Page 192 of Dance With A Devil

But they never came.

I was alone.

And now… I’m here.

Whereverhereis.

The room’s too quiet. Too still. Like it’s waiting for me to breathe wrong. I throw off the sheets, legs dangling over the side of the bed as I hesitate. My feet hit cold hardwood and I sway. The dizziness hits me like a whisper dipped in poison.

What the hell did they give me?

I shuffle to the window, tugging the curtain back. Expecting light. Hoping for it. But instead… Wood. Nailed shut.

“What the fuck…” I whisper. The boards are thick. Industrial. Someone doesn’t want anything in, orout.

My fingers go to my back pocket on instinct. No phone. I pat my hoodie. Jeans. Nothing. Bile creeps up the back of my throat.

I dig beneath my shirt, chest tight. I sometimes hide my phone there, muscle memory. But no. Empty.

Panic sets in like a second skin.

I need to call Wyck.

I need to getout.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a rusted blade. Low. Ragged. A throat full of gravel and secrets.

I freeze. Turn.

He steps out of the shadows, calm as a corpse.

He’s tall, built like a steel trap. Long black hair, dark eyes rimmed in kohl like a grunge reaper. His face is littered with tattoos, jaw to temple. His wife-beater clings to him like sweat and sin.

I don't move.

“You forgot the most important question,” he says, lips curling around the words like they taste bitter. “Everyone always askswho, what, where... but neverwhy.”

I swallow. Hard.

“Okay,” I say slowly, playing along. “Why?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

He steps toward me, slow, deliberate.

I back up fast. My spine slams against the boarded window. Trapped.

His arms shoot out, bracketing my face. His body presses into mine, a wall of heat and rot.

“You didn’t ask me…why you’re still alive.” His teeth flash, sharp, perfect. Wrong. “You look surprised. Why? Not used to people hating you unless they wanna fuck you?”

He hisses the last word like it’s personal.

My hand snaps up. Slaps him hard across the face. His head jerks sideways, spit flying.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about me.”