Page 48 of A Dance Macabre

“I don’t need you to explain to me in words how watching me kill him made you feel,” I hiss into her skin while my own skin burns and burns and burns. “Considering how you’re currently fucking my lap, you sick little fuck.”

Mercy laughs.

She laughs …

It’s small, barely noticeable, but the noise leaves me momentarily stunned.

“And what about you?” she says a little breathlessly. She slides her hips forward and reaches back to palm my hard cock. It throbs painfully in response. I bite down on a growl as my lips blaze up her bare throat. “Desperate wolf, wanting the one thing he can’t have.”

Again, she tries to wriggle out of my grasp, but I’m stronger and fueled by the irritating sound of her last words. “Let me go,” she bites out, her burning gaze clashing with mine.

Her chest heaves, and my fingers dance over the curves of the top of her breasts before saying, “What makes you think I want anything to do with a feral creature like you?” My hand moves down her stomach, over my linked arm, and grazes over the seam of her leather pants. She doesn’t say a word, but her lips part when I put pressure over her clit. It’s a slow taunting circling motion, her eyes burning as I do so. I then splay myentire palm over her cunt, pulling her hard against me. “The very thought of you is a plague I’d rather notcatch,” I spit, finally unhooking my arm from around her waist and pushing her off my lap.

She falls onto the booth, but I avoid the glare she’s most likely directing my way and stand up. I ignore my erection, straightening my cuffs before exiting the area, suddenly needing fresh air before I do something I’ll regret until my last rightful breath.

28

MERCY

The rain has returned. It batters steadily against the windows, the wind howling as if mourning a dying lover. It’s late evening, and I’m lounging on one of the couches in the library in my quarters, my bare feet curled up under me.

To my left, the large fireplace crackles softly with flames and embers while my dogs slumber atop the wool rug in front of the mantelpiece.

Two of the four walls of the library are floor-to-ceiling bookcases, some books as old as our family feuds. There’s a large section dedicated to the Lottery records and the resulting nineteen-year rule. Reading about classified information and family secrets I haven’t been privy to before would usually thrill me, but the book balancing on my lap is as entertaining as a dull knife to the eye. The words blur, my thoughts much too volatile for any of it to make sense.

Wolfgang is ignoring me again. It’s been nearly a week since he last had his hands on me. The night at Vore when he killed one of his men for touching me.

Heat curls low in my stomach at just the thought. It incenses me. I should carry out my own execution for even daring to keep track of time in this manner. Every day I’m repulsed by how easy it is to let my mind wander to the few times I’ve felt Wolfgang’s touch on me.

And yet …

I find myself emerging from memories without any concept of time, trapped in the echo of inconsequential moments like when his hand found the small of my back in the pouring rain.

I slam the book closed with a huff and throw it beside me on the couch. Propping my chin into my palm, I sigh, my gaze idly lingering on the rows and rows of our family history.

I wonder if…

I can barely finish the thought. Irritated that I would even entertain any of Wolfgang’s recent erratic behavior and how it’s only left me wanting more. But try as I might, curiosity prickles my skin.

This library must have a book detailing the divine law that forbids us from mixing our bloodlines. And if fornication never leads to procreation, would we be punished? I can’t believe that Wolfgang and I would have been the first to have—I swallow hard, barely wanting to admit to myself, but alas—an attraction to one another.

Quietly, not wanting to wake the dogs, I uncurl myself from the couch and stand up. But I only make it a few steps toward one of the shelves when I feel the air shift.

I stop in my tracks, my head slightly cocking to the side, eyes narrowing.

The sensation is similar to when I feel the call, but it’s not quite the same. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I’ve felt it before. Then it hits me.

The Oracle.

She sits stoicallyon a settee in the drawing room, back straight and palms flat on her thighs over her gray tunic. It seems she knew I’d be called to her, and she has been patiently waiting. I sense my god of death drifting around her, but I know it’s not her time. If I could sense all six gods, I’m sure I would make out their presence here too. She is their mortal vessel after all.

Her eyes are streaked with the same black and gold as when I first saw her. They slowly slide to watch me enter the room. The weight of her observation makes me tighten my chiffon robe around my waist and cross my arms.

I’m not sure if I should speak first.

The room is tense with silence as I deliberate.

She wordlessly signals me to sit across from her, and I do as I’m told. I wring my hands together as we sit, not one word yet exchanged. Until I finally crack.

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