Dance of Madness: Chapter 22

Madame Kuzmina has told me about eleven million times that repetition of the impossible makes it not only possible, but routine.

I’m beginning think that might translate far past ballet into the madness that has become my…whatever I’m doing with Nero.

Because it appears repetition of insanity turns it not just into sanity.

It turns it into the norm.

Not normal is my new normal, and I’m not sure I have anything bad to say about that. Sure, my body kind of hates me these days, and that’s saying something after a lifetime of ballet training.

To say that I’m sore would be the understatement of the century. My new skin tone could be described as purplish-blue, sometimes with a hint of yellow-green, from the bruises on my…well, everything. It’s to the point that, in addition to all the long-sleeve shirts and pants instead of tank tops and skirts, I might be single-handedly bringing turtlenecks back into fashion.

Scarves, too, but I’m not the trendsetter there. That honor would go to Lyra, who has acquired quite a collection of them since she married Carmine Barone.

When I was ten, I walked into a Sephora in Soho, and for reasons that to this day escape me, decided I was going to steal a tube of lipstick.

Ignoring the fact that money has literally never been something I had to worry about, I was ten. I didn’t even wear lipstick. I only decided to steal because I’d seen someone do it in a movie and I wanted to know what it felt like.

Just after I’d finally worked up the courage to slip the lipstick into my pocket, I remember looking up and locking eyes with a girl who looked about fifteen, standing ten feet away.

….Doing the exact same thing with a tube of concealer.

We both knew what we were doing was wrong, but in that adrenaline-fueled moment, we had a mutual understanding. Smile, don’t say a word, go your separate ways. Which is exactly what happened.

Later, I confessed my crime to Vasilisa after the guilt got to me. She promised not to tell Papa as long as I went back to the store with her and told them that I’d forgotten to pay for something. Luckily, they were very understanding. Or maybe Vasilisa scared them when she laid the Russian accent on extra thick.

In any case, that’s the same feeling I get these days when Lyra and I both show up to rehearsal wearing silk scarves around our necks: we both know what’s up. We both just smile, and blush, and there’s an unspoken agreement not to talk about it at all.

Unfortunately, none of my other friends give me a similar pass on my bruised state. Brooklyn and Naomi have made it their mission to all but pin me to the lockers and inspect me when we’re changing, then give me knowing looks and grins whenever they spot new hand-shaped bruises anywhere on my body. Val manages to work the word “choke” into almost every conversation, while looking at me with a pointed, shit-eating grin.

And Evelina—poor, sweet Evelina—doesn’t know what to say, ever since Naomi finally explained to her that the bruises were not a sign that I was clumsy.

“It’s called getting your freak on,” Brooklyn had snickered, which of course made poor Evie turn the color of ketchup as her jaw hit the floor.

But like I said, the insane has become my new normal.

And again, I’m not really complaining.

I collapse back onto the couch, groaning as Nero’s thick—sweet God, is he thick—cock slips out of me with a wet sound. I sink into the cushions, still catching my breath, copious quantities of…well…him dripping out of me.

We’re at Greymoor, which has become sort of our go-to place.

…Lots of room for running, right?

My chest rises and falls, my skin still tingling and sheened with sweat from the chase and the raw, brutal fucking that followed. My poor vagina feels savaged. My nipples are on fire. Even my ass feels sore, after Nero made me kneel down, bent me over an ottoman, and railed me from behind while slipping two fingers in my ass at the same time.

Honestly, I didn’t think I’d like that.

But, again, purple and blue is the new black, insanity is the new sanity, and I ended up having my fourth or fifth orgasm of the night when he did it.

I glance down at myself, my brow furrowing as I drink in the state of my body. Fresh, vicious bruises overlay old ones and previously unmarked skin, covering my breasts, my thighs, my waist and hips…everywhere.

If this keeps up, I’m going to start needing serious medical care. It’s already a miracle I haven’t gotten a UTI, even with the tons of cranberry juice I’ve been drinking daily as a preemptive measure.

Nero sprawls back against the arm of the couch opposite me, his lean, muscled body glistening with perspiration. His tattoos ripple as his body flexes with his breath. He shoves his fingers languidly through his dark hair, his piercing green eyes glinting in the low light.

I blush as my eyes land on his chin and mouth.

They’re slicked with my cum and a few drops of blood from where he bit my fucking thigh like a goddamn animal.

Woooorth it.

His eyes slowly drift down my body, and I subtly tuck my feet under one of the couch cushions.

It’s going to sound nauseatingly vain, but I know I’m pretty. My mother was gorgeous, Papa looks like a Hollywood actor aging like fine wine, and I’ve been in peak physical shape for my entire life.

But I absolutely hate my feet.

Gnarled. Scarred. Misshapen. Calloused. Twisted into grotesque, knobby things.

I mean, I don’t give a shit at ballet, because everyone’s feet look like that there. But I won’t even walk around Papa’s house without a pair of socks on.

