Page 125 of Dance of Ruin

Skin glows in the candlelight. Hands roam. Mouths meet, and the space throbs with both softly feminine moans and deep, masculine groans.

What.

The.

Fuck.

I press myself into the shadows of the archway and justwatch.

A woman in a gold Venetian-style mask straddles a man wearing a similar one. His hands grip her thighs as she rocks above him. A third masked figure—another man, I think?—kneels behind them, mouth pressed between their bodies.

I shouldn’t be here. Idefinitelyshouldn’t be here.

What the fuckisthis place? A freaking sex club?

Nico walked right in.

I grip the wall, bile bubbling up my throat. My chest tightens with a mix of betrayal and humiliation andrage.

Fuck him.If this is what he needed to sneak away for, to wrap himself in luxury and decadence and other people’s bodies—maybe even this fucking Melissa bitch—thenfuck. Him.

But I’m not leaving yet, not until I see more.

I double back quickly, ducking out of the cathedral and into the hallway before anyone notices me.

My chest heaves. My heart hammers. More than anything—more than the danger and the thrill and the sounds of sex behind me—I feelexposed.

I’m the only one without a mask. Not to mention, everyone out there was dressed in some blend of gorgeous formalwear and vaguely Ancient Greek or Roman attire. Meanwhile I’m still in my skirt and silk blouse, looking like I’m late for a business luncheon. If anyone looks at me for more than a few seconds, it’ll be glaringly obvious I don’t belong here.

I pass the door Nico went through earlier.

Still locked. But this time I realize there’s another door opposite it that I missed earlier, probably because I was distracted by the sounds of the people in the main space.

That doordoesopen.

Woah.

It’s like a spa inside—or a sumptuous, elegant changing room. Gilded sconces glow on every wall. The air smells faintly of jasmine and honey, and tiled hallways lead to what look like showers, steam rooms, and who even knows what else.

Then I glance at the far wall, and my pulse skips.

It’s a rack of dresses and costumes, just like the women out there were wearing. Black silk. Gold embroidery. Leather straps and thin, glimmering chains. Above them, resting on elegant metal hooks, are the masks: plain, gold, vaguely Venetian.

I move slowly through the rack, fingers trailing over the dresses, the laced corsets and collar pieces. One in particular catches my eye—anobscenelyskimpy little black number cut about a foot higher than anything I ever actually wear. It loops around the nape of the neck, tiny little straps holding barely-there pieces of black silk over the breasts, with a plunging—and I do meanplunging—neckline that delves so far down that I’m sure you would see my navel.

I don’t think, I just grab it and slip behind a screen.

When I step out, I almost don’t recognize myself. Not just because I’m wearing a mask.

My hair is loose. My shoulders bare. My body...transformed.

I look fuckinghot.

Blushing, I grab a pair of strappy gold sandals and a thin gold sash that wraps around my hips.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Too late.

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