Page 70 of A Dance Macabre

Lifting her heel, she presses the length of her sole over my shoulder and collarbone. From my angle, I watch her legs widen, revealing the thong under her dress. “Maybe I should be the one to drown you this time.” Her words smolder like red coals over my heated skin, and I groan as her heel digs into my flesh.

My eyes still fixed on her, I curl my hand around her ankle, smoothing my wet palm up her calf and then up her thigh. “Tithe to me, Mercy,” I repeat with renewed hunger.

Her eyes shudder. Her mask cracks. And the vulnerability I craved to see mirrored in her gaze appears.

“I … I can’t,” she answers softly.

I’m not crest-fallen, I knew she wouldn’t do it, but I still sought to goad her. To feel her falter under my touch. Because it takes intimacy to compliment someone with devotion. And what is true intimacy but vulnerability stripped naked?

Her eyes burn, and I breathe in the ache drifting down from her like a perfume. “Then show me in all the ways you can’t tell me, my ruin.”

Her mouth parts open, her eyebrows cinching as if trying to make out a particularly evasive problem. The silence counts our breaths for us. Until Mercy finally moves.

She steps away, unraveling out from under my touch, and storms out of the room, the click of her heels just as fast as the thrums of my beating heart.

39

WOLFGANG

Icharge into the drawing room and find the first servant I can get my hands on. Grabbing them by the collar with both hands, I pull them close to my face.

“Where is she?”

The menacing hiss attached to my words has them gulp audibly, eyes wide, before stuttering out a response.

“In — In the atrium, sir.”

I shove them away and head for the East Wing. I’ve been stewing ever since Mercy stormed out of the bathhouse earlier this evening—her leaving grates me more than I wish to admit.

I feel cracked. Like porcelain hurled carelessly on the ground. I know I’ve been avoiding her just as much, but something about watching her leave in such haste as if she couldn’t get away from me fast enough, has me incensed.

What was the meaning of her visit then, if it ended with her running away?

A coward.

That’s what she is. Terrified of any feeling that isn’t tethered to apathy or death.

She can’t run from me forever. I will chase her into the very depths of our terrible demise if I need to.

I will always catch her.

I will always find her.

And I will possess her like she possesses me. Like a parasite burrowing itself into my soul. She consumes me. And I shall devour every last drop of her in return.

The atrium slumbers within the shadows of the evening sky, candles flickering atop the long oak table, the rain battering against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I spot the silhouette of Mercy’s lithe body against the dark Pravitian cityscape. She stands by the window, the same shift dress as earlier hugging her curves, her shoulders bare, long black hair tumbling down her back.

Mercy turns when she hears my stalking footsteps approaching. There’s not even a lift in her brow or a widening of her eyes. It’s as if she was expecting me all along.

There’s not a single word exchanged. Instead, we let the crackling tension between us speak for itself. Grabbing her by the nape, I weave my fingers through her loose strands and pull her head upward.

I shove her backward into the window just as my lips slam into hers with urgent haste. Our moans merge into one another while the taste of her throws fuel onto an already burning flame. Slapping my hand against the window near our heads, I deepen the kiss while Mercy’s long nails rake down my neck.

The cold pane under my palm does nothing to quell the roaring fire under my skin. Letting go of her nape, I trace her curves with my hand, fingers digging into the flesh of her breasts, her stomach, her hips. She presses herself against me, her breath erratic as I swallow every single whimpering moan escaping her mouth.

Our tongues clash, her lips so plump I want nothing more but to devour her whole. I impatiently knock her legs open with my foot as my hand slips under her dress. The heel of my palm pushes against her clit as my fingers rove over the wetness of her lace thong.

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