Page 51 of Dance with Death

The sound of Anya letting out a single, sharp scream.

“Come with me. You’re a filthy, disgusting, slutty little mess. Let Papà give you a bath.”

That’s where the first video ends. I run a shaking hand through my hair.

Why am I shaking?

This is what I wanted.

I sold her knowing he’d do this to her.

I click on the second video and stare at it for exactly five seconds before my hand opens inexplicably and my phone tumbles to the floor.

Anya underwater.

Her blue eyes wide and wild.

Motionless.

Drowning.

Ezra scrambles to grab my phone as Vigo says something on the clip about the fucking paralytic drug he’s always used with his broken dolls. Anya is one of them now, because of me.

I pace away, not giving a shit that Ezra has picked up my phone, that he screams in pain seeing Anya underwater. I don’t care when he clicks back to watch the first video. I don’t flinch when he throws my phone at the wall and it crashes to the floor.

It’s not necessary for me to punish him for touching my property. What he has seen on my phone is proving to be punishment enough.

He screams, his fingers digging into his hair as he curls forward on his knees, as if the heartache in his chest is a dense, dying star, pulling every other part of him toward its center as what he’s seen slowly destroys him.

I should be glad.

It’s what I wanted—to offload the bitch who betrayed my trust and fucked her pet when I gave her an inch of freedom for one fucking night. I wanted to hurt them both for hurting me so effectively, for her refusal to give me a spoonful of love for all the years I took care of her, for his refusal to look at me with anything other than hatred and disgust.

I don’t need his disgust.

My father gave me enough to last a lifetime.

My throat gathers a lump. My heart pounds. My hands tremble. My eyes burn.

I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel like I’ve made a mistake.

I don’t make mistakes.

I have to sit. I go back to my armchair and slowly lower. My elbows fall to my knees and my head falls into my hands.

“You did this.” It’s a quiet hiss of truth from Ezra after several quiet moments. “You did this to her. You sold her to a fucking sociopath, and he’s going to ruin her in ways you never could’ve dreamed of.”

I lift my head slightly from my hands, turning to look toward him. “Is that meant to compliment or insult me?”

“Neither.” He chuckles behind a sob. “It’s just the fucking truth.”

“I know what I did.”

“Do you? Do you really? Do you understand that you signed her death certificate when you sold her to that monster?”

“He’s no more of a monster than I am,” I try to convince the both of us.

“You’re right,” he concedes, his head bobbing lightly. “You’re worse.”

---