I know it’s weird, but it’s my one toxic trait when it comes to my own body image.

As I shift on the couch, I suddenly wince at the bite on my thigh, not to mention the fresh bruises.

Nero notices just as he’s reaching for the pack of cigarettes and brass Zippo on the side table that have become our post-hunt vice. I just shake my head.

“I’m fine.”

His scowl deepens, and he stands.

“Wait here.”

I keep my eyes shamelessly glued to his abso-fucking-lutely perfect ass as he stalks from the room. I hear him walk up the stairs to the third floor, then frown in confusion when there’s a banging warble and what might be water rushing.

A few minutes later, I hear him come back down the stairs. He strides back into the parlor where we ended our chase. Instead of sitting back on the couch, he walks right over to me and scoops me up into his arms, like I’m a damsel in distress.

I gasp as he strides out of the room and up the stairs. For a second, I think we’re going into the bedroom, but then Nero hooks a right at the top of the steps.

“Where are we⁠—”

I blink, my words cutting off as we step into a large, gorgeous old-world tiled bathroom. There’s at least five or six of these in the mansion, but like the electricity, the water doesn’t work.

Wait, what?

That theory flies out the window as Nero lowers me into an old claw-foot tube filled with warm, bubbly water. I blink in surprise as I lean back, the hot water instantly soothing my aches as Nero reaches over and turns off the faucet.

“How…?”

He turns toward me, smirking.

“I’ve had a little work done on the house.”

I exhale slowly, groaning as the water soaks my soreness away.

“A little?”

He shrugs. “It needed it. Got a little old coming here and not having any water.”

I grin. Then slowly, a not-so-fun thought enters my head unbidden.

“How…” I clear my throat. “How often do you come here these days?”

It’s not always here, but I’ve been with him at least every other night the last couple of weeks.

Yeah. Every other night…

Nero shrugs as he sits naked on a small wooden footstool next to the tub, slips a cigarette between his lips, and deftly lights it.

“Fairly frequently.”

My lips purse.

“For chases?”

He plucks the cigarette from his lips and passes it to me, holding it for me while I take a small drag and then blow it out the side of my mouth.

“I don’t like the idea of other girls being in this position,” I finally say tightly.

“In my bathtub?”

I glare at him. “Naked with you, after being chased by you,” I say.

He grins, inhaling smoke slowly. “No one gets invited here but you, princess,” he murmurs. “You can put the claws away.”

I can feel my face heating as he eyes me.

“I’m fixing the place up here and there because I might move in one day.”

My brows arch. “Really?”

He shrugs and passes me the cigarette again.

“I know. It’s a creepy-ass haunted house. But I love this place. Always have.”

I feel a grin tug at the corners of my lips.

“So do I, actually. When we used to dare each other to run past it, I’d always slow down a bit and imagine what it would look like with lights on inside.” I shrug. “I think it’s a beautiful house—well, could be.”

Nero says nothing, just looks at me curiously with those emerald-green eyes as the smoke curls around his head like a halo.

Still without a word, he turns and picks up a washcloth and a bar of soap, dipping the former into the warm water before lathering it up.

“What—”

“Turn.”

I immediately obey, scooching around and presenting my back to him. My breath catches as I feel the wet, warm cloth start to move over my back.

“What are you⁠—”

“Washing you. Hold still.”

And just like that, Nero freaking De Luca, the wolfish, monstrous, possibly sociopathic lord of darkness gently starts to give me a bath.

He starts with my back. Then does my neck and arms. He even has me lift them, to get my armpits. Then he has me turn around and washes my front—always carefully avoiding the fresher bruises.

“Up.”

“Nero—”

“Princess.”

I flush, rolling my eyes before I finally stand. He cleans my legs, then my butt…then I’m shivering and biting my lip again as he runs the warm cloth higher between my legs, gingerly cleaning both my pussy and the bite he gave me on my inner thigh.

“Is Leo Debolsky still sniffing around you?”

My lips curl into a smirk.

“Uh, no.” I laugh quietly. “Uncle Levka likes the idea of our families joining,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “For political reasons. Papa isn’t interested.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, he’s who I think of whenever you and I—aiiee!”

I giggle-squeal as Nero swats my ass with an open palm.

“Joking,” I laugh. “Obviously.”

He glares at me, but he’s biting back a smile of his own.

“I really don’t, you know. Bring other girls here, I mean.”

A tingle ripples through me as he pulls the washcloth away, letting me lower myself into the sudsy warmth of the tub again.

“Well,” I huff, half meaning it, “you were going to bring Alicia here.”

He smirks. “To chase, maybe. But that would have been it.”

I eye him with utter skepticism.

“Just to chase.”

He nods. “Is that so hard to believe?”

I snort. “Kind of.”

Nero exhales and passes me the cigarette again. “I…” He looks away, frowning.

“Tell me,” I suddenly say quietly. My hand slips out of the water, and before I know it, I’m taking his hand in mine.

