Page 85 of A Dance Macabre

The bathhouse is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. Only a few lit candles are scheming with the nighttime shadows. The moon is only a sliver hanging low in the obsidian sky.

Wolfgang’s lithe and muscled naked body cuts through the water as he swims laps, his family sigil sprawled across his back shimmering against the light.

I’m sitting on one of the submerged steps, my back to the edge of the bath—watching. We haven’t said much to one another since I intercepted Dizzy mid-assassination.

After cleaning ourselves off, we both called our assistants to help remove the body from the bedchamber and told them to keep it in the morgue. We’ll deal with Dizzy’s corpse later.

We came down to the bathhouse not long after. I think Wolfgang needed to be somewhere he felt safe. And I can’t blame him.

I almost had him killed.

Almost …

Is that word enough for him to forgive me?

His actions right now are confusing me. He’s barely spoken a word now that the adrenaline has been washed away along with the dried blood sticking to our skins.

But he doesn’t seem to want me gone either.

He held my hand as we walked the corridors. Watched me undress near the edge of the bath, and held my hand again when we stepped into the warm waters.

But his actions contradict his demeanor.

Cold. Distant. Impassive.

And my heart aches knowing I’ll have to live with the effects of my betrayal.

What kind of evil possessed me to allow Dizzy to break the bond of trust Wolfgang and I were carefully building?

Wolfgang reaches the far side of the bath and pops his head out of the water. Wet hair slicked back, the bottom of his face still submerged. I can barely discern his expression with how dark it is in here. But I know his eyes are trained on me.

I can almost feel the water ripple with the tremor of his inner turmoil. My heart batters against my chest, and if I was one to cry, I believe I’d be wiping my cheeks from all the tears streaking my face right now.

What is this feeling?

It hurts. Uncomfortable. It’s a grating, throbbing thing.

Is this what it feels like to experience regret?

Deep and soul-churning regret.

I hate it. I need it to stop.

Slowly, Wolfgang glides through the water to reach me. The angles of his face are sharper here while the shadows dance over his body. He sits on the same step as me, droplets trickling over his tanned muscled stomach, the hair near his lower stomach disappearing into the water. He keeps his distance and leans into his outstretched arms behind him.

I wonder if showing off his toned glistening body is a punishment in itself. What I no longer have the right to freely touch.

His voice bursts the bubble I’ve been cowardly hiding inside of. “Planning on telling me why you wanted me dead, Crèvecoeur?”

The way he asks the question. It’s so casual. So devoid of emotion. But my gaze tracks the clench of his jaw and the strain in his shoulders. It’s an act.

My words feel like paste, too thick to mold into a sentence.

How can I ever explain myself?

I listen to the trickle of water as he reaches up and smooths his hand over his slicked hair before leaning his weight back onto his palm, his attention trained on the vaulted ceiling above us.

Waiting.

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