Page 35 of Dance of Ruin

Slow. Mocking. Coming from the darkened, empty seats.

My heart stutters and I freeze, eyes straining toward the shadowed rows.

Slowly, a shape begins to emerge from the darkness, dressed all in black.

Nico.

He materializes like smoke, a wraith pulling itself from the gloom. His frame unfolds from the shadows, his black leather jacket and icy blue eyes glinting under the work lights as he slowly ascends the stage stairs.

Still applauding, slowly.

He doesn’t smile at first, just watches me with that same expression that he had on the rooftop before he licked my blood off his finger.

"Beautiful," he says softly, flicking open a lighter and sparking the cigarette I’ve just noticed is perched between his lips. The cherry glows when he inhales, casting an eerie orange light across the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw. “You really are something on stage."

He exhales a plume of smoke, stepping closer.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper.

He tilts his head. “Well, Naomi, I came tocollect."

My dread only escalates, cutting through me like blades.

“Collect…what?" I choke.

Nico stops just in front of me. I can smell the smoke curling off him, smell the leather of his jacket, feel his heat radiating through the space between us.

His smile is lazy. Dangerous.

Malicious.

"You."

My pulse skips.

“I—I don’t know what?—”

“I’m talking about your sex tape that happens to be in my possession right now.”

My brows knit. I’m about to genuinely ask him what he even means, before it suddenly hits me like a cannonball to the chest, so hard I almost physically stagger back as nausea flares up inside me.

No.

In flashes, it all comes back. Drinking the sparkling water. Starting to feel hot. The silly feeling. The inability to move. Gus and Seb carrying me over, taking my clothes off…

The camera facing the bed on a tripod.

Oh, my fucking God.

I want to throw up. I’mgoingto throw up. But all I can do is gasp and choke, a fish flailing on the dock, desperately trying to get back into the water.

“The darling ballerina of the Zakharova. The doting, perfect daughter of Congressman Kim…or, should I say,SecretaryKim now.”

My mouth goes dry as he takes another drag of his cigarette.

"Nico—" I choke.

"No." His voice sharpens. "From now on, you only talk when I say you can."

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