I’m not sure why I do it. It feels bizarrely intimate.

“I get off on the chase itself,” he growls. “The sex is…fine.”

I glare daggers at him. Nero smirks, chuckling quietly.

“Poor choice of words, sorry.”

“I’ll say,” I mutter.

“Present company excepted, obviously.”

His hand slips from mine, snakes over the edge of the tub, and dips into the water. I gasp, shuddering and feeling fire spark in my core as his hand slides up between my legs to cup my pussy.

“This sex,” he growls, his voice rough, “is very very fucking good.”

He stubs the cigarette out in a little dish next to the tub and stands. I watch, my pulse picking up and my eyes shamelessly wandering over his gorgeous body as he steps into the hot water and sinks down, facing me.

His hand reaches for me under the bubbles, and I whimper when he cups my sex again. One of his thick fingers begins to trace up and down my lips lazily before he sinks a finger into me, taking my breath away.

Even as pleasure starts to hum through my body, the unanswered questions come too.

“Nero…”

“M-hmm?” he murmurs, rolling his fingertip over my clit, making me whimper.

“The other day…” I shake my head, my brow furrowing. “What was it that I said or did that put you off?”

His fingers pause for a second or two. Then I coo softly, my eyes fluttering shut when he starts to finger me again. But he remains silent, and when I open my eyes, he just shakes his head.

“Tell me.”

His head shakes again. “There are things about me you don’t want to know, princess,” he murmurs.

“You don’t know that. Try me.”

“No, Milena⁠—”

I push his hand away from between my legs.

“No more of this, then.”

“Pass.”

I gasp when he puts his hand right back between my legs, then feel myself whimper as he pushes his finger back into me, curling so perfectly against my g-spot. Then I come to my senses, grab his hand, and push it away once more.

“Tell me,” I urge. “Or no pussy.”

“Are you familiar with the term cutting off your nose to spite your face, princess?”

I roll my eyes. “Are you familiar with the concept of consent?”

“Pretty sure that’s a gray area for you.”

My face flushes. “Well, it’s a no—a real no—until you tell me.”

He eyes me hungrily. “And if I do it anyway?”

“It won’t be the fun kind of no,” I say quietly.

Darkness floods Nero’s face as he leans back in the tub and looks away. His arm snakes out over the edge, and I watch with surprise as he pulls another cigarette out of the pack and lights it without fanfare.

He’s not really a smoker. The only time I’ve ever seen him do it is after we have sex, and only occasionally—not even every time. And it’s only the one.

Not two.

He sucks on it heavily, his brow furrowing as the shadow only grows over his face.

“Fine,” he mutters, still looking away as he sucks on the cigarette. “When I was thirteen, a family friend, a neighbor, decided it was a good age for me to start having sex.”

The words hit me like a punch to the face.

Oh my fucking God…

“Nero—”

“So for about three months,” he barrels on, his eyes burning into the wall, “she regularly had me over to her place, or hotels, and did what she wanted with me.”

A chill ripples down my spine despite the warm water.

“Jesus, Nero⁠—”

“You wanted to know,” he hisses. “Here it fucking is.” His face darkens to midnight. “Here’s the really fun part. After a few months of this, her husband found out she was fucking someone else. Not that it was me, but…someone.”

He slowly turns, his eyes piercing into me, a haunted, faraway look in them.

“So he killed her…and then himself.”

My heart stops, breaking.

“There,” he snarls. “That’s my fucking tragic villain origin story. We good now?”

I’m so numb that I’m barely aware of him pulling me into his lap, my legs on either side of his muscled hips. But when he reaches between my legs and runs a finger over my pussy, I flinch back to reality, my eyes suddenly focusing on him as my face caves.

“Nero, wait…one sec⁠—”

“I don’t want to wait a sec.”

His finger sinks into me, but I reach for his wrist, tugging his hand away.

“You…what you just told me…”

“What I just told you, no one else in the world knows,” he murmurs. “Don’t spread it.”

I shake my head, my hands reaching out impulsively to cup his face, like I need to touch more of him, be nearer to him.

My brows furrow. “You never told⁠—?”

“I never told anyone,” he murmurs. “Not my parents; nobody. Except you.”

His cock throbs between my inner thighs. I whimper quietly as he grips my ass and lifts me up, letting the thick, swollen head of his cock push between my lips.

“Wait, Nero, can we just talk⁠—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he chokes. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

His eyes lock with mine, and suddenly I’m drowning in the sadness and fury that swirls like green venom inside them.

“Milena,” he rasps through clenched teeth. “Right now, I want to feel something that makes me forget that. I want to think of you.” One of his hands slides up my back, wrapping my hair around his fist. “Think you can do help me do that?”

“Yes,” I choke, my heart breaking and melting at the same time as I lean in and press my forehead against his. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

My head tilts to the side as I press my lips to his, kissing him deeply, sinking down onto him.

I can do that.