Page 92 of Dance of Devils
“Why are you helping me like this?” she blurts in a hushed little voice.
My jaw sets as I slip my arms underneath her and lift her out of the car.
“Because I give a shit. That’s why.”
Inside, I carry her upstairs. I won’t lie: there’s a strong impulse to take her to my bedroom, and my reasons aren’t remotely pure.
Because I’ve tasted her mouth and felt the soft touch of her tongue. I’ve heard her whimper and moan. I’ve felt the hot flush on her skin and seen the subtle arch of her back when I spanked her bare ass.
…Felt the tight, velvety strangle of her cunt around my fingers as she shattered and came for me.
All those memories are waging flat-outwaron the part of me that is trying to help her right now. The part that wants to protect and shield her from the world.
And I’m honestly not quite sure which side is going to take the battle.
Somehow, I resist the urge to take her to my room, opting instead for the guestroom where I had her before, since it will be a little familiar to her.
I sit her on the edge of the bed and step away.
“Don't move. I’ll be right back.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, I put the kettle on and grab a bottle of water. After the kettle boils, I pour it over a bag of chamomile tea before I head back upstairs.
Brooklyn isexactlywhere I left her. On the edge of the bed, wearing…that.
My eyes darken as I replay the moment I walked into that fucking place and saw her on stage: dressed like a fucking teen porn star, hair in pigtails, bent over and showing her ass split by a thong to a room of lecherous, whistling men.
It’s genuinely a miracle I didn't kill anyone.
I want to rip the goddamn costume from her body. But first, I need answers.
It’s partly self-serving. Even if I’m trying to convince myself it’s so I can better help her, the truth is it’s so I know how deep the chasm is that I’m in with her. Because Iamin there with her. No question.
I need to know how far of a climb we have out.
Is itjuststripping? Or something worse? I mean, Caroline was pretty confident that Brooklyn was homeless and living out of her fucking car. If she’s been taking her clothes off and swinging from a pole, maybe giving motherfucking lap dances, is there…shit…more?
I hand her the bottle of water and watch as she opens it and takes a small sip before handing it back to me.
“More. Hydrating will help with the shakes.”
Her throat works. “I don’t have…”
Her eyes drop to the trembling hand holding the bottle of water.
“Oh,” she says quietly. She takes another few sips.
I set the tea on the bedside table and drop to my haunches in front of her.
“I’m going to ask you some questions now,” I say quietly. “I’d like you to answer them truthfully.”
Her face caves a little as she looks down.
“Look, I… I really do appreciate this. But it’s fine. You can just drive me to the nearest subway and?—”
“Stop.”
There’s a cold firmness to my tone that makes her flinch.
