Page 97 of A Dance Macabre

I study her.

Savor her.

Devour her.

And imagine both our sigils merging into one. Flames burning up the strings. Consuming. Transmuting.

With my free hand, I find her swollen clit and give it a slap, and she moans even louder, my other palm firmly around her chin and jaw. My fingers slip through her soaking arousal as I pleasure her with tight, circular motions, slapping her swollen clit once more. When I feel her climax is close, the flutters of her cunt pulsing around my cock, I release her face from my grip and hurriedly unclasp the ball gag, selfishly needing to hear her cry out without any obstruction.

And oh, is it perfect.

It fills the hall with divine melody and I am taken.

When my orgasm soon follows, and I pump her mindlessly full of me, I’m struck with a mind-splintering realization.

That I love Mercy more than anything in this damned world.

Even myself.

51

MERCY

The small velvet string purse I’m clutching in my fist burns a hole into my palm, the ridges and edges of what’s inside reminding me of what I’ve set off to do tonight.

I hate it.

I’m a nervous wreck.

My gait is stiff as I stalk through the enfilade, hoping to find Wolfgang in our bedchamber.

When we returned from our time at Vainglory Tower two days ago, he promptly had all of his belongings moved into the ruler’s quarters without a word of explanation. I must admit that I was relieved that there was at leastsomeprogress being made.

Something shifted between us after the Hall of Mirrors, especially in Wolfgang’s demeanor. Although we have spent time alone since—reading in the library, soaking in the bathhouse—he’s kept mostly silent, evidently still waiting for my damned apology.

Entering the bedchamber, I notice the French doors leading out to the balcony are ajar, Wolfgang’s silhouette beyond it.

My heart flies into my throat.

I swiftly turn around and take a large step out of the room. I stop myself from going any further. I curse under my breath. Swivel back around. My steps stutter, and I nearly let out a loud shriek at how embarrassing I’m acting.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep inhale. I focus back on the open balcony door on my exhale and straighten my spine.

It’s pouring rain outside, the scent of muddy earth rising from the ground and wafting around me even from this high up. Most of the balcony is covered, and Wolfgang sits on one of the large cushioned seats sheltered from the downpour, his back to me.

Smoke lazily curls around his head, a cigarette hanging from his long fingers, his wrist reposing on the armrest.

I’ve begun to familiarize myself with his habits; he only smokes when he’s in a pensive mood.

Thinking the heavy rain is concealing my furtive steps, my stomach flips when Wolfgang’s head turns to the side, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

I stop dead in my tracks as if I’ve been caught, my fist gripping the string purse even harder into my palm.

When I don’t move, Wolfgang reaches for the ashtray and stubs his cigarette out before sitting back in his seat. He keeps his head facing the cityscape, but his arm stretches out to the side, his palm up, slowly uncurling his fingers as if silently beckoning me to him.

He pulls on the invisible string.

I’m tugged forward.

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