Page 50 of Dance with Death

Below the text are two videos. The stills that show before I press play already have rage bubbling in my blood.

He knew it wasn’t a choice for me.

He knew I’d have to watch.

Whatever vile things he’s doing to her, they’re no viler than what I’ve already done to her. There’s one thing Vigo and I have always had in common—there’s a sickness in our blood passed down through generations. It’s a sickness shared by every member of the four families, dating all the way back to the four fathers who established our secret, conglomerate slave trade.

Those four villainous fathers had met by chance two centuries ago, fleeing their homelands against prosecution for the heinous, murderous crimes they had committed. They might have been some of the most prolific serial killers in history had the secret not been kept. But in their chance meeting, they chose to form a coalition, working together to evade charges of their various crime sprees by agreeing to provide alibis for each other in turn.

They were able to return to their homelands, build normal lives, breed children as depraved as they were, and the four families have carried on with the debauchery ever since. The partnership among the four fathers proved to be profitable for everyone. They quickly found themselves in the business of selling and trading human lives, which proved to be their most profitable and satisfying venture.

The descendants of those four fathers never stood a chance.

We were born sick.

I rub my hand over my face, shake my head, and press play for the first video.

It starts and my pulse thrums as Anya comes into the screen. She’s on her knees, wearing a stupid blue dress that makes her look like a fucking child, and her hair is split into two ponytails, tied with ribbons. She’s fucking—I narrow my eyes at the screen and then they widen in surprise.

She’s fucking a goddamn child’s toy.

Vigo is pressed up behind her, their bodies molded together, and he holds up his phone, high above their heads, angling it down to show them both rocking and grinding together. I didn’t think to turn down the volume on my phone before clicking play so I get to hear their sordid dialogue.

“Take a look at this. Daddy’s little doll. Sweet and dirty and aching for it. Do you like it, doll?”

“Si, Papà.”

Ezra is leaping from his chair and running after me in a flash, practically stumbling across the room in his haste to get to me.

“That’s Anya’s voice. What is that?” he asks. “What thefuckis that?”

I growl at him, “Get on your knees,mal’chik.If I want you to see it, I’ll show you.”

He begrudgingly drops to his knees beside me, knowing that I’m his master and he’ll obey immediately if he wants anything from me.

I’m still the goddamn king of this castle.

His bare chest heaves with the heavy breaths he’s taking. Part of me wants to torture him by leaving him wondering. Part of me wants to torture him by showing him this video.

Either way, it will hurt him.

Hurting him makes me feel like I’m in control.

But the video continues.

Vigo is no longer rocking behind her, he’s standing back, filming her fuck herself to completion on a toy. Then, she’s looking at the camera, tears streaking down her pretty cheeks, and my gut rolls with something resembling nausea. It’s an uneasy feeling I’m not accustomed to and don’t really care for.

I flinch to see her launch herself at him so unexpectedly. She attacks him and the phone falls to the floor. Though all it manages to capture visually is the ceiling, it still records the sound.

Ezra falters, his shoulders rounding and slumping, one hand landing over his heart as the other presses down into one of his strong thighs, holding himself up lest he should crumble to the floor. He hears what I’m hearing, the sounds of Vigo and Anya struggling and fighting, exchanging words.

“Take out my cock.”

“No.”

“Take it out or I’ll do that to your fucking nipple.”

The sound of Vigo fucking her, coming inside her.

---