slightly elevated level, looking down at the rest of the patrons dancing below. The booth is huge and luxurious, with deep, plush seating that curves around a table already laden with top-shelf bottles, buckets of ice, and crystal glasses. The music pulses, low lights casting a sultry glow over the space as the crowd twists and writhes.

Everything about Doomsday screams hedonism, from the go-go dancers in elevated cages grinding to the heavy bass, to the couples tangled together in dark corners, lost in their own pleasure.

I feel Lyra tense beside me.

She doesn’t belong in a place like this.

And she fucking knows it.

Milena, Brooklyn, Evelina, and Naomi don’t hesitate—they slide into the booth, already reaching for bottles, caught up in the moment.

Lyra hesitates.

She moves toward an empty spot beside me, and that’s when I pounce.

Before she can sit, I pull her onto my lap, settling her firmly against my thigh. Her breath catches sharply and her whole body goes stiff. Then she tries to stand, but my grip on her waist tightens.

“No.”

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