Dance of Deception: Chapter 4

The underground cathedral space is silent.

The body might be gone but the blood remains, staining the stone, pooling in the cracks, glistening under the flickering chandeliers that sway slightly above us. The air is thick with the scent of death and copper.

The Hound’s hand is still wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, not choking, but guiding. Controlling. Claiming.

He pulls me closer, turning my breath ragged, making my limbs tremble. I don’t fight. I don’t resist. I just cling to his hard-as-iron forearms as he half-drags me across the stone floor to the center of the huge room.

Right on top of the pool of blood from Andrei Mushkin, whoever he was.

The blood is still warm.

A sick shudder rushes through me and my pulse slams against my ribs.

The Hound finally lets me go. But I don’t move. I don’t make a run for it. Even though I’m not restrained anymore, I still feel trapped. Frozen. Immobilized.

The Hound steps closer.

The sheer intensity of him—towering, overpowering, unshakable—makes my lungs seize. He yanks the earbuds from my ears and tosses them aside.

I try to speak, but my voice catches in my throat. When I finally manage to get the words out, they’re small, shaky, pathetic.

“I… I didn’t see anything. I can’t.”

He just tilts his head to the side, his black mask reflecting the candlelight like something in a nightmare.

Suddenly, his hand shoots out before I even register it, as if he’s about to slam it into my face.

I yank my head back instinctively, my breath leaving me in a sharp, startled gasp.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles through the massive space.

“I think we both know you can see just fine,” he growls.

Coldness seeps into my veins as the horrifying reality of my situation begins to settle over my soul. He lets the silence stretch, his head still tilted slightly in that unsettling, savage way.

“And you’re a terrible liar.”

I force myself to breathe. To keep from completely unraveling.

“I didn’t mean for the blindfold to slip,” I whisper. “It just…happened.”

His posture doesn’t shift. But something in the air around him does.

Like he’s considering something.

Considering me.

He reaches out again. This time, his fingers slide under the edge of my mask, the gold ring with the black stone on his finger scraping my cheek as he strokes one thick finger against it, slowly and deliberately. He pushes his finger higher, and suddenly, I feel him pull at the blindfold. He tugs it with two fingers, slipping it down from my eyes and letting it drop around my neck, leaving my mask in place.

My stomach tightens. I need to get out of here. I have to run.

But to where? And how?

The Hound steps back slightly, but if anything, that’s worse. Because now, his posture is almost relaxed. Like this is just a game to him.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he says, voice curling around the words. “The same choice, actually, that I gave the man you whose sentencing you just inadvertently saw carried out. You can stay and fight⁠—”

He nods at the table of nightmarish weapons, including the knife he just used, now sticky with blood.

My throat tightens.

“—or you can choose flight.”

My stomach plummets.

His lips curve into a smirk beneath his mask. “Either way, you’ll entertain me.”

I shake my head, my pulse jangling. “W-what does that mean?”

“It means,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “if you’re not interested in proving you’re stronger than me—and I wouldn’t suggest that—you can try to prove you’re faster than me.”

My mind races.

I can’t fight him. Not in a million fucking years. He’s at least a foot taller than my five and a half feet, his shoulders are twice as wide as mine, and he looks like he lifts mid-sized SUVs to warm up at the gym.

There isn’t a single scenario where I win a fight against this monster.

But running?

That’s a risk, too. But a smaller one than fighting him.

I have no idea what’s beyond this room. But I do know I don’t want to find out what happens if I stay with this man who is watching me like a god playing with a mortal.

“Flight.”

I say it before I can talk myself out of it. His head tilts, like he’s pleased. Then he gestures to the stone archway behind him. Now that I’m closer, I can see it leads to a long stone hallway lit with flickering candles, then a fork, sending the hallway in two different directions.

My stomach knots.

“What the hell is this?” I breathe.

The Hound’s head inclines. “This is the Labyrinth.”

Ice trickles down my spine.

“What’s in there?”

“A way out,” he says, almost teasing. “…Maybe.”

I swallow hard. “Anything else?”

He steps in front of me, blocking the entrance.

“Me.”

A sharp exhale rips from my lips.

“You get a thirty second head start,” he murmurs, his voice eager, excited.

Turned on.

“Then I chase you.”

My stomach free-falls.

I don’t want to ask, but I do anyway. “What happens if you catch me?”

“Thirty.”

My breath shudders.

“Twenty-nine.”

I turn, looking wildly for another way out. There isn’t one.

“Twenty-eight.”

