Page 59 of The Witch's Heart
“Don’t let her get in your head,” Dean says.
He’s right, but it takes several steadying breaths before I can think past the revulsion and rage I feel towards that woman.
“Come.” Declan tugs on my hand. “Dance with me.”
I blink, finally noticing the empty dance floor in front of the stage.
Declan leads me out and twirls me in his arms, and it doesn’t take long before I’m completely consumed by the moment. It’s absurd, this macabre party Cutter has created with his own prisoners as the guests. Everything about it is an illusion, but in this moment, with Declan swaying me against him, I give in to the pretending.
He is solid and warm, and in his eyes is a very real attraction. A pleasure.
He is content to dance even after everything that’s happened. And will happen still. So I relax into the moment and let myself be content too.
When the song ends, Dean is there, waiting to sweep me away for his turn.
For the next few songs, they take turns whirling me around and holding me close, and I enjoy the best date of my life despite what waits for us outside this music and these walls.
By the end of the next song, I’m winded and warm.
“Drinks?” Dean asks.
“Food,” I say firmly and they chuckle as we head for the buffet.
Plate in hand, I lift the lid of the nearest serving dish. Potatoes. Vegetables. Steak. One by one, I take a small helping of each. The boys wander to a second table full of desserts, but I stop to get a peek at the last option, the platter everyone else has somehow skipped—and gasp at what lies underneath.
A heart, covered in blood, sits on a tray of greens, plated to look like some sort of fancy entrée.
The lid slips from my shaking hand and hits the floor with a loud clatter.
Eyes land on me.
Dean is at my side in an instant.
“What’s wrong?” he asks as Declan kneels at my feet to retrieve the lid I dropped.
I shake, nearly spilling the contents of my plate, now piled high.
“I saw. . .”
But when I look back at the serving tray, I trail off.
The heart is gone.
Now, there is a dark meat soaked in au jus along with carrots and onions.
“The label says it’s lamb,” Dean says, clearly confused. “Would you like some?”
I shake my head.
Another illusion, I tell myself, glancing around for Nurse Schmidt.
But she’s nowhere in sight.
We find empty chairs and settle at one of the round tables to eat.
Maria and Angus sit with us, and I don’t fail to notice the wine glass filled with red liquid that Angus sips from. After a few minutes, Holly slides into the last empty seat.
“You’re not eating?” I ask her, glancing at Angus’ drink.
