Page 118 of Dance With A Devil

“We’re coming with you,” they chime, already on my heels.

“You do realize we’re in the same room, right? The closet’s literally five feet away.”

“When you move, we move,” Ryan belts out.

“Just like that!” Fred sings back.

I sigh, but I don’t stop them. There’s no stopping them.

Five minutes later, we’ve got food, cursed herbs, and years of trauma bundled into worn leather notebooks spread across the floor. I’ve never been more terrified of a journal in my life.

Ryan lights the joint, inhales deep like she’s about to levitate, then hands it to me. “Okay, Athens. Before you crack open that first scar, you hit this.”

I stare at the joint like it’s sentient. My fingers wrap around it, hesitant. I bring it to my lips. My heart kicks. My breath holds.

Now or never.

I inhale.

The smoke claws down my throat like a demon’s touch. I cough, wheeze, blink through the sting, eyes watering as Ryan and Fred cheer like I just got baptized in Devil fire.

And maybe I have.

Because whatever happens next, it won’t be sober.

It’ll be real. Raw.

And hell-bent.

The second the smoke claws down my throat, I’m choking like it’s trying to take me out from the inside.

“Easy, sis,” Ryan drawls, exhaling slow like the shit doesn’t even touch her lungs. “This ain’t a dick, you don’t need to take it long and deep.”

I cough harder, but I manage a grin. “Could’ve fooled me. You sounded real professional just now.”

Fred tries to stifle her laugh and fails. Miserably.

Ryan smirks. “Bitch, after what you did to Karter, you might as well get your crown now. Queen of Throat-Fucking 101.”

The old me would’ve corrected her, would’ve reminded them I was supposed to be the teacher, not the demonstration. But that version of me died somewhere between the last journal entry and the first time I said yes to Wyck’s mouth on my sins.

So I lean into it.

“I do take pride in my work,” I say, smug. “Especially when I’ve got an audience.”

Fred whistles low. “You’re fucking unholy.”

“Thanks,” I say sweetly, taking another puff, smaller this time. Slower. Letting it curl in my lungs before I breathe it out in a ribbon of smoke. I pass it to Fred, then drop back on the pillow like my bones finally gave up pretending they weren’t broken.

“Is it supposed to feel like this?” I ask, my body weightless and my brain molasses.

Ryan leans over, studying me like she’s waiting for the drugs to unlock something ancient. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m floating on cloud nine while horny little fairies lick my toes.”

She snorts. “Yup. You’re high, Princess. Welcome to the fuck-it phase of self-discovery.”

“Let it ride,” Fred adds, eyes hooded as she lights the next joint. “Then we’ll grub and let you bleed out into the pages.”