Page 65 of Dance With A Devil
His face doesn’t move, but his eyes change. They go still. Calculating. Like he’s weighing how much truth I can survive.
A long beat passes. Too long.
“Wyck…” I whisper.
He looks at me. Not with guilt. Not with pity. But with warning. With the kind of burden a man carries when he’s seen the worst and chosen to keep it for himself.
Finally, his voice returns, cool and unreadable. “Come inside. It’s late. You need a shower. Some tea. And a locked door.”
A protest rises on my tongue, but dies there. Not because I’m silenced, but because Itrust him. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone, and I hate that about myself.
So I nod once and step out of the truck, brushing past him with a quiet, “Okay.”
I don’t ask again.
Because I already know the answer.
He’s seen what I wrote.
And he’s willing to drag the whole world to hell before I ever have to live it again.
By the time I make it back downstairs, the air feels different, thicker, like it’s waiting to collapse around me.
Each step toward the living room weighs more than the last. Dread coils in my gut like something alive, something hungry.
They’re all there, already waiting.
Wyck. Karter. Dash. Onyx. Wells.
Silent. Watching. Shadows stretched long across their faces from the dim, flickering sconces that line the room. The fire crackles low in the hearth, the only warmth in a space colder than it has any right to be.
And in the middle of it all… the box.
The box of journals that feels more like a coffin. My past, buried in ink and pain. Calling to be opened.
I don’t sit. Idrop. Right in the middle of them, the floor beneath me suddenly too real, too solid, too permanent. The weight of their presence presses in around me like a ritual about to begin.
My fingers twitch. My pulse pounds behind my eyes.
I haven’t even picked up a single journal, and yet I already feel like I’ve been bleeding memories for hours.
When I finally reach for one, it’s like grabbing a piece of the sun. Scorching. Blinding.Wrong.
The leather cover sears into my hand. My past recognizes me, even if I don’t recognize it.
I don’t open it.
Not yet.
Instead, I look up, eyes locking on Wyck. His stare is unwavering, his jaw clenched like he’s bracing for a war he can’t fight for me.
“Wyck…” My voice is nothing. Barely more than a rasp. “Please don’t make me do this.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“You have to.” His tone is steel, but there’s a wound underneath. “But we’re not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”
I turn to Karter, my wildcard, my chaos, and silently plead with him.