I stumble into the entrance of the maze, my limbs already preparing to run.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Tell me!” I beg, my voice cracking. “What happens if you catch me?”

He doesn’t stop counting. Doesn’t even hesitate. Just cocks his head to the side again.

“Whatever I want,” he rasps.

My pulse explodes.

I turn, and I run, fast, breath tearing raggedly from my lungs, bare feet slamming against the cold stone floor as I hurtle deeper into the maze.

The flickering candlelight barely illuminates the twisting corridors, the narrow passageways turning on sharp angles, forcing me to make split-second decisions—left, right, straight. I have no idea where I’m going: I’m just looking for the way out, even if a huge part of me wonders if there even is one.

Then, suddenly, I can hear him.

His footsteps aren’t rushed. Measured. Steady. A predator in no hurry, hunting his prey with a confidence that sends ice sliding down my spine.

He’s toying with me.

Letting me exhaust myself.

There will be consequences…

I push harder, my muscles burning. There has to be a way out, there has to be⁠—

Dead end.

I skid to a stop so fast I nearly crash into the solid stone wall blocking my escape.

No. No, no, no. There’s nowhere to go.

My hands fly to the cold, unyielding surface, palms splayed against it as if I could somehow force it to open. I spin around just as a shadow moves at the other end of the corridor.

And then he’s upon me, caging me in.

The Hound.

His mask gleams faintly in the candlelight, his massive frame blocking the only exit. His suit jacket is gone, leaving him in just his pants and vest, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up over his muscled, veined forearms. That damn black and gold ring on his finger glints, winking at me.

Dark, breathless terror coils in my gut.

“You’re faster than I expected,” he muses, his voice filled with mock admiration. “But you don’t know this game like I do. Do you.”

I press myself to the wall.

“Stay the fuck away,” I warn, my voice betraying me and trembling despite my best efforts. “I didn’t sign up for this! I didn’t agree to this!”

He takes another slow step forward.

“What you agreed to,” he growls, his tone dripping with amusement, “was to follow the rules. You chose to break the rules, fully aware there would be consequences.”

“I didn’t break any⁠—!”

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, little dancer,” he murmurs quietly. ‘Newton’s Third Law of Motion.’

Fucking hell, it’s the even, almost emotionless tone in his voice that scares me the most. He’s not angry, or sneering, or lording it over me.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

It’s like talking to a robot. A statue.

Something inhuman.

I make a desperate move—feinting to the right, trying to slip past him. But he moves too fast, catching my wrist easily, twisting me around fluidly until my back collides with the cold stone wall.

A gasp bursts from my lips, but not one of pain. He’s not hurting me.

Just holding me. Containing me.

One of his hands pins both of mine to the wall above my head, his body close, heat rolling off him despite the chill of the underground maze. His other hand rests on my hip, testing.

A fresh tremor rolls through me, but it’s not entirely fear.

I should be fighting. I should be screaming. Instead, my breath stutters and my back arches slightly, pressing into him for just a second before I catch myself.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“I like the fight in you,” he murmurs, his breath warm near my ear.

Too warm. Too inviting. The overwhelmingly masculine scent of him—leather, tangerine, rosewood—crushes my senses, rendering me helpless in his grasp.

“But I’m afraid you’re out of moves, little dancer.”

I swallow hard, my heart slamming against my ribs.

His fingers skate down my arm, then my ribs, lingering at the curve of my waist.

A warning. A preamble.

I should say something. Pull away.

I don’t.

Because I’m breathless. Heat is pooling low in my stomach, twisting tight.

His lips hover so close to my skin that I can feel the warmth of them, the phantom trace of a breath that never quite touches me.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice edged with dark satisfaction.

I suck in a sharp breath, fingers clenching at nothing.

He chuckles, dark and knowing, like he’s peeling back my layers and prying his way into every secret black thought I have.

“Not because you’re afraid, though.”

His fingers slide lower, slowly enough that I could stop him, push away from him, but I don’t.

And he sees it.

His fingers pinch the fabric of my gold silk dress. He slowly tugs, drawing it tighter, pulling the hem up my bare thighs and sending shivers over my skin. My nipples are already straining hard, pebbled against the delicate, almost translucent material. As the gown shifts electrically against me, I can feel a vicious throb tingle through every nerve ending, making my thighs shake.

“There it is,” he breathes.

I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, but he notices it.

The moment I break.

A low, predatory chuckle rumbles beneath his mask. “I wonder if you’ll ever forgive yourself for liking it.”

I shudder violently.

“I—I don’t⁠—”

“We’ve already established what a terrible liar you are,” he growls darkly. “So let’s try this.”

