Dance of Deception: Chapter 35

I wince as I towel dry my hair, my muscles protesting every movement.

We played rough last night after the show.

Like, really rough.

Heat rises to my cheeks as the memories flit through my mind—him chasing me through the house, his footsteps heavy and determined, my breathless laughter cut short when he pinned me down and fucked me within an inch of my life.

I tug on a pair of leggings and pull a sweater over my head, the soft fabric brushing over my still-sensitive skin and the bruises Carmine left behind.

I exhale sharply, shaking off the shiver that threatens to creep down my spine, forcing my hands to stay steady as I smooth the hem.

I don’t want to think about the text yet.

Don’t want to think about what I have to do.

Vera was fine yesterday when I called her. Still bitter. Still cruel. But fine.

She accused me of forgetting about her, said how I’m living it up in my new life while she’s still rotting away in that shitty apartment. Or words to that effect.

I almost reminded her that it was her choice to stay there, that she could have made something of herself a hundred different times over the years, but I didn’t.

At the end of the day, she’s still my mother.

I sigh, shoving the thought deep down so I don’t have to look at it. Don’t have to acknowledge what I might have to do.

Right now, I just need to breathe.

The scent hits me the second I step out of the bedroom.

Roses—dark, heavy, decadent.

When we got home last night, the house was buried in them, even more than the dressing room.

Black roses. Everywhere.

Another over-the-top gesture from my husband.

Maybe it’s more a reminder of his claim on me. But even if that’s the case, I’m not complaining.

Carmine is standing by the island when I step into the kitchen, his broad back to me, sleeves rolled up and shirt half-unbuttoned, like he didn’t bother finishing the job.

I clear my throat, still groggy from sleep. “Morning.”

He turns slowly, his gaze dragging over me like he’s already undressing me.

My stomach flutters. I’m awake now.

His lips curve dangerously.

“Come here.”

It’s not a request.

I move toward him. The second I’m close enough, his hands are on me. He grabs my wrists, spinning me and pinning me against the counter, caging me in. I gasp, my back arching as his body presses flush against me, hot, solid, unrelenting.

“Carmine—”

His mouth crashes to mine, swallowing my words.

His hands grip my hips, dragging me tighter against him.

His teeth scrape my bottom lip, then my jaw, my throat.

I whimper when he bites down firmly, and I feel his lips curl to a smirk on my skin.

“You’re sore,” he murmurs, his hands skimming lower.

Heat pools low in my core. “Maybe.”

He chuckles darkly. “Only maybe?”

His fingers tighten, forcing a gasp from my lips.

“Next time, I’ll have to make sure.”

The words send a shiver down my spine and make a thrill curl deep in my stomach. My lips part, my breath coming unevenly. Then something pops out that has nothing to do with what’s currently going on.

“What is the Black Court?”

Carmine’s grip stays firm on me, but his expression shifts, just slightly, before smoothing back into an unreadable mask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers resume their slow, lazy movements, like he’s giving himself time to think.

I swallow, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Carmine.” I say his name softly as I reach up, fingers brushing gently over his jaw. “I’m not passing any judgment. I just… I want to know. It seems like such a big part of your world.”

His frown deepens, his thumb pausing mid-stroke against my hip.

“I notice when you leave late at night,” I continue. “I’ve never questioned it, but…”

“Now you are,” he growls.

I nod.

For a moment his blue eyes search mine, as if weighing what to say and what to keep buried. Then, finally, he exhales.

“It started at Knightsblood.” His voice is quiet. “I assume you’ve heard of it?”

Of course I have. It’s the notorious ‘Mafia Hogwarts’, where the next generation of crime bosses, arms dealers, and underworld elites sharpen their claws before inheriting their family empires.

He smirks when he sees the recognition on my face. “I was in Para Bellum.”

That name rings a bell, too. One of the four exclusive student clubs on campus.

“There were five of us,” Carmine continues. “We had…similar views. On power. On control.” His gaze sharpens. “On what the criminal underworld should be.”

I don’t say anything, letting him continue.

