Page 47 of A Dance Macabre

When my attention returns to Mercy, a man now sits in Belladonna’s seat. I can’t see his face, only that he must be whispering something into her ear by the way he’s leaning into her. A stunning rage fizzles under my skin as I watch his hand trail up her arm, his fingers caressing over the scar from when I pushed her into the pit.

When Ihurt her.

Me.

My body locks in a tight fury when my eyes snap to the Vainglory sigil on his signet ring.

I react from somewhere beyond my rational mind. Standing up, I fling the table out of my way, glass shattering to the floor.

From the corner of my eye, I see Mercy looking up in surprise as I stalk over to where she sits. I don’t glance her way, too busy reaching for an empty wine glass and smashing it against the table, breaking the stem off. I feel the sting of broken glass in my palm but don’t linger on it.

The next series of events happen in a flurry of movements but I cherish every second. I’ve never been one to shy away from murder, but this one feels a lot more personal than most, and heat scorches up my spine knowing Mercy will be witnessing it all.

His eyes widen when I grab his collar with a snarl, dragging him off of Mercy and out of his seat. Gripping the broken wine stem in my fist, blood from my cut now dribbling down my fingers, I shoot my arm backward to gain some momentum. His arms fly up to protect his face.

And inside the small liminal moment before I bring my arm back down, my crazed gaze flicks to Mercy. Her mouth is open in slight shock, but I don’t miss her pinkening cheeks and rising chest. I shoot her a dark grin and then plunge the broken stem deep into the man’s unprotected neck. Pulling it forcibly out again, I make sure the spray of blood doesn’t reach Mercy. And I ram the stem back into his neck.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, I let the body drop to the floor.

I shrug my shoulders as if shaking off a crick in my neck and pull out my pocket square, wiping the excess of blood from my cut palm. I fix my suit jacket and sit down.

Mercy tries to stand, but I grab her by the back of the neck and pull her backward onto my lap, letting out a few small tsks near her ear. The fragrance of burnt almonds and cherries is just as heady as always.

“He was one of yours,” Mercy says through gritted teeth, staring straight ahead and refusing to look at me.

Her legs straddle my left thigh and I hook my arm around her waist, pulling her back tighter against my chest. “All the more reason to kill him,” I answer heatedly.

“This isn’t what aunited frontentails,” she growls, her nails digging into my thigh through my trousers.

I reach for her pack of clove cigarettes on the table, lighting one up with her Zippo next to it. “Look around, Crèvecoeur,” I say with a bored wave of the hand, the corpse at our feet now being carried out without any brouhaha. “No one cares.”

I take a long drag, my left arm still firmly hooked around Mercy’s waist. I slowly blow out the smoke while Mercy twists her torso toward me and turns her head to the side, my gazelocking with hers. Her green eyes smolder and with it my cock strains against my trousers.

I bring the cigarette up to her lips, my fingers still stained red, and to my shock she lets her plump lips fall open for me, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. My fingers burn with the heat of her skin and my gaze is fixed on her mouth as she slowly wraps her lips around the filter and takes a deep drag. As her lungs fill with smoke, her back melts against my chest and I wonder if having to suffer the wrath of our gods would be less painful than seeing her like this and not being able to do anything about it.

“Now tell me,” I whisper into her ear as she tilts her chin upward, blowing out the white smoke. “You knew that the useless heap of muscles and bones was about to die, didn’t you?”

Upon hearing my question, she tries to rip herself away from me. But it’s futile. I laugh darkly as she struggles against my lap. My breath feathers over her neck, and I don’t miss her skin pebbling as my thumb idly rubs circles on her waist.

She straightens her back, head now facing forward, but answers my question. “Yes, I could sense death around him.”

I’m suddenly made aware of a subtle rock of her hips against my thigh.

I hum deep and low as I place the cigarette in the ashtray. When I lean back toward Mercy, I graze my fingers over her inner thigh before I settle us back into the seat. I savor the hitch in her breath and the subtle grind of her hips. I can practically feel the heat of her cunt through her leather pants. The feeling is a blissful kind of torture.

I trail my hand up the valley of her breasts and then her neck, cradling my palm and fingers just below her chin. “Why act so surprised then?” I rasp before sucking her earlobe into my mouth.

A hushed gasp tumbles out of her lips while she pushes her ass into my cock, her hands gripping the booth on either side of my leg. I let out a low groan, her cunt beginning to grind harder into my thigh.

“I didn’t know it would be by your hand,” she answers dismissively, but she can’t hide the tremor of lust in her voice.

Her hips begin to rhythmically rock back and forth, and my balls are so tight they ache. I let go of her chin and grab her waist, helping her pitch her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh.

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