Page 30 of A Dance Macabre

A pinch of irritation flares behind my ribcage. I shouldn’t have let her have the rooms so easily. Not after what she did to me. I somehow got caught in a moment of atrocious human weakness. When I held her arm and she flinched, I could tell she was injured. The fall into the sacrificial pit must have been the root cause of her wound. Although every part of me, down to the very last atom, wanted to see her suffer, I let go. As if pulled by an invisible force.

What was it about her pain that made me sway?

Whatever it was, it made me relinquish the quarters, and the nauseating perfume of regret has been trailing me ever since.

Those rooms should have beenmine. Instead, I’m living in the family quarters like someone’s powerless spouse and not like the proud gods-ordained ruler of Pravitia.

My mouth contorts with disgust as I take a small step back, continuing to study myself in the mirror. My gaze finds the fading scratch marks on my cheek just above where my beard begins.

I’d have someone killed for much less, let alonedisfiguringmy image like Mercy did.

Ineffable barbaric creature.

There are only two things that have kept me from spiraling into constant fits of rage this week while having to share the same space with Crèvecoeur. One is the subtle knowledge that Mercy isn’t as comfortable in the public eye as she lets on, just by the way she carried herself in meetings all week indicates this. She might have craved the power attached to such an eminent title but the woman is a misanthrope at heart.

I might not know her intimately but we still grew up in the same circles. And I’m willing to bet my entire family fortune that she’d rather spend her time with her precious corpses than have anything to do with the public aspect of being our gods’ ascended ruler.

As for me? I was quite literally born for this.

Speaking of …intimacy—although my apathetic feelings for Mercy have been lit with the fires of genuine detestation since the Lottery—I have yet to forget what happened the night before the Conclave.

Admittedly, the feel of her warm, tight cunt around my fingers might have blurred the edges of my feelings toward her—if only for a few days. An infatuation that was hard to stomach and lined with a healthy dose of self-loathing.

Luckily, her coup at the Lottery wiped away any lingering attraction.

And now, withholding my knowledge that it was me behind the curtain that night is the only other thing keeping me sane. I’m not certain I would have ever considered disclosing it to herbefore the dire shift of our entwined fates happened. But now I can use it as a valuable chess piece, one that I can’t wait to play, if only to mess with her head and wrestle some power away from her cold, usurping hands.

It’slate morning but it might very well be the dead of night with how dark the skies above us are. The rain pours down in sheets but Claire—who is conducting the interview—insistedon a photo-op outside of Mount Pravitia. Unfortunately, despite the miserable weather, I had to agree. The building is the physical manifestation of our newly acquired power.

The four large umbrellas interlocking above our heads held up by Vainglory Media staff manage to protect us from the cold wet rain. Still, I’m much too close to Mercy for my liking. And my loafers are getting wet.

Cherry and burnt almonds.

I can almost taste it. It’s as if the rain has created a barrier between us and everything else and Mercy’s scent has nowhere to go but up my nose.

I can’t stand it.

I want out from under these umbrellas, and let the rain cleanse me of the stench.

Claire, with her perfect blonde updo and pearl necklace, smiles up at me as she stands to the side but still out of the rain, while the photographer readies himself for a picture.

Being the professional, she tries to fill the silence with endless dribble but I’m barely listening, Mercy’s silence is louder than any noise outside of Mount Pravitia.

She might not enjoy the attention, but at least she dressed the part. Never in anything but black, she looks impeccable in asleek dress that falls just below her knee. The only color on her pale white skin is a hint of blush on her cheekbones and pouty red lips. I nearly choked on my breath when I noticed she was wearing the same pearled stilettos as the night of Constantine’s little psycho soiree. I’ve been avoiding looking at her feet since.

“Ready?” the photographer mumbles from behind his camera.

Simply having the lens pointed at me has me falling into a pose like second nature, my hand effortlessly landing on the small of Mercy’s back like I’ve done countless times before with other women.

I feel her stiffen and I flinch, realizing my mistake. But with a quick look at the small crowd gathered around us despite the weather, I know I can’t remove my hand now without it looking suspicious. By Mercy’s lack of reaction, I realize she’s heeding my warning—we must look like a team, not enemies. A part of me wants to take advantage of this moment, to taunt her like a cat to a dying mouse.

How far could I take it before she snaps?

It’s a fleeting thought.

Because my palmburnsas if my skin itself knows I shouldn’t be touching her. My charismatic smile never slips while the consecutive flash of the camera momentarily blinds me, my fingers curling into a fist behind Mercy’s back.

“Marvelous,” Claire says, her nude lips spreading into a beatific smile as her brown eyes bounce between Mercy and me. “You two look likequitethe pair. Let’s finish this interview inside shall we?”

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