Page 119 of Dance With A Devil
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble in a terrible British accent. “That sounds positively smashing.”
Both of them grimace like I just insulted their ancestors.
Ryan groans. “Jesus Christ. What the hell was that?”
Fred throws a chip at me. “You sound like a drunk chimney sweep trying to get laid.”
I shrug, grinning like a gremlin. “You bitches are no fun.”
“Shut up and get serious. I’m starting to feel…” I trail off, licking my lips. “Kinda turned on. Is that normal?”
Ryan lifts a brow. “It happens. Devil-grade high hits different. Makes some of us wanna cry, some of us wanna fuck. You’re obviously the latter.”
“Wyck’s dick is gonna be ruined by morning,” Fred says flatly.
“Shattered,” Ryan confirms. “Snapped clean in half.”
I sit up and just stare at them, and then we all break. Loud, ugly laughter echoes through the room, shaking the walls like even the ghosts can’t believe this is real.
“You bitches are what the doctor ordered,” I murmur, pressing a hand to my chest to slow the heartbeat thudding beneath the ache. “God, I hope this high lasts. I don’t want to feel anything real for a while.”
That kills the laughter.
Not immediately. But you can feel it shift, like something cold just slithered under the door and wrapped around our ankles.
Fred looks away.
Ryan’s smile tightens.
I try to claw it back with a shaky laugh. “I mean… is it bad to want one night where the past doesn’t own me?”
Ryan doesn’t blink. “Not bad. Just human. But you’re not human anymore, remember?”
“Yeah,” Fred adds. “You’re a Devil’s girl now. You don’t get breaks. You get burned.”
Ryan tosses a grape at my face. “Now eat, bitch. And start reading. We’re on a timer. If the boys come back and find us giggling like we haven’t cracked one trauma open, we’re getting booted to the curb.”
I catch the grape like a reflex. “You know, I really don’t have a problem with things flying at my face.”
Ryan wheezes. “That explains everything.”
Fred clutches her stomach. “I swear, I’m gonna piss myself.”
“Alright, alright, shut up,” I say, rubbing my temples. “Let’s do this before I start humping a pillow or something.”
Ryan grabs a journal and tosses it into my lap. “Pick your poison, Little Fox.”
I stare at it like it’s alive. Like it might bite me. Maybe it will.
I drag it open, fingers trembling despite the warmth buzzing under my skin.
The laughter dies. The air gets still.
The room forgets how to breathe.
And I begin.
Chapter Twenty-Six
