Page 101 of Dance With A Devil

I crawl closer, letting her pull me in until our bodies form this strange, perfect tangle around her. Karter smirks like the bastard he is.

“She’s clearly good at sharing.”

“Nobody asked you,” I mutter, my eyes already sliding shut.

The last thing I hear before sleep takes me?

Their breathing. Steady. Synchronized. Safe.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe we’re getting closer to the truth.

Even if it’s wrapped in blood and buried in the dark.

Morning breaks like a blade against my throat, too bright, too quiet.

I reach out, expecting warm skin, tangled limbs, the steady pulse of her pressed against me.

But the bed is cold.

She’s gone.

A sharp stab of panic digs into my ribs before I shove it down. I toss on a black tee, grey sweats, and stalk through the halls like something feral. I’m not used to waking up without her anymore.

As I hit the stairs, her voice finds me first.

Singing.

That fucking voice could resurrect the dead.

I stop in the archway, frozen as my Little Fox sways at the stove, barefoot, singing “Only Girl in the World” like she’s auditioning for sin itself. Long pencil skirt hugging her curves, blouse tucked in like she’s playing pretend. All neat. All polished.

All mine.

Her hair’s pulled back low, her hips in motion like a promise. My fingers twitch with the urge to destroy that illusion, to rip her out of that costume, bend her over the kitchen island, and shove every thought out of her head but me.

I take one step forward, then she turns.

Startled, clutching her chest. “Wyck! You scared the life out of me.”

Not enough, clearly.

“Didn’t mean to,” I say, smirking. “But I’m not sorry either.”

She chuckles. “You getting ready for class?”

“I’ve got other priorities today.” I close the distance between us, my hands already finding her hips. “We’ve got things to handle.”

Her eyes flash. “We?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I admire the way she fusses with the plates, perfect little hostess while the devil watches her breathe.

“We’re throwing a gathering,” I say finally. “Not a party. A reckoning.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Aren’t all your parties that?”

“Not like this one. Masks off. No more shadows. It’s time we remind everyone what it means to cross us.”

She shifts her weight to one hip, arms folded. “And what exactly does that mean?”