Page 79 of Dance of Madness

…Shit. I know the “why”, too. It’s firmly wrapped up with the “what”.

Not to mention, the raging, roaring,blackaches and desires that sink their claws into me, and have done so ever since I was old enough to understand what wanting somethingthat waymeant.

I was popular growing up. I’m pretty, I come from money and power, I’ve always had nice stuff. My father also taught me to have a backbone—to demand respect, yes, but to treat others with it too. To be kind.

It’s really that last one that makes all the difference.

Being popular, I had plenty of other popular friends. But none of them ever reallyfeltlike friends. The girls weremean, frankly, if not outright cruel. Catty. Two-faced. Every single one would smile at you while plotting how best to stab you in the back over something ludicrously unimportant, like being prom queen.

The guys were just as bad. They were overly macho in a cringey, blustery way. They were pompous and cocky. And vain. I never understood how someone could be that wealthy, powerful and privileged, andstillbe an asshole.

Anyway, I ended up getting a reputation as being an “ice queen” in high school. It's amazing, the shitty names spoiled rich douchebags call you when you don’t want to give them hand jobs in the backs of their Porsches.

Most of it, obviously, was that the guys wereshitheads. They were loud, rude, obnoxious, and pushy. But also, by high school I’d already figured out that there was a darkness inside me.

Most girls fantasize about beds of roses, handsome princes sweeping them off their feet and cheesy rom-com meet-cutes. I never wanted that.

Idefinitelydidn’t want to give a blowjob to a preppy douchebag in the back seat of his sports car. But… I didn’t want Prince Charming, either. Didn’t want roses and grand gestures, or candlelit dinners—okay, maybe I did, but not like in the movies.

When I fantasized, when I let my mind wander to heated places, I didn’t dream of swoony kisses out ofThe Notebook. I didn’t want the blonde guy with dimples and a chin instead of a personality to sweep me into his arms during a sunset.

I wanted to get chased through the dark by a guy in a Jason mask, thrown down, smacked around, and fuckingraileduntil I couldn’t walk.

But there was no fucking way in hell any of the guys in high school were capable of doing that for me, even if I had been crazy enough toask.

I shiver, sucking my lower lip between my teeth as I look up at the front of Greymoor Manor. I’ve been standing here for five minutes. Maybe ten.

Anyway, I knowwhyI’m here: because as much as he might scare me, Nero can offer me something dark, depraved, and deliciously deviant that I’ve only ever been able to explore once before.

…withhim, I've always thought. Guessed. Imagined.

After seeing Laz in the store holding that book the other day, I’m not so sure.

Nero fits the profile. He’s crazy, and feral, and has that wolfish glint in his eyes. You could meet him for the first time and sense in a matter of minutes that he’sexactlythe sort of person who’s into consensual non-consent play and chasing girls through the dark.

Laz, on the other hand, is kind. Charming. He’s…well…notcrazy and feral. And on the one hand, that makes it hard to imagine him being into that sort of stuff.

But then again, would anyone meetmeand think I’m anything but a good girl who’s into vanilla sex? I mean, yeah, I can be brassy, and loud, and I’ve never once been mistaken for a doormat. But I sincerely doubt anyone would ever meet me and guess that my “thing” is getting tackled to the ground and forced, or having my panties torn off and stuffed in my mouth as I get fucked like a whore.

Or men in masks who don’t listen to the word “no”.

I take a shaky breath, trying to exhale the confusion from my lungs.

Tonight, it doesn’t matter whohewas, back then. Laz. Nero. Someone else, even.

Tonight, I know damn well who I’m here to meet. To run from. To beravagedby.

And I know exactly why I’m here.

I want this.

…At least, I’m pretty sure I do.

That’s what finally gets me walking across the street to Greymoor. I’m not early this time, so no chance of watching another fucking double murder, thank God.

My brow furrows as that replays in my head. But like dwelling on the past, I’ve elected to shove that from my mind.

Iknowwho Nero is. I know the empire he controls, and what the job can entail.

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