Page 28 of Dance of Madness

Again.

I push past the burn in my legs, the pain in my feet, the tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with what Iwoke up to.

A rose and a memory that won’t die.

“Milena!” Madame Kuzmina snaps. “Arms!”

I adjust. She nods, tapping her ringed fingers together in that way that always makes me think of a Roma fortune teller. Then she moves on, finds Val goofing off in the corner of the studio with Jackson and Miguel, and barks at them to get back to work.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Outwardly, I look normal. In control. Strong.

But I don’tfeelnormal.

I feel wrecked, inside and out. Like there’s the beginnings of the flu or a cold inside me that’s eventually going to bring me down.

During a break, I snag my phone and slump down against the wall of the studio, pushing sweat-dampened hair from my face as I aimlessly scroll Insta. I grin when I see a picture Lyraposted last night that I must have missed: a shot from over the weekend, her and Carmine out at some fancy gala.

Lyra, of course, looksstunning,the emerald of her gown contrasting perfectly with her fiery red hair. Carmine looks his usual slightly-psychotic-but-still-a-male-supermodel type of handsome beside her in a tuxedo.

Suddenly, I go still.

Next to Carmine is his younger brother Nico, his arms wrapped around Naomi who's looking amazing in a violet dress. Besidethemis another face I know all too well.

Nero De Luca.

His hair’s a little longer than it used to be. His chest has filled out a bit, his shoulders and arms a little more muscled. His eyes are even sharper and deadlier than they were that night.

A shiver ripples up my spine.

We don’t necessarily move in the same social circles, but they intersect here and there. He’s friends with Carmine and Nico; I’m friends with Lyra and Naomi. That sort of thing.

Whenever Iamin the same room as him, however, there’s a strange sensation that always pools inside me.

I guess that’s to be expected when you’re around the person you lost your virginity to.

Or, probably the person you lost your virginity to, and they don’t know it.

Not “don’t know it” as in “didn’t realize it was your first time”.

As in, literally don’t know it wasyou.

Yeah.

We weren’t supposed to know. That was the whole point that night. No names. Hidden identities. Faces covered by masks.

Looking back, all that cloak and dagger bullshit seems so stupid now. At that point, we already knew almost everything there was to know about each other. Every dream. Every dark secret. Every buried fantasy.

That is precisely what brought me to that converted warehouse loft in Brooklyn four years ago: the promise of a night of letting go of inhibitions. Of exploring my dark side.

A night of masks, breathless gasps, and pounding pulses as he fucked me as roughly and as brutally as I craved.

But then it turned into a night of terror, with gunfire. A night that had me fleeing home and rushing up the stairs to find Uncle Levka sitting at my father's desk, as he had been for the last few months while Papa was deep in his treatments.

“Thank God you’re home, Milena. I was so worried about you.”

I replay the frantic way he jumped up from the desk and raced over to hug me fiercely. Four years later, I still rememberevery singledetailof that night.

The good, and the horrible.

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