Page 57 of Dance of Thorns

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, my dad isnota nice man. He had a gun in Roman’s face, and almost killed Bane’s father…” She shakes her head. “But he’s stillDad, you know?”

Eventually, both of us are losing the fight to keep our eyes open. I rustle up a pair of pajamas for her to change into, then tell her I have to check on something in the main house real quick.

Such a lie.

Instead, I linger in the darkness of the back garden, fingernails tap-tapping on the side of my phone. I take a deep, empowering breath, steeling myself.

Then I’d get ready to have some very uncomfortable conversations with just about everyone who thought they knew you.

That motherfucker thinks he’s got me backed into a corner with his threats to tell everyone about my drug issues and my time in rehab.

Fuck. Him.

Yes, telling Evie about my addiction issues was hard. But it was also freeing.

Emboldening.

Fresh power is burning inside me as I tap on Bane’s number and bring the phone to my ear. It rings, and rings, and rings,and rings…then goes to voicemail.

That’ll do.

There's the usual outgoing message followed by a beep.

Showtime.

“Hi, asshole!” I say, my voice laden with fake cheer. “It’s me, the girl you’re being a total creep to. To narrow that down, since I’m sure there are many of those, I’m the one you’re forcing to marry you—like a creep—and you think you’ve got me by the balls because you hacked into my computer to look at what I do in my private time.” I sigh. “Now, I’mprettysure you think you’ve got me in a bind, because you threatened to tell all my friends about theveryprivate matter of my history of drug abuse and mental health challenges.” I sneer into the phone. “Again,like. A fucking. Creep. So, let me make this clear, you fucking small-dicked did-I-mention-creep incel:you don’t own me. You don’t have leverage over me. You want to tell people that I had a nightmare of a time with heroin?Do it, bitch,” I spit. “It’ll make you look exactly like the heartless asshole you are, and no one will give a fuck anyway.Icertainly don’t. So do your worst, shrimp-dick.” I smirk in the darkness. “Doveout.”

I hit the end call button with a flourish, my pulse racing, triumph surging through my veins.

Take that, motherfucker.

“You look happy,” Evie grins at me from the couch when I waltz back in. “Everything okay?”

“Everything is grand,” I beam at her. “Now, are yousureyou don’t want the bed? Seriously, I'm happy to sleep on the couch.”

She shakes her head. “I’m good down here.”

I walk over and give her another big hug.

“Seriously,” I murmur. “Thank you for earlier. For listening, and not judging?—”

“Dove.” She pulls back, smiling at me. “You don’t have to thank me for being a good person.”

“Well, I want to, okay?”

We both laugh and say our goodnights. Then I skip up the stairs to the loft area, shut off the lights, and slide under the covers, my heart light.

I think this nightmare ride with Bane might be at end.

At some point, I fall asleep. I dream of snow, and then suddenly I’m on stage with the Zakharova, dancing inThe Nutcracker, my feet carrying my body effortlessly through the movements.

But then the dream morphs around me, and everything goes wrong. My arms can’t move gracefully anymore. They can’t moveat all, actually. Then it’s my legs and feet that feel trapped.

A weight settles down heavily on my chest as my pulse starts to beat faster.

What’s happening? Why can’t I?—

That’s when I wake with a gasp, coming to two horrifying realizations.