Dance of Deception: Chapter 44

One week later:

The shadows swallow me up as I move, my steps deliberate, predatory. The pavement is slick beneath my boots, the air heavy with the promise of more rain. Ahead, my target moves toward his car. Alone.

That’s a mistake. He should know better.

I stalk closer, unblinking, keeping to the edges of the alley beside the restaurant.

This is the last piece of unfinished business. Arkadi is dead—for real this time. The ensuing fire that I set in the forest ended up consuming Lyra’s old house, too. Which, honestly, I view as a net positive.

Lyra feels the same way.

The fire razed more than the house and the foreclosed ones nearby. It also cleared parts of the woods that the search teams had missed seven years ago. Arkadi was convicted of twelve counts of murder for the twelve bodies they found after Lyra ran screaming from the house, but it was always suspected that there were more victims.

The fire I set that day took that theory and blew the roof off it, exposing the final resting places of thirteen more bodies.

Add those to the two other bodies found in the house of the “copycat killer” in New Jersey. Which turned out not to be a copycat at all.

Apparently, Arkadi couldn’t shake those old habits.

Amongst the bodies found in Kingston, though, was Alison Vos, Lyra’s mother.

Which brings me to one of my least favorite topics: her fake mother.

Vera. Who is not dead.

I don’t know why—maybe it was a mistake—but when I saw her lying in that basement after Arkadi choked the fuck out of her, I ended up crouching down and pressing two fingers to her throat.

There was a pulse. Weak. Fading. But there.

For reasons that are still beyond me, I didn’t let her die.

I didn’t patch her up, didn’t tend to her or comfort her. I just hauled her dead weight out of the house, shoved her into the passenger seat of my car, and left her there while I went to save my wife and murder the fuck out of Arkadi.

That was what—who—Lyra had to share the front seat with.

But, as much as I’ve frequently second-guessed myself for saving that waste of oxygen, Vera had answers when she woke up.

Like confirming that the man in the shitty suit she met that day was, in fact, an FBI agent.

Apparently Arkadi wasn’t just a monster. He was a businessman, too.

He’d been selling underworld secrets to the Feds for years—feeding them intel on the mafia, the Bratva, even The Black Court. It turns out he was telling the truth when he told me he’d been hired as security at a couple of our trials. So he’d seen things he shouldn’t have. And that meant, eventually, he had leverage.

But then he died…or, you know, “died”.

And when everyone, including the FBI and Vera, thought he was dead, that steady flow of cash from the Bureau dried up.

Vera wanted it back.

She didn’t care about morality, loyalty, or justice. She just cared about money.

So she picked up where Arkadi left off: she reached back out to Arkadi’s old FBI contact, offering her services. But she didn’t have anything to sell. Not really. She tried to sell some old, outdated information about a couple of mafia families to Arkadi’s old handler—like the thumb drive The Stag saw her exchange. But it wasn’t going to bring in any real money.

That’s where Lyra came in.

Vera began texting Lyra, pretending to be Arkadi, playing on her fear and paranoia. She needed information. She didn’t actually know shit about the Black Court or what it was. She just knew the FBI was interested, and that my name was associated with it somehow. But she needed something, anything, to hand over to the Feds to get herself on the payroll. And she had no qualms about using her own daughter to get it.

But that still leaves ones loose end.

It wasn’t Vera, because she truly thought he’d died. But someone helped Arkadi escape. Someone helped him fake his own death. And that someone—the prison medical examiner, the one who signed his death certificate before himself later turning up dead—was on the Nikolayev payroll.

And I would very much like to know why.

Which brings me to the present as I creep closer to my prey, my grip tightening around the knife at my hip.

Ahead of me, Kir exhales heavily, shaking his head as he nears his car.

‘Would it kill you to approach a man in a normal fashion just once?” he mutters. “A handshake? A hello?’

I step from the shadows, my eyes locked onto his.

‘I think we can assume that your would-be career as a forest ranger has been permanently shelved,’ he quips dryly.

I don’t dignify that with a response.

‘You have my congratulations for killing that piece of shit,’ Kir says smoothly. ‘And my thanks for saving Lyra.’

‘I didn’t save her for you,’ I growl.

Kir’s smirk widens. ‘ I wouldn’t imagine you would. But you have my thanks nonetheless.’ He studies me carefully. ‘May I ask what this dramatic visit is regarding?’

I cross the distance between us, stopping a foot away. ‘The prison medical examiner,’ I say flatly. ‘He was on your payroll.’

“Of course he was.”

He doesn’t even bother denying it.

‘Did you help that motherfucker escape?’ I bite out.

Kir sighs through his nose, meticulously adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. ‘I have many people like that on my payroll. Surely that isn’t surprising to you. And you may recall,” he mutters, “that I helped put that monster in prison.’

‘You also helped put a target on Lyra’s back,’ I snap.

Kir’s lip curls slightly, his gaze turning to ice.

