Page 2 of The Masks and the Dancer (Their Obsession 2)

He snaps his head around, looking at me sharply. “Your gloves, Leon. Take them off and light the damn rag.” His tone of voice brooks no arguments and I know better than to disobey him.

“Yes, Sir,” comes my well-rehearsed reply.

Yes, Sir...

Whatever pleases you, Sir…

Beat me, Sir...

Yes, I deserve it, Sir…

I am worthless. Just like you say, Sir...

With a stuttered intake of breath, I peel off the leather gloves and chuck them on the mat by the back door, then take the lighter from my father. Our eyes meet, and his coal-black ones spark with annoyance.

Fuck.

I’m still learning to keep my emotions in check, to dampen my feelings, to turn them off, and with every beating it gets easier. But sometimes, like today, my face reveals my emotions. I have to get better at wearing a mask. When it comes to Malik Brov, there are three rules my brothers and I mustalwaysstick to or suffer the consequences: never show emotion, never display weakness, and always follow his commands.

“Do it!” he demands.

At least this time I don’t flinch.

Flipping the lid on the zippo lighter, I press my thumb against the flint wheel and force it to turn. A flame appears, wavering in the breeze. I feel the warmth of it and wonder how something that can save lives also has the power to end them.

With one jerk of his chin, I step towards the sodden rag and light it, stumbling back at the ferocity of the flames that crackle and leap, instantly fuelled by the petrol. The heat is intense, the flames a wild beast coming alive right before our eyes. It’s gaping maw is filled with destruction, heat, and poisonous smoke as it devours everything in its path.

Stepping back, I watch in fascination as the flames lick up the wooden frame of the door, crackling and hissing as it catches fire to the ivy climbing up the wall. The flames spread with ease, and within seconds the room beyond the back door is engulfed.

“Burn in Hell,witch,” my father says, cocking his head as a slow smile spreads across his face.

Noticing that I’m studying him, he jerks his chin. “Go around the front, light the other rags.”

Swallowing hard, I nod, backing away from him slowly as he steps towards me, that familiar look in his eye. “And make it quick!” he adds when I’m not moving fast enough.

Twisting on my feet, I run as though the very devil is at my back.

Perhaps that’s because he is, a little voice inside my head taunts me.

I shut that thought down, concentrating instead on the task at hand. When I reach the front door, I can see the red and orange glow of the fire through the downstairs window. The flames haven’t yet reached the front of the house, but it won’t be long. I watch it spread across the floor and walls, a living breathing organism intent on destruction as it consumes and annihilates.

Stepping closer to the rag, I hold up the lighter, the sharp teeth of the flint wheel biting my skin, but something stops me from lighting it. Over the shattering of glass, and the roar of the flames, I swear I can hear a soft cry coming from inside the house.

My whole body stiffens as I listen, straining to hear over the decimation of the fire.

“What are you doing, Leon?” my father asks as he steps into my peripheral vision.

A beat later a high-pitched scream shatters the air, confirming my worst nightmare. Despite the rising heat, my blood runs cold. Ice cold.

“No!” I choke out, shock making me forget my place as my father’s servant. His slave.

“Light. The. Rag,” he insists.

I don’t move.

The screaming gets louder.

The fire fiercer.

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