Page 46 of Dance of Ruin

He glances up at the house. “Wanna come in for a drink or something?”

“Nah,” I say, reaching for my helmet. “I need a ride to clear my head.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder before turning to go. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

I wait there for another minute, watching the lights through the windows, thinking about everything this family is and the blood and sweat it’s taken to build it.

In this world, one wrong move can have everything you know go up in smoke.

So, no. I’m not letting this go.

Iwillfind the thread that ties the Obsidian Syndicate to the Black Court. If they’re doing jobs for a U.S. Cabinet member, they’re connected. Powerful. More of a threat than Carmine wants to admit.

He’s got an empire to lead. And I get thatthatis his priority as King.

But I’m no king.

The bike growls beneath me as I tear through the city, weaving through traffic like the asphalt itself owes me blood.

Eventually, I coast to a stop outside a narrow brick building sandwiched between a defunct yoga studio and a bodega. It’s one of those old walk-ups that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the seventies.

I chain the bike, squeeze through a side gate down the alley behind the building, and jump up onto a dumpster. I use the fire escape to sneak up to the roof, then make my way to the ledge opposite the closest building, barely twelve feet away.

I find an old milk crate and drag it over, settling down and slipping a cigarette between my lips. I light it with a glowing flicker, inhaling as I lift my gaze to the small apartment on the top floor of the building across from me.

Then I see her.

Naomi drops her dance bag to the floor and slumps onto the couch like she’s been hollowed out. Her hair’s messy. Her shoulders sag.

She’s sucking and chewing on her bottom lip.

That…does somethingto me.

Despite her father being who he is, with his wealth and connections, Naomi’s apartment is surprisingly small.

Actually, scratch that: it’s a shithole.

Water-stained ceiling, peeling paint, just one bedroom. It looks like somewhere a college dropout with dreams of becoming either a playwright or an OD statistic would live, not the daughter of a congressman.

The disconnect is fascinating.

I watch as Naomi stands. She peels off her sweater, arms limp with exhaustion. Then her leotard.

Then her tights.

One piece at a time, she strips away the costume she wears for the rest of the world, unaware there’s someone in the shadows watching. I take a long drag of my cigarette, dark need throbbing low in my stomach as I watch her pad barefoot through her apartment, in nothing but a pale green sports bra.

I’ve already seen her naked today. I’ve had my fingers inside of her greedy little cunt, felt her shatter for me when she came.

Now I want more.

I want everything.

Every inch. Every sound. Every tear and tremble, every whispered plea.

And the mystery surrounding why I want that is about as intriguing as the one where I haven’t told anyone, not even Carmine, about the thumb drive I got from Mario—the one with the video of Naomi and those two motherfuckers.

…The one I haven’t actually watched since playing just the first bit on my laptop outside that dive bar.

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