Page 45 of A Dance Macabre

I stand idly for a beat in the doorway before the back of my neck begins to prickle with an errant thought.

They wouldn’t.

I turn on my heels, backtracking through the row of rooms, in a temperamental huff, and head for the West Wing. I know exactly where Wolfgang’s living quarters are located, but I’ve never had a reason to step foot in his wing before now. It’s just as lush and decadent as everything in this place, just a little smaller than mine are—and with a lot more mirrors.

I approach his bedchamber with hurried steps and a clenched jaw, but when I hear a muffled groan, I skid to a stop. I hold my breath, my heart slamming in my chest. Through the cracked door, I peer into the room. Only the warm light from his bedside lamp illuminates the space, and my eyes immediately land on Wolfgang sprawled in bed. He appears to be naked, gold satin sheets covering most of his lower body, except for …

Except for.

My mouth falls open. Slowly, my hand reaches my lips as I begin to covertly watch him from the small opening. Gripping his cock in his palm, his head rests on the headboard behind him as he pumps up and down his hard shaft with a tight fist, the muscles in his arm and naked chest tight with exertion.

A moan falls from his mouth, and my clit throbs as if in answer. In the way his jaw is clenched, and eyebrows furrowed, he seems angry, fucking his fist with a barely discernible rage.

I step closer.

His free hand grips the sheets, and a low curse traverses his lips before his movements turn more frantic as he fucks his cock even faster. He comes with a long hiss, his head falling downward, abs growing taut while the cum pulses again and again all over his stomach.

My body is aflame, my mind a ruined mess.

When his dark gaze snaps to mine, I fall deeper into the blazing inferno. A shocked gasp dies somewhere in my throat, but I don’t try to escape his scrutiny.

I hold his icy stare as I count the quick rise and fall of his chest.

“Perverted little creep,” Wolfgang growls, his hand still loose around his cock. Slowly, he drags his finger through his release, a sinful and crooked smile appearing on his lips. “Next time you want to slither into places you don’t belong, I’ll force-feed you my cum with your caviar on toast, really make it a delicacy.”

His sharp, degrading words only manage to stoke the raging flames even higher, my clit aching to be touched. Instead, I reach for the handle and slam the door in his face.

27

WOLFGANG

Ifind Aleksandr sitting in the dark, facing a large aquarium, the bluish lights from the tank flickering over his face. He is staring sightlessly at his pet axolotls. Curious-looking salamanders with gills circling their wide heads like a crown—they always appear to be smiling.

Mercy would hate them.

The thought jumps from the shadows like a fanged nightmare. It makes me stumble a step as if the thought itself has morphed into a bunched carpet under my feet. Luckily Aleksandr seems lost in thought, he usually stares at his axolotls when he needs to think. He’s sprawled on his couch in the sunken living room, his burgundy tracksuit a stark contrast against the white leather.

The fact that I’d think of Mercy’s likes and dislikes over something so anodyne as Aleksandr’s aquatic pets makes me grind my teeth as I step down into the conversation pit.

“Something on your mind?” I ask.

I subtly try to sound like I’m not the one who’s plagued with unwanted thoughts.

Of that pest no less.

And of howunbelievableit felt to have her eyes fixed on me while I fucked my fist. I can’t deny she was the reason I was so hard and desperate in the first place. I’ve been stroking my cock raw since the executions two days ago. And every time I come, her name permanently tattooed on my lips, I promise it will be the last.

It never is.

My reality has slowly begun to sink in …

I’m doomed to be forever riddled with thiscancerouslust for Mercy.

Aleksandr’s hazel eyes slide to mine as I unbutton my suit jacket before sitting on the couch facing him.

“Not particularly,” he says, answering my question with a quirk of his mustache. His head rests against his thumb and finger, the low beat of music filling the space between us. Falling silent, he studies me and a cold shiver trickles down my spine. I’ve never been able to hide much from my best friend. And his gaze seems to convey that very fact. “I could ask the same of you,” he finally states.

Within one single breath, I consider sweeping everything under the same metaphorical rug I tripped over earlier and reply with a generic response about the woes of being a new ruler.

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