Page 188 of Dance With A Devil
His eyes go cold.
“I vote death first. They don’t deserve flames. They deservejustice. What they let happen in this house, whathedid to Ms. Athens… it’s unforgivable.”
I stop mid-stride. My hand clenches the gas can tighter. “Abuse?” I ask, voice low and lethal.
Carlos nods solemnly. “Whenever she talked back, stepped out of line, looked at him the wrong way. At first, it was rare. Then it got worse. Regular. He’d drag her into that study like she was a fucking dog.”
My vision tunnels. “How do you know?”
“I checked on her. After. When no one else did. I patched her up when I could.”
A slow breath escapes me. My father,that fucking monster, left bruises. And she never said a word. She just took it.
Or maybe… maybe hemade her forget.
I pop the top on one of the gas cans and begin pouring it across the lawn, the scent of gasoline coiling around me like fire waiting for permission.
“And after he hit her?”
“She’d disappear into herself for a day or two. Then… back to normal. Like it never happened. Like she didn’tremember.”
He was messing with her memory. Or hurting her so deeply that her mind just snapped it away.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Carlos nods and stalks toward the east wing. We move in grim silence, splashing the soul of this house in gasoline until every wall, every corner drips in it.
By the time we meet again, the place reeks of judgment.
Back in the kitchen, I grab the last can and drown the hardwood in fuel. Each slosh sounds like somethingelsein my head, Athens, crying my name while I drive into her, give her what only I can. The gas sounds like her. And I’m not okay with that.
“I need to get back to her,” I whisper. “Like I need to fucking breathe.”
I open a drawer. Fumble. Thank fucking hell, one of Karter’s lighters. Black, scratched, probably stolen. Fitting.
Standing in the doorway, I let my eyes roam the place that raised me, broke me, bled me. It’s not a home, it’s a tomb.
My mother’s laughter used to echo in these halls. But she’s gone. And so is every reason to keep this place standing.
I tear off a scrap of paper, flick the lighter, and light the edge. The fire snaps to life in my palm. Beautiful. Hungry.
I toss it inside.
Flames catch fast, racing across the floor like they’ve been waiting.
And then, screams. Sweet, perfectscreams.
I turn and walk back inside. The scent of fear thickens the deeper I go.
Wells has them all gathered in the foyer, guards, cooks, cleaners. Kneeling. Trembling.
Carlos steps forward without hesitation. Raises his gun.
Bang.
One drops. Blood paints the marble floor.
“Some of you,” he says, calm as a priest, “don’t deserve the fire. But you all deserve death. I’m no executioner. I’m your fuckingend.”
