Dance of Deception: Chapter 29

The car roars through the streets.

I drive like a man possessed, barely registering the other vehicles that swerve out of my way. My phone sits on the console beside me, the screen glaring up at me blankly. But it doesn’t hold the answers I need. I never put live cameras in Lyra’s dressing room.

That was a fucking oversight, and I’m paying for it now.

I watched her earlier, talking alone with that other dancer in the small rehearsal studio. I watched them head for the exit together. But then Lyra jogged back to the dressing room alone.

And then there was nothing.

I watched the fucking door for twenty minutes. Thirty. Thirty-five.

Then something snapped inside me.

And that brings me to my current near-suicidal driving through the city, my pulse thundering in my ears.

The car screeches to a stop in the alley behind the Mercury Theater. I lurch out, gun drawn as I storm to the back door and punch in the code I’ve watched Lyra use before.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m walking into, just that I’m ready to kill.

I move fast, surging through the empty halls, my jaw set. I kick open the door to the dressing room…

…And everything in me—every scream, every demon, every impulse to rip out a throat and spill blood across the world—goes quiet.

She’s huddled on the floor, back pressed to the lockers, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking slightly. Her haunted gaze stabs into nothingness in front of her, eyes unfocused like she’s somewhere else entirely.

Around her, the floor is littered with photographs.

What the fuck.

I go straight to her, dropping to my knees, my heart pounding so hard it’s deafening. I grab her shoulders, shaking her gently, then harder.

“Lyra.”

No response.

“LYRA.”

Still nothing.

Her breathing is rapid, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow gasps like she’s having a panic attack. Like this is a dissociative state so deep I don’t even know if she realizes she’s still breathing.

Her eyes flicker, as if she’s staring at something far away.

I look down.

The photos are everywhere, spread out in sharp, glossy bursts of horror.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’ve seen the subject matter before: they’re shots of Arkadi’s little shop of horrors beneath the unassuming suburban home Lyra grew up in.

How did a monster like that bring someone like her into the world?

Rage boils up my spine, but I shove it down. She needs me.

She’s shaking now, her body rocking, lips murmuring something I can’t hear. Her nails dig into her arms, like she’s trying to ground herself but failing.

I can’t let her disappear.

I haul her into my arms, holding her so tight I feel the tremors racing through her.

“Breathe deep, baby,” I murmur, voice rough, commanding.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

I move fast, bolting straight to the showers. I charge to one of the showerheads, step under, and slam the water on full force.

Ice-cold spray hammers down on us, soaking my shirt, plastering her hair to her face.

Her body jerks in my arms, fingers twitching against my chest, breath catching violently in her throat.

Her eyes go wide, haunted and broken, but she’s still not here.

I cradle the back of her head, bringing her closer, forcing her to feel the solid weight of me holding her together.

“Look at me, Lyra,” I snarl.

She doesn’t even blink.

“LOOK AT ME!”

Still nothing.

No.

I will not let her slip away from me.

My hand moves to her throat, wrapping around it tight enough to feel the frantic pulse beneath my palm, tight enough to remind her she’s here. That I’m here.

But no.

She’s still somewhere else. Lost.

My grip tightens, but her eyes don’t focus.

Then I shift, dropping my hand lower, over the curve of her chest. My fingers find the puckered peak through her soaked hoodie and shirt. I pinch hard, twisting her nipple.

She gasps out a tiny, fragile sound, but her eyes remain distant—flickering somewhere beyond me.

Fuck.

I push my hand lower, slipping my fingers into the waistband of her drenched yoga pants. Then my hand slips into her panties and cups her pussy as the water begins to turn warmer. My fingers drift between her lips, rubbing in slow, familiar circles.

Nothing at first.

Then there’s a sharp hitch in her breath. A shiver rolls through her.

Better. But not enough.

I sink two fingers inside her, curling them deep, pressing into her heat as my palm grinds against her clit, unrelenting.

Lyra’s entire body jerks and a sharp whimper escapes her lips—hitting me like a live wire, sending dark victory curling through my veins.

That got through.

She’s still blinking slowly, still slipping in and out of whatever fucking void she’s fallen into, but at least she’s reacting now.

I curl my fingers, rubbing her g-spot, my other hand gripping the back of her neck, forcing her forehead to mine.

I won’t stop until she comes back to me.

Until she sees me.

My fingers keep moving, my grip on her tight and possessive, my lips brushing against her temple as I growl against her damp skin.

“You feel that?” I rasp. “That’s me. That’s us.”

