Page 112 of Dance of Madness

When I was ten, I walked into a Sephora in Soho, and for reasons that to this day escape me, decided I was going to steal a tube of lipstick.

Ignoring the fact that money has literally never been something I had to worry about, I wasten. I didn’t even wear lipstick. I only decided to steal because I’d seen someone do it in a movie and I wanted to know what it felt like.

Just after I’d finally worked up the courage to slip the lipstick into my pocket, I remember looking up and locking eyes with a girl who looked about fifteen, standing ten feet away.

….Doingthe exact same thingwith a tube of concealer.

We both knew what we were doing was wrong, but in that adrenaline-fueled moment, we had a mutual understanding. Smile, don’t say a word, go your separate ways. Which is exactly what happened.

Later, I confessed my crime to Vasilisa after the guilt got to me. She promised not to tell Papa as long as I went back to the store with her and told them that I’d forgotten to pay for something. Luckily, they were very understanding. Or maybe Vasilisa scared them when she laid the Russian accent on extra thick.

In any case, that’s the same feeling I get these days when Lyra and I both show up to rehearsal wearing silk scarves around our necks: we both know what’s up. We both just smile, and blush, and there's an unspoken agreement not to talk about itat all.

Unfortunately, none of my other friends give me a similar pass on my bruised state. Brooklyn and Naomi have made it their mission to all but pin me to the lockers and inspect me when we’re changing, then give me knowing looks and grins whenever they spot new hand-shaped bruises anywhere on my body. Val manages to work the word “choke” into almost every conversation, while looking at me with a pointed, shit-eating grin.

And Evelina—poor, sweet Evelina—doesn’t know what to say, ever since Naomi finally explained to her that the bruises werenota sign that I was clumsy.

“It’s calledgetting your freak on,” Brooklyn had snickered, which of course made poor Evie turn the color of ketchup as her jaw hit the floor.

But like I said, the insane has become my new normal.

And again, I’m not really complaining.

I collapse back onto the couch, groaning as Nero’s thick—sweetGod, is he thick—cock slips out of me with a wet sound. I sink into the cushions, still catching my breath, copious quantities of…well…himdripping out of me.

We’re at Greymoor, which has become sort of our go-to place.

…Lots of room for running, right?

My chest rises and falls, my skin still tingling and sheened with sweat from the chase and the raw, brutal fucking that followed. My poor vagina feels savaged. My nipples are on fire. Even my ass feels sore, after Nero made me kneel down, bent me over an ottoman, and railed me from behind while slippingtwofingers in my ass at the same time.

Honestly, I didn’t think I’d like that.

But, again, purple and blue is the new black, insanity is the new sanity, and I ended up having my fourth or fifth orgasm of the night when he did it.

I glance down at myself, my brow furrowing as I drink in the state of my body. Fresh, vicious bruises overlay old ones and previously unmarked skin, covering my breasts, my thighs, my waist and hips…everywhere.

If this keeps up, I’m going to start needing serious medical care. It’s already a miracle I haven’t gotten a UTI, even with the tons of cranberry juice I’ve been drinking daily as a preemptive measure.

Nero sprawls back against the arm of the couch opposite me, his lean, muscled body glistening with perspiration. His tattoos ripple as his body flexes with his breath. He shoves his fingers languidly through his dark hair, his piercing green eyes glinting in the low light.

I blush as my eyes land on his chin and mouth.

They’re slicked with my cum and a few drops of blood from where he bit my fucking thigh like a goddamn animal.

Woooorth it.

His eyes slowly drift down my body, and I subtly tuck my feet under one of the couch cushions.

It’s going to sound nauseatingly vain, but I know I’m pretty. My mother was gorgeous, Papa looks like a Hollywood actor aging like fine wine, and I’ve been in peak physical shape for my entire life.

But I absolutelyhatemy feet.

Gnarled. Scarred. Misshapen. Calloused. Twisted into grotesque, knobby things.

I mean, I don’t give a shit at ballet, becauseeveryone’sfeet look like that there. But I won’t even walk around Papa’s house without a pair of socks on.

I know it’s weird, but it’s my one toxic trait when it comes to my own body image.

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