Page 8 of Dance with Death

Fuck.

He’s talking to Vigo about my blue-eyed girl.

A fresh wave of nauseous unease washes over me as I press another kiss to her shoulder. I straighten, intent on getting a shirt or something for her to wear so she’s not lying there topless, but apparently, my time has expired.

Kostya’s hands land on my shoulders and yank me backward. I stumble away from the bed before rolling my shoulders and throwing my right arm with a fist intent on decking him as I spin. He ducks the punch and comes after me. The fucker is quick, grabbing my wrist and twisting my arm behind my back. He wrestles my other arm around behind me and holds my wrists together with both his hands, grinding my bones together.

“Your room. Now,” Kostya demands, spinning me and pushing me toward the door.

“At least let me get her some clothes—” I whip my head around to look at Anya, but he wrenches me again.

“Just go!” she shouts before her voice is swallowed by a sob. “Just go, Ezra. Don’t make it worse.”

I want to be with my girl.

Ineedto be with my girl.

But I can’t.

I’m being forcefully taken from her when she needs me the most.

I plant my feet, trying one last time to resist and get back to her, but our eyes meet and her voice is quiet and steady, though it’s forced. “Please. Don’t make it worse.”

If our love had a theme song.

Don’t Make it Worse.

Chapter 3

Anya

One. Two. Three.Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

One. Two. Three—

“Fuck!” I scream out at my ceiling for the millionth time over the course of the day.

The swelling is getting worse. The exposed part of my foot where my toes peek out bulges painfully against the tape and wrap Ezra had applied for me hours ago. I can see it’s changing colors. A dull shade of gray-blue peeks out from beneath the edge of the bandage.

I huff out breath after breath, hoping that some of the pain will subside with each exhale, but it doesn’t—it only gets worse. I try to let my mind drift to something else,anythingelse, but I can’t. It just hurts so much and I can’t even count my way through it.

I’m going to get up, I tell myself.I need to get up and move.

With a grunt, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I yelp as I slowly lower my left ankle to the floor. I dare to let my toes touch, just a tap to the carpet to test how it feels.

Even the simple softness of the carpet shoots a bolt of lightning through my foot. But I know I need to try. I have to try to stand and find out whether it’s broken. I inhale deeply and push through my good foot to stand, settling all my weight on my right side. Carefully, I roll my injured foot flat to the floor.

Toes first.

Then the ball of my foot.

The arch.

The heel.

I’m tensing every other muscle in my body in fearful anticipation of pain until my foot rests on the carpet. I suck in another breath and gradually shift my weight from right to left.

Inch by inch.

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