Her fingers clutch at my shirt, her breath still shaky and uneven.

I press deeper, forcing her to react, to feel, to remember.

Suddenly, she gasps. Her hand flies up, her nails dig into my arms, and her eyes snap to mine.

Wide. Wild. Finally fucking present.

Her breath stutters against my throat, her fingers clutching my soaking-wet shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like she needs something solid to hold on to.

In any other situation, you’d need the armed fucking forces to remove my fingers from her sweet little cunt. But in this case, I slip my hand from her panties, grabbing her hip instead. I grip the back of her neck with my other hand, my fingers anchoring her firmly in place. “It’s me,” I growl. “You’re safe.”

She blinks, her pupils still too dilated, her body trembling. But she hears me now. She’s back.

I exhale slowly, forcing my own pulse to even out. “What the fuck happened?” I murmur.

Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

I’m not letting her fade again. I tighten my hold, my grip on her jaw commanding. “Someone gave you those photos?”

She nods furtively.

“Who,” I snarl.

She shakes her head, water trailing down her cheeks like tears.

“Why the fuck would anyone send you those?” My voice drops lower, harsher. I need to know. I need names. I need a target for my wrath.

“I—”

“Lyra, think. Who⁠—”

“I was the star witness in Arkadi’s case.”

The whole fucking world stops.

My breath stills, my arms locked around her as my blood turns molten.

I remember the news clips when it all happened—how the neighbors called the cops after they found that monster’s own daughter running screaming through the neighborhood, sobbing about “girls in the basement’.

Lyra.

I remember how later Arkadi’s own wife was exempt from testifying—firstly because her lawyers were able to prove she was mentally unfit to take the witness stand, given her mental state and her alcoholism. When the prosecution threw a fit, the same lawyers hit back with “spousal testimonial immunity”.

Lyra swallows hard, her voice breaking as she looks up at me. “My testimony sealed his conviction. It’s what sent him to prison.”

That can’t be. As I recall, there was never anything about Lyra being a witness of any kind. I mean she was a child, for fuck’s sake.

“It was sealed,” she whispers, seeing the question in my eyes. “Because I was a minor.” Her voice shakes. “I wasn’t going to testify, because of who my father worked for. But then Kir came to see my mother and me during the trial. He told us that no retribution would come from the Bratva if I testified. They had excommunicated my father for his crimes. Kir made it clear that if I testified—and that he thought I should—I’d be safe.”

Kir.

Raw, blood-soaked viciousness snarls inside me.

Kir was the one who put her in that courtroom and made her face that monster.

I see. Fucking. Red. But I force it down. For her.

I drag in a slow breath, pressing my lips to her wet forehead, grounding myself in the feel of her.

“Tell me about the past.” My voice is low. I need to know everything.

She hesitates, but only for a second. Then it all starts pouring out.

“I always knew about the door in the basement,” she whispers. “But it was always locked, and my father always told me it was just an old storm cellar. Then one day, when I went downstairs to do laundry, it was open a crack.”

I stay silent, my fingers stroking her back, willing her to continue.

Her breath stalls. “So, I… I went through it, and down the stairs.” She chokes a small, broken laugh. “I thought… I don’t even know. I thought maybe I’d find something interesting down there, a piece of our family history or something.”

Her fingers curl against my chest, clinging, desperate.

“I saw the cages. The chains. The handcuffs. The row of girls’ clothing on a rack.”

My entire body goes tense.

Her voice drops lower. “There were cameras. Lights. Like it was a movie set.”

Holy fucking hell.

“I heard…”

She squeezes her eyes shut against the memory.

“I heard him,” she chokes out. Her head shakes violently. “I’ll never forget the sound, like someone slapping raw meat.”

She swallows hard.

“I walked in on him, raping…” She clings to me like a life raft in a stormy sea. “Sophia Ferguson,” she croaks, her voice distant. “He was choking her while…” She stops.

I hold her tightly as her eyes squeeze shut.

“She died before the cops got there. I don’t even know if she was still alive when I saw her.”

Jesus Christ.

Lyra was fourteen fucking years old when she saw that.

I think I know now why she only reads porn. Why watching sex turns her into a husk. Why me making her look at that couple at Doomsday turned the light off behind her eyes.

I hold her tighter, my hands fisting her wet clothes, cradling her in my arms.

I want to destroy everything. Burn the whole world down. She’s mine, and I’ll erase every single ghost that dares to touch her. Every single fucking monster.

Except me.

For her, I’ll be the darkest motherfucking monster the world has ever known.