Page 79 of Dance with Death

I lift my hand to graze down Ezra’s spine. Though it should be, it’s not a touch meant to soothe him, to calm him, to encourage him to back down. It’s not a touch that tells him to keep his cool so he doesn’t make things worse. It’s a touch of finality, a touch of acceptance, of encouragement, because I’ve had enough of this shit, too.

That seems to be all the encouragement he needs. I can nearly hear his overused adrenaline pump whirring into action. He steps forward and Vigo lurches.

They collide in fists and fury.

They’re both snarling wolves snapping and clawing with brute force.

Ezra swings a side jab that collides with Vigo’s skull, just to the side of his left eye. Vigo turns out of the hit, spinning around and charging toward Ezra like a linebacker, catching him in the gut with his shoulder and pushing him back. They’re quickly coming toward me. Ezra manages to hold steady for a few beats, but I yelp when he stumbles, jumping and scrambling away after he lands on his ass in front of my feet. Ezra doesn’t fall to his back, though. He fights to sit upright, reaching over Vigo’s back and punching his sides, over and over.

Vigo climbs, trying to push Ezra down on his back so he can get on top and pummel him, but Ezra is strong. He grabs Vigo’s skinny hips and flips him sideways, rolling on top of him as quickly as he can. Straddling him, Ezra squeezes his knees in against Vigo’s hips to grip him in place. Ezra grabs Vigo’s tie and wraps it around his fist, pulling just enough to lift his head off the floor. Ezra punches and punches and punches at Vigo’s face until blood spurts from his broken nose.

I can only see the side of Ezra’s face in his manic beating, but it looks like he’s smiling down at Vigo as the red spatters his pristine white button-down shirt and stains the carpet beneath them.

Ezra hits.

And hits.

And hits.

I’ve never felt so many things at once. Watching Ezra defend me makes me feel proud and powerful. It makes me feel love and deep respect for him. It makes me feel horror and fear for the consequences to follow. It makes me feel strangely aroused and desperately needy for this formidable man who gave me his heart.

“I hope you die, motherfucker!” Ezra screams down at Vigo, lost in his violent rage. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Mal’chik!” My head snaps up at the sound of Nikolai’s voice, but Ezra doesn’t stop, doesn’t even acknowledge that he heard it. “That’s enough. Stop.”

Ezra punches.

He hits.

He pounds.

Nikolai’s nostrils flare and he storms forward—I know I have to stop Ezra before Nikolai gets to him. Ezra might start swinging at Nikolai and only God knows what would happen to him then.

“Ezra.” I say his name softly but firmly, as a command of my own, because he is mine as much as I am his.

Only a second passes before Ezra stops. He lets go of Vigo’s tie and drops his head onto the carpet with a thump. Ezra’s chest heaves as he inhales and exhales heavy breaths.

Confident that Ezra is no threat to me, even in his violent fury, I step forward and reach out to touch him. My fingers only brush his shoulder before he snatches my hand in his bloodied ones. He stands in a flash, whirling around to face me and throws his arms around me. This time I’m pullinghimbackward, wanting to protect him from the consequences to come if he’d been given seconds or minutes longer. He might’ve beaten Vigo to death given more time.

I don’t even know what the punishment would be for a slave killing a Head of House.

I wanted Ezra to kill Vigo.

Then Nikolai.

Even Leo Leblanc and Murphy O’Shea.

But killing them probably wouldn’t matter to our freedom. Their reach is so vast that I don’t even know how we could ever fully escape if we were lucky enough to get away.

Regardless, my love and loyalty to Ezra has strengthened immeasurably over these short moments. He would do anything for me. He would put his life at risk for me. I know I have to keep my promise to him—I just don’t know how. There’s still a nagging voice in the back of my mind that tells me death would ease all my suffering.

Maybe that voice will never go away.

If that’s true, then I have to find a way to silence it.

“I’m sorry,” Ezra whispers to me, holding me tight in his vice-like embrace. “I shouldn’t have done that. I know.” He kisses the crook of my neck, silently telling me of his regret.

“No regrets,” I tell him plainly, squeezing him. “I love you. I love you so much.”

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