Page 11 of Ma Petite Mort
“Some of you were made to be used,” I say, gesturing to the ones already leaking between their legs, breath hitching from the weight of eyes on them. “Some of you were made to die,” I continue, eyes locking with a man sobbing quietly through his mask. “And the gods?” I smile. “They will feast on all of you.”
chapter three
giselle
They say murder isn’t the answer.
Cute.
Murder’salwaysthe answer—you’re just not asking the right questions.
Like:How deep should the knife go? Or will he moan or scream first?
Those are the fun ones.
It’s late now. Later than most people survive. And the tent? Oh, baby... the tent isalive.
Breathing in lust, exhaling death. There’s blood in the air, sweat on the floor, and a body count that’s definitely broken double digits.
Cirque Du Désir is in full fucking bloom.
And I’m starving.
I strut barefoot across the ring, my legs stained red up to my thighs. My paints are mostly gone—melted off in sweat and sin—but the blood stuck around like a jealous lover. I don’t bother cleaning up. What’s the point? I like the mess. Iamthe mess.
The tent moans and howls and pulses around me. The scent of sex is everywhere—a mix of leather, iron, spit, and desperation. It clings to your skin, seeps into your lungs. You don’t breathe air in here. You breathe kink, chaos and fire.
To my left, some poor bastard is tied upside down from a beam while a masked girl rides his face like a Valkyrie on a warhorse. Every time he chokes, she squeals.
To my right? A couple is throat-deep in bloodplay and something that smells suspiciously like piss. Good for them. Ten outta ten.
I blow them a kiss and keep walking.
A stilt walker lumbers past juggling fresh organs. I spot a kidney, maybe a liver—hard to tell from this angle. "Damn," I murmur, licking my lips. "Looks like I missed a good show."
Someone screams near Johnny’s section—high-pitched, guttural,definitelypain. Sounds like he hit something vital. Alaska’s probably got her teeth sunk into someone’s thigh again, chewing through the muscle like it’s fucking steak tartare.
Gods, Iloveit here.
And then I see him.
Red-branded.
Stripped. Bound. Gorgeous. Tied to a throne built from bones and shattered steel. Chest bare. Eyes wide. Fear radiating off him like heat off a forge.
* * *
"Mine," I whisper with a giggle, bouncing on the balls of my feet like I’ve just spotted a prize at a fucked-up carnival. My fingers twitch with excitement, and my eyes light up like fire. I sway closer, practically humming. Oh, I can already taste the screams.
I glide toward him like a sin in motion. The crowd parts around me—some touching themselves, some watching, some whispering my name like it might save them.
Spoiler alert: it won’t.
I climb into his lap, all slow and purring, as I straddle him like the kill I’ve been craving. His skin is warm and flushed. I lick my lips, press a finger to his chin, and tip his face toward mine.
"Red brand," I sing-song, tilting my head like a doll. "Means you don’t get to leave alive. Lucky you!"
He opens his mouth—probably to beg, to plead, to say something stupid?—
