Page 176 of Dance With A Devil
That gets Hanson’s attention.
His eyes snap to me. “Your father? Wyck, is that you?”
I remove my mask, slow and deliberate. “You already knew that.”
Something shifts behind his eyes, fear gives way to fury. He sneers. “Of course I knew. How could I not? Every move tonight... Your father orchestrated it. You think you’re in control? You’re dancing to his fucking tune.”
“Is that right?” I tilt my head. “And why would he do that?”
“To get to her. Your Little Fox.” He smirks. “Where is she now?”
The second he utters her name, something inside me snaps.
“You really think you’re holding the leash?” I step closer. “You’re just another dying animal trying to bluff its way out of the slaughterhouse. But there’s one fatal flaw in your little monologue.”
He blinks, swallows hard.
“Go on,” I coax. “Ask me what it is.”
He hesitates. Then: “What’s the flaw?”
I close the space between us, now eye to eye. His forehead glistens like meat under a butcher’s lamp.
“I can hear your heartbeat, Hanson. Every spike when you lie. Every skip when you think you’re clever.” I draw my blade. “And you’re trembling again.”
I grab a fistful of his hair and wrench his head back, forcing his eyes to mine.
“Those kids aren’t yours,” I hiss.
The blade kisses his throat and slides clean. He laughs, at first. Then the red pours. His laughter dies before he does.
I crouch beside the body, lick the blood from my blade, and whisper, “Your secrets die with you. Just not fast enough.”
Lexi screams like a banshee, breaking from Onyx’s grip and flinging herself over her husband’s corpse. “You bastards! You’ll pay for this!”
Karter doesn’t even flinch. “Bring the kids. It’s time she hears her eulogy from the ones she fucked over.”
She’s a sobbing mess now, snot, mascara, regret. All of it smeared across her pretty face like war paint.
“Look at it this way, sweetheart,” Wells drawls, voice thick with amusement, “at least you’ll be joining your husband in hell. Real soon.”
“I can be useful!” she pleads. “Money, men, anything.”
“So do we,” I mutter.
“I have pussy.”
That stops us.
Then silence. Then laughter. Low. Cruel.
“No thanks,” I spit. “We don’t trade gold for garbage.”
The door opens behind me. Karter returns with two teens, shadows in their own story. The girl’s eyes are wide but hard. The boy’s, haunted.
“Tell them,” I say gently. “Tell us the truth.”
The boy steps forward. “They stole us. Killed our real parents and buried them in a field near our house.”