I gasp sharply as he yanks my dress even higher, so much that it’s barely covering the black lace of my panties.

“I’m going to put my hand between your legs,” The Hound murmurs. “If your little panties are dry, and if you recoil from my touch, you’re free to go.”

My pulse thickens like syrup in my veins, a chill clawing its way down my spine.

“But if I find you as messy and wet for me as I know I’m going to⁠—”

“You won’t, you sick fucking⁠—”

I cry out, a shattering, horrible whimper as he casually reaches up and pinches one of my nipples through the dress. Pure heat and an electric throb zip through my core, turning it molten.

What. The. FUCK is wrong with you, self.

“Let me finish,” he purrs, his voice saccharine. “Or, instead of this game, we’ll play the one where I turn you around and ram my fat cock up your ass until you can’t remember what walking normally feels like.”

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow it, and nod my head.

“Good girl. Now, as I was saying: when I find your panties soaked for me—I’m guessing even more so after that last threat, based on my initial psychological evaluation of you⁠—”

“Which tells you what, exactly?” I blurt.

The blank mask tips dangerously to the side, its black eyeholes stabbing into me.

He lets the silence stretch out, allows me to squirm.

His heat is too much, too close, his strong hand still resting heavy on my hip, pulling my dress almost all the way up. His fingers flexing just enough to remind me he’s still holding me there.

Then, in a voice low and dark, edged with cruel amusement, he says:

“It tells me you like fear, little dancer.”

My breath catches.

“It tells me that you and the dark side have a storied past, and it tells me that no matter how strenuously your mind tries to protest, your body knows the truth.” His fingers suddenly skate lower, teasing, tracing down the seam where my inner thigh meets my sex.

My entire body trembles, heat thrumming within my core.

“It tells me that you like the darkness when it comes wrapped up just right.”

A sharp, sick thrill curls low in my belly.

Suddenly, his hand is slipping between my thighs, his palm resting right on my pussy through the lace of my panties.

Which, mortifyingly, are soaked.

A low, malicious chuckle rumbles from his chest as he dips his head. I shudder, my breath turning staggered and halting as the heat of his voice teases right against my earlobe.

“Seems we have our answer.”

His thumb hooks into the edge of the lace, pulling my panties aside. And then suddenly, without warning, he’s sinking two thick fingers deep inside me.

I jolt, gasping violently at the sudden intrusion and the abrupt feeling of being filled so entirely. I choke out a moan, whimpering as my hips buck, my inner walls clamping down on his fingers. My hands fly out instinctively, but when they land against his forearm, my fingers digging into those iron muscles, I’m not actually sure if I’m trying to push him away or clinging to him in eager desperation.

“Well, well, well,” The Hound growls darkly. His thick fingers ease out, then instantly ram back in. I moan out a whimper as he curls them deep, and my face goes beet red at the lewd sounds of my desire squelching around them.

“Looks like I was right in my assessment, wasn’t I.”

I start to shake my head and open my mouth to tell him how wrong he is. But I lose the power of speech when he shoves his fingers into me again, curling them against an achy, needy part of me that’s roaring to be set free.

“We’ve already determined that you’re a shitty liar, little dancer,” he growls, thrusting roughly into me again, the sound of my arousal filling the air around us as my face burns.

“I knew you’d like this,” he rasps into my ear. “I knew you’d turn into a messy little slut if I chased you through the darkness like willing little prey.”

“Fuck you,” I choke, my fingers digging into his rippling forearm. His fingers scissor inside me, the embarrassingly wet sounds drifting up to my ears as my walls clench needily and desperately around the intruding fingers.

I lift a hand to his chest, trying to shove him away from me. But it’s like trying to push over a mountain.

“Fuck me, you say,” he muses. “I was going to be content to lick your cum off my fingers. But if you’d rather lick it off my cock after I fill your pussy with my own cum, I could be convinced to change my plans.”

“No…”

The word trembles from my lips but carries neither weight nor conviction.

The Hound groans, the sound vibrating through my spine like a low, feral growl.

“Careful using that word around me, little dancer,” he snarls into my ear, his breath hot and teasing against my throat. “You might just turn me on too much.”

A violent shudder wracks my body as his fingers plunge into my pussy over and over, curling, stroking, claiming. Sticky wetness coats my thighs. My legs quake, my nails dig into his shirt, and my breath frays into gasps as he pins me tighter against the cold, unyielding wall.

“Yes,” he rasps, voice dark with filthy enjoyment.