‘I did what needed to be done,’ he says, voice calm. ‘Just as you did. But I was not a part of that motherfucker escaping prison.’

Tension coils thick between us, wrapping around the night air like smoke.

My fingers twitch. My knife is right there.

‘Careful, Carmine,’ he murmurs. ‘You’re not the only predator in the woods.’

I shift closer, my voice dropping to a low, lethal murmur.

‘And you’re not as untouchable as you think you are.’

Kir exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head, before stepping close and then leaning even closer. “While you boys are playing games with masks and mazes,” he murmurs, “the men are out here conquering the fucking world.”

His hand claps firmly against my arm. “Take care of her,” he says.

‘Don’t go fucking near her,’ I mutter back, my voice a quiet, razor-edged threat.

Kir pulls back, smirking slightly. He doesn’t say another word. Just turns, gets into his car, and drives off.

I stand there, watching his taillights fade into the night.

The house is dark when I slip inside. Silent, too, though that doesn’t extend to the inside of my head.

There’s no such thing as silence in my head now—not since the fire, when I almost lost her.

I move through the shadows, my body still aching, my stitches pulling with every step. But the pain isn’t important. The only thing that matters is Lyra’s warm presence waiting upstairs, tucked safely between my sheets.

I climb the stairs without a sound, each step bringing me closer. There’s a restless, hungry feeling inside me, one that starts and ends with her.

I push open the bedroom door, exhaling slowly when I see her. She’s curled up on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, her red hair spilling across my pillow. Vicious possessiveness rises inside me, dark and primal.

I don’t wake her. Not yet.

I step closer, my fingers trailing over the sheets. I grip them and tug them down until I can see all of her, lying there in just a thin t-shirt and a lacy pink thong.

I run a finger over the bare skin of her thigh. She stirs slightly, a soft sound escaping her lips, but she still doesn’t wake.

I peel the lace down and off her legs, taking my time, memorizing the way her breath hitches in her sleep. I bring the thong to my nose, my cock throbbing as I inhale the scent of her pussy, her skin, her everything.

I strip naked, the cool air whispering over my heated skin as I move over her, covering her, caging her.

She shifts again, a breathless murmur falling from her lips as I trail my fingers between her thighs. I find her already wet, already soft and warm. My jaw clenches as I stroke her, teasing her, feeling her body react even in sleep.

I dip two fingers between her lips, stroke up and down, feel her grow even wetter.

What a greedy little pussy.

I pull my fingers away, rubbing her slickness between them before I smear it over the swollen head of my cock.

It’s not until I’ve lined us up, ready to slide into her wet, eager heat, that I grab her discarded panties and push them into her mouth.

Her eyes snap open, wide with confusion. But the second my hips snap forward, plunging into her deep and hard, her muffled cry turns into a moan of pleasure.

Yeah, if the panties in her mouth didn’t wake her up, every thick inch of my cock thrusting into her eager little cunt sure the fuck should.

“Even in sleep, this messy little pussy wants me,” I groan. ‘You’re dripping for me, baby. You love this. You love being taken before you’re even fully awake.’

She moans and drools a reply into the soaked lace stuffed into her mouth.

I fist her hair, keeping her exactly where I want her, my other hand braced beside her head as I move. Hard. Unrelenting. Possessive. Pounding into her, fucking her greedy little pussy.

She whines, her body arching underneath me, her legs scissoring against the mattress as I drive into her. The bed creaks. Our breaths tangle, the sheets twisting beneath us as we move, crashing together over and over.

Faster. Rougher. Deeper.

Her nails dig into the bed, her lace-muffled cries growing louder, breaking apart.

I grip her throat, drowning in her as I feel her pulse pounding against my palm. I want her ruined for anyone but me.

‘Tell me you’re mine. Scream it into your fucking panties like a good girl while I fuck you so deep you’ll still feel my cock tomorrow.’

Lyra shudders, her walls squeezing me over and over as she moans into her thong.

‘You’re so fucking tight, baby. Like you were made to take me and only me.” I lean down and sink my teeth into her shoulder, making her squeal as her pussy clamps down tight around my cock. ‘The only thing better than fucking you is watching you come for me, over and over.’

I keep ramming into her, fucking her into the bed until it’s a savage, frenzied race for both of us. When she finally shatters, her body spasming around me, I immediately follow, a guttural sound tearing from my throat as I bury myself deep, owning her completely.

She goes limp, her breath returning in slow, dreamy gasps after I pull the lace from her mouth and kiss her deeply. She rolls us over, her cheek pressed against my chest, her fingers tracing over my ribs.

I should say something. Tell her what I’m thinking.

That I’ll always be a monster.

That I don’t regret what I did.

And that I’d burn the world again to keep her at my side.

But before I can say shit, she turns her head, looking up at me. There’s no hesitation in her voice, no doubt in her eyes.

“I love you.”

My response is automatic and easy.

“I love you, too.”

And for the first time in my life, I don’t just say it—I feel it, raw and unshakable.

More real than anything I’ve ever known.