Page 105 of Dance of Thorns

There’s something so vulnerable in her voice, like she’s afraid of the answer.

“I was kidnapped when I was nine years old.”

The silence isdeafeningas her eyes snap to mine.

“My dad had a business deal go sour with an Armenian family," I say. "In retaliation, they tracked me down in the park with my nanny, broke her jaw, shot the men guarding us, and took me.”

My eyes close as my hand slides up her thighs until my fingers lace with hers.

“I was held in a basement for two weeks. No sunlight. No fresh air. A bucket for a bathroom, and just water and bread, sometimes an apple to eat.” A cold sensation drags through my chest. “I still fucking hate apples, actually.”

When I open my eyes, my heart breaks a little. She’s crying silently, her eyes red, her face crumpled.

“Eventually, my dad’s men found me. They slaughtered the men who’d taken me, and took me home, and everyone told me I was rescued. That I wasfinenow, and everything was going to be okay.”

I shake my head.

“But you and I both know how stupid a statement that is. It’s never fine, or okay. Nothing ever goes back to normal.” My jaw tenses as I reach up to cup her face, my thumb stroking away a tear as it rolls down her cheek. “You never leave the room in which you were imprisoned. Not really. We’re both always going to be in there. The trick is, living your lifein spite of it all.”

I lean forward until our foreheads are touching.

“So, no, baby,” I murmur. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re surviving…and you’re fuckingkilling itat that, for what it’s worth.”

She chokes out a broken laugh, tears rolling down her cheeks as she clutches my face. She leans in and kisses me hard, sobbing into my lips as I kiss her back. One of her hands drifts back to her own face, her fingers sliding over my hand. She pulls it from her cheek and drags it down to her neck. It’s not until she’s curling my fingers around her throat that I realize what she’s doing.

“If it’s not this,” she chokes, “then it’s going to be me cutting, or finding a way back up to a roof, or fucking using again.” Her haunted eyes hold mine, full of pain and need and sadness. “So please, Bane…” she tightens my fingers around her throat. “Fuck me, and fuck me your way.”

I groan as I squeeze her throat, feeling her pulse jackrabbiting when I lean in to brush her lips with mine.

“Do your worst,” she chokes quietly. “Please.”

“Do you remember your safe word?”

Her eyes lock with mine, her teeth raking over her lip.

“Tonight, I don’t want to.”

25

DOVE

Lark would get sucha kick out of this.

Either that, or she’d hate me forever. But I’m choosing to believe she’d see the funny side if she were to walk in right now.

Me, in a wedding dress.

MarryingBane.

In about…forty minutes.

I exhale as I look at myself draped I white tulle and lace in the mirror. Fuck, IhopeLark would see the humor in this, at least. But maybe shewouldhate me.

The wedding is a small affair, being held at Nikolai Antonov’s lavish Bronx mansion. There’s no pomp and circumstance, no crowds of friends and family. On “my side”, the only people in attendance are my dad, Cunt-Face and her little shit of a dog, Melinda, because I asked her to come, and Chiara, which oddly makes me feel a little bit better.

I dunno. We might not be close, but she’s still my half-sister.

On Bane’s side, it's just his dad, Sergey, and curiously, Alfred, his butler.