Page 93 of A Dance Macabre

Adjusting my gold cufflinks, I give myself one final survey in the full-length mirror.

Perfection. As usual.

I exit the family quarters and head toward the drawing room. I haven’t slept in the same bed as Mercy since Dizzy’s blood seeped into the mattress.

I’m not necessarily trying to punish Mercy—who’s yet to give me a proper apology—but I’m trying to keep the temptation as far away as possible until she finally gives me what I’ve been asking for.

And what is that exactly?

All of her. Cracked open and vulnerable.

But keeping her at arm’s length is not quite far enough. I practically need to chain myself to the bed so I don’t end up crawling to her at night.

However, in public?

We are the carefree rulers of Pravitia.

A celebrated union.

And tonight, as we spend an evening at the opera, our charade is nothing different.

I enter the drawing room first, and not wanting to crease my suit, I stay standing near the fireplace as I wait for Mercy to appear.

I listen to the tick of the clock on the mantel to pass the time until I hear the sound of Mercy’s heels approaching—then I listen to those ticks instead.

When Mercy finally enters the room, I’m dumbstruck. My throat goes dry, my stomach twisting in shock.

Mercy is a vision inred.

I am nearly brought to my knees.

I’ve never seen her wear anything but black. But tonight she chose to match her dress to my herringbone tweed suit.

She looks exquisite. Her long black hair pulled up in an elegant updo, her dress a dark shade of red, like spilled blood running down her body. There are flounces of taffeta gathered around her hips, the material tumbling to the floor, with a long slit up her left thigh, revealing her harnessed dagger.

My palm slowly drags down my face as I take her in, ravaged by her lethal beauty.

She quietly adjusts her red lace gloves near the elbow, keeping her face impassive.

“Something wrong?” she asks all too innocently as if her wearing red is an ordinary affair.

My primal reaction aside, I know Mercy well enough by now to know that this is her way of trying to apologize—again.

It’s been half a week since she stormed out of the library. She didn’t have the words then, and she certainly doesn’t have the words now.

I can’t deny my heart warms at the effort.

But gods be damned, I will have her use her words and apologize if it’s the last thing I do on this cursed earth.

Quickly hiding my surprise, I flash her one of my charismatic smiles. I can tell she knows it’s fake. But I’d rather play the cocksure Wolfgang than admit she has me by the throat.

I ignore her question and say with an upbeat tone, “Shall we?”

Her expression shutters, but she’s fast to right herself, like she expected a much bigger reaction from me.

She’ll wait all night if that’s the case.

I take a few steps closer and offer her my elbow.

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