His hips press against mine, trapping me. I can feel the obscene bulge in his pants throbbing against my thigh, sending a dark shiver down my spinal column.

“Push me away, little prey. Fight back.”

A mewling whimper tears from my throat as I press my palm against his chest, trying—needing—to create space between us.

“Hit me.”

I freeze. “Wha⁠—”

“I said HIT. ME.”

The words are snarled, monstrous, demanding.

I react before I think.

My hand flies up, slamming hard against his chest.

A sharp exhale rips from him. Instantly, my legs buckle as his fingers ram harder, deeper, twisting, stretching, pushing me to a breaking point I didn’t know I had.

“Harder.”

His voice is low, guttural, seething with challenge.

“I said fucking fight me, little dancer, not tickle me.”

My stomach is clenched so tight I can hardly stand. The way he says it—wanting, needing, daring me to give him more—sends a brutal, vicious ache spiraling through me.

I hit him again.

Harder.

His fingers drive deeper. Rougher.

I can’t stop. Neither can he.

Pleasure and pain blur into something else entirely—raw, depraved, undeniable.

My body arches into his touch even as my fists keep striking against his chest, his mask, his arms; my movements growing sloppier, more desperate and unhinged.

A growl rumbles deep in his throat, pleased, starving.

“There we are,” he breathes, his grip tightening, putting me exactly where he wants me as I teeter on the edge of oblivion, his fingers stroking in and out at a frantic pace that takes my breath away.

“Be a good little fuck toy and come on my fingers.”

I break completely, shattering with a sharp, strangled cry, my entire body wracked with too much sensation, pulsing, spiraling into something brutal and all-consuming.

I don’t know if I’m still fighting him or clinging to him.

But he does.

He knows exactly what he’s done to me. What he’s unlocked.

Suddenly, his fingers slide from between my legs. I wince at the sudden rush of rawness, mingled with a throbbing, achy need I’ve never felt before.

Slowly, he raises his hand between us, and my eyes lock onto the glistening wetness coating his fingers and the black and gold ring.

That hand reaches for me. I’m too stunned to move as he slips his fingers under the edge of my mask, and before I know what’s happening, the fingers that were just inside me are pushing against the softness of my lips.

“Clean them,” he growls quietly.

For the briefest half a second I hesitate, and don’t do as he says.

But then, wordlessly, I do.

My lips part, and I shiver when he slides his wet fingers between them, pushing them deep over my tongue until I’m almost gagging. My lips close around them without being told to do so.

Heat pools in my core as my tongue licks them clean.

Then a low grunt comes from behind his mask as he slips his fingers from my lips and draws his hand away.

I nearly stumble, my legs weak, my body thrumming with all the confusion, rage and humiliation I don’t want to feel.

I lift my eyes to his—to the black holes where his eyes should be.

“Run away, little dancer,” he says, watching me like he’s analyzing every reaction, every crack in my armor. “You’ve got fire. I like that. But you still shouldn’t have seen what you saw tonight.”

“Then why let me go?” I croak, my voice trembling but defiant.

“Because chasing you was fun, and maybe I’d like to do it again.”

Then, without another word, he melts back into the shadows.

“Wait!” I yell suddenly. “How the hell do I get out!?” I shout into the empty silence.

A beat passes.

Then suddenly, everything goes dark. The torches all flicker out at once, plunging the maze into pure blackness.

Panic claws up my throat, but then new lights ignite, just a few, near the floor. A second later, I realize it’s a pathway, guiding me out.

I don’t hesitate.

I run.

When I reach the end of the maze, a masked woman is waiting. She simply nods, then turns sharply. “This way.”

I follow on shaky legs, my mind still scrambled, my body still burning with the imprint of The Hound’s touch.

The dressing room is empty when we get back to it. Everyone’s gone, including Brooklyn.

I change quickly, my fingers clumsy as I strip off the gold costume and pull on my clothes.

The masked woman says nothing as she steps behind me, securing a blindfold over my eyes again.

It’s worse this time. Because now I know what I’m being kept from seeing.

She leads me to an elevator, then a waiting car. The car door opens, and a hand helps me inside before we pull away.

Ten or so minutes later, I’m blinking against the cold night air, blindfold removed, my breath clouding in front of me as I finger the envelope with my pay.

I’m standing in the exact same place I was picked up. Like none of it ever happened.

But it did.

My heart is still racing, my skin still burning, my mind still spiraling with the memory of him. The car that dropped me off pulls away, and without wasting a second, I turn and run.

I don’t stop until I’m back at my apartment.