Page 58 of A Dance Macabre

A shadow crosses over her eyes, letting a loaded moment pass between us before slipping her palm in mine. I pull her up, but as soon as she stands, she withdraws her hand and my instinct is to clutch her hand tightly and keep her palm in mine.

I do nothing of that sort.

There’s a darkened hallway behind us and I turn to it, sensing Mercy following from behind. The underground quarters are small, and there’s no need for an extensive survey of the space to ascertain where everything is located. At the very end of the hallway is the small kitchen with the bedroom situated closest to the receiving room.

Opening the plain door of the bedroom, I turn on the lights, illuminating the large bed that is pushed against the wall and flanked by two small bedside tables. To our left are large wardrobes which I assume now hold clothing to suit both our needs.

Heading for the ensuite, I push the door open. It creaks on its hinges, Mercy following me without a sound except for the soft clicks of her heels.

There’s no bath in sight, instead, we find a large open shower area, black tiles covering the entire space. A rainfall showerhead hangs from the ceiling and a half-wall with the same black tiles offers a rather feeble attempt at privacy.

But privacy is not something I currently crave when having Mercy here alone with me.

I don’t bother asking if she wants to be left alone. I don’twantto leave her alone. To my relief, she doesn’t request it, her emerald eyes steadfast and penetrating before she slowly steps out of her heels. Dropping a few inches in height, her gaze lifts to remain fixed on mine before she turns around wordlessly. She doesn’t ask for help, and I’m sure I’d be standing here for centuries if I waited for her to use her words.

I approach her silently and start on the small leather straps on her back holding the chainmail tight around her chest. It falls with a ripple of clinks next to our feet. My fingers drag over her hips and then her waist before reaching the zipper of her gold dress.

Slowly sliding it down until it reaches the small of her back, I then drag a knuckle up her spine. I witness her skin break out into goosebumps before I smooth my hands under the silk and push it off her shoulders so it can pool around her feet.

Now naked, she steps out of the dress and turns to face me. Her expression is so serious that I can barely make out if this is affecting her as much as it is me. She approaches me, her eyes never leaving mine. I hide a hard swallow as her fingers trail over my shoulders, sliding what’s left of my shirt off. But even with my trousers still unbuttoned from before, I grip her wrists, my face barely concealing the pain.

“Careful,” I whisper harshly.

Her mouth is faintly agape, chin slightly lifted while her eyes continue to pierce through me like a well-sharpened blade. She says nothing, yet it doesn’t unnerve me, not when her actions say more than her words ever could.

Her gaze drops to my thigh. Her touch is soft and tender as she peels the trousers off of the drying blood stuck to my skin before finally pushing them all the way down. She’s about to start on my briefs, but I stop her. An itch of vulnerability is beginning to dig inside my chest, and my first instinct is to avoid the feeling.

“You can start on the shower, I’ll be right there,” I mutter.

Taking a step back, I turn to face the mirrors. I track Mercy even here. Although it’s just her reflection, I can’t look away, watching her step under the spray while she unpins her hair, dark strands falling down her shoulders one by one, her family sigil tattoo brazenly visible on her back. It’s only when I manageto tear my gaze away from her and find myself staring back in the mirror that I realize the implications of what I just did.

I sought her reflection before even thinking to seek mine.

My heart squeezes in my chest as my throat goes dry.

The significance of what this could mean feels too weighty for me to explore. Especially at a time like this, when everything feels too dire and the exhaustion is slowly engulfing my sanity.

I sigh deeply and undress fully. No need to linger on any of this now.

I step into the shower, the steam rising from below. Mercy’s eyes are closed, her head fallen back as she lets the water wash away the blood from her face. I notice a few bruises that are beginning to appear on her skin, as I’m sure similar bruises are appearing on mine.

I don’t think I can use the word luck while speaking of today’s events, but our injuries could have been much worse.

Mercy senses my presence and straightens up. Her eyes open through the water and her soulful gaze meets mine. The blood turns the water red as it trickles down her face, and I am struck by a vivid memory of her.

Of Mercy covered in blood, bathed in moonlight inside the maze on the night of the Feast of Fools. She was mystifying then, and she is mystifying now.

It’s hard to believe that was only a month ago.

So much has happened since then. So much has happened betweenus.

And here we are now. At the very crescendo of our forbidden dance.

A dance macabre, where even the threat of our own deaths did not stop us.

And all I wish to do now as I watch her stand here under the water, naked, bloody, and fucking glorious, is to dig our graves even deeper.

To revel in the fatality of our choices.

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