“There’s an old saying,” he murmurs, “that there’s no honor among thieves.” He watches me carefully. “But there has to be. There must be some level of order, some code of conduct, or it all devolves into chaos.”

I swallow nervously, my fingers tightening on his forearm. “And… The Black Court enforces that code of conduct?”

His lips curve slightly. “Something like that.”

I hesitate. “Is it sanctioned by the major crime families?”

Carmine laughs mirthlessly under his breath. “What do you think?”

I exhale. Right, of course not.

“So—what, you just decide who deserves to be punished?” I murmur. “And how?”

Carmine leans in, his nose brushing mine. “Someone has to.”

The words settle heavily in my chest.

Someone has to.

“Who else is in it?”

“Lyra.”

His face darkens, but not with anger. Just a warning that this is as far as he goes in terms of telling me about this.

“Who we are in Court, wearing our masks, is completely different to who we are in real life.” His fingers skim my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. “Names don’t matter there.”

I frown slightly, not understanding. “So, you don’t even know who they are?”

Carmine chuckles a quiet laugh, pressing a slow kiss to my jaw. “Of course I do.” His lips graze my skin, sending a fresh shiver down my spine. “But what happens in that room, under those masks… That’s something else.”

My stomach twists.

“Enough,” he growls quietly, pinning me harder against the counter behind me. “I have to go deal with some work bullshit.”

I nod, blushing and wincing a little as he leans in to kiss my neck, then bites it.

After he leaves, I stay in the kitchen, having coffee and some breakfast.

Guilt gnaws at me. Yes, I asked him about the Court because I was curious. But that wasn’t the only reason. It was the threatening text from the other night, too.

Whoever the fuck that is, they want something. And it’s pretty clear what happens to my mother if I don’t come through.

My phone dings suddenly, startling me. I glance at it, and my blood runs cold.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears and my fingers trembling as I type out a reply.

The response comes immediately.

My breath catches. A second later, another text—a photo of my mother, now with today’s newspaper, sleeping soundly, her hair spread over her pillow, completely unaware.

Then another picture. My blood turns to ice.

It’s Bianca—walking out of the theater, her head down, earphones in. Oblivious.

The final text slams into me like a physical blow.

The phone slips from my hand, clattering against the counter. My hands press against the cool stainless steel of the sink as I suck in a shaky breath.

I can’t tell Carmine. Not when his sister is in danger now, too.

I feel panic building, pressing beneath my ribs, threatening to suffocate me. But I don’t have time for fear. I need answers—something, anything—fast.

I push the horrible feelings of guilt and betrayal aside as I make my way upstairs and start to paw through Carmie’s closet and dresser drawers. His home office is next, then the library, then the rest of the house, looking for anything.

Finally, the only thing I’ve got left to search is his laptop, back in his home office. It’s password protected, so I sit down and start trying to the obvious ones: his name, Nico’s, Bianca’s, Dante’s. I try Vito, and his late mother, Giada. I even try my name, which is pathetic, and…well, fuck. It’s not the password anyway.

I slump onto my elbows with a scowl on my face, glaring at the laptop, then spin slowly in the chair, trying to come up with anything as I drink in the room.

Suddenly, I come to a stop, my brows furrowing when they land on the old, framed poster for Lickety Splits; a “gentleman’s club”, according to the poster, that “showcases the hottest girls in New York!!!”.

I roll my eyes, but then I grin. Bianca’s told me about Vito’s old strip club, and—let’s be real—that is by far the single greatest name for a strip club, ever.

Maybe?

I turn back to the laptop and type “licketysplits” into the password field.

Fuck off.

I’m in.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that. And yet, my fingers are already moving, clicking through files, scrolling through folders.

I don’t even know what I’m looking for…just anything that connects Carmine to the Black Court.

My mind flickers with the pictures of Vera.

Of Bianca.

A cold sensation drags its claws up my spine as I keep hunting. My pulse thumps steadily against my ribs, and I try not to focus on the gnawing guilt sitting heavy as an elephant on my chest.

I skim through a folder marked “Confidential Projects”, hoping that’s supremely cheesy code for the obvious. But it’s not: just a bunch of financial records, spreadsheets, and tax information on a commercial property it looks like the Barone family is purchasing.

Fuck.

My fingers drum against the desk, frustration curling tight in my chest before I start clicking away again.

Then, my breath catches: a folder within a folder labeled ‘Court Meetings.’

I click on it, my fingers trembling as I open the most recent document. It’s a set of meeting notes, precise, clinical.

I scan the first few bulleted lines, my pulse hammering.

· What did Arkadi have on the Court?

· Who is or was his buyer?

My lungs tighten as I keep reading, my stomach sinking lower with every line. There are other things that suggest Arkadi may have worked for the Court. Or had been part of one of their trials. Had he attended one?

The ugly implications twist inside me as I keep reading.

And then everything shatters away, turning to dust, leaving me with parched, cracked lips and the sensation that a hole has just been punched straight through my chest.

· Get close with Arkadi’s daughter. Find out if she can be an asset.

· Can she help us get whatever Arkadi had?

Everything inside me goes numb. The warmth I felt earlier this morning turns to icy poison in my veins as my heart tints black.

I read the words again.

And again.

And again.

The lines punch through me, jagged, cruel. My throat tightens. My hands shake.

Then I smell it: tangerine and rosewood, masculine. My whole body stiffens and jerks upright, a cold sensation slicing into my gut.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I whirl, my heart slamming into my ribs.

Carmine is standing in the doorway, his eyes nothing but fire and wrath.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares pure malice at me. The air crackles, the tension so thick I think I might choke on it.

Suddenly, he storms toward me. I shove back from the desk, scrambling out of the chair, but he’s faster.

Carmine grabs me and spins me into the bookshelves, slamming my body so hard the shelves rattle and a few books topple to the floor. I barely have time to take a breath before he’s on me, boxing me in, his chest pressed to mine, his hands braced on either side of my head.

“I asked you a fucking question,” he snarls.

His voice feels like the edge of a blade, pressed to my throat.

I gasp, sucking in a breath. But then anger rises—burning through the fear and betrayal, through everything.

I lift my chin, matching his fire with my own.

“You used me,” I spit venomously. “Didn’t you.”

Carmine’s eyes flicker, darkness flashing across his face before rage slams back into place.

“What?”

“YOU. USED. ME!” I scream, my pulse roaring like napalm in my veins. “The whole reason you got close to me?! You married me?! It was all because⁠—?”

“I seem to remember you barging your way into that audition!” he snarls.

“But then you came to me!” I shriek, my voice almost breaking. “And now I find out it was all because of him?! Because of my fucking father?!”

His eyes are black fire. “That’s bullshit.”

“Funny,” I laugh, but it comes out broken. “Because I just read your little fucking meeting notes on your laptop. The ones where your precious Black Court was trying to get close to Arkadi’s daughter. Trying to see if I could be an asset.”

“Lyra…” His voice is low, tight, like he’s trying to hold back a hurricane.

I shove at his chest, my blood roaring in my ears. “Tell me it’s not true! Fucking tell me!”

His jaw clenches so tight I swear it’s going to break.

“It’s not like that.”

My stomach twists. I want to believe him. But how the fuck can I?

“Then tell me what it is like.” My voice shakes, but I hold his gaze, unflinching. “Tell me what the fuck I was to you in the beginning.”

His nostrils flare. His hands flex against the wood on either side of my head.

But he doesn’t respond.

And that’s my answer.

I shove him again, my voice breaking. “Fuck you.”

“I see how it is,” Carmine purrs dangerously. His lips curl into a snarl, his body pressing harder against mine. “I’m the villain suddenly. I’m the monster.” His hand snaps out, gripping my jaw, jerking my face up to his. “But what the fuck about you, Lyra? What were you snooping for just now?”

My stomach lurches and I try to twist away, but he tightens his hold.

“What the fuck were you doing?” he demands. “Spying on me?”

I glare up at him, my heart slamming so hard it might burst.

“I was just trying to understand who the hell I married.”

His laugh is sharp and mocking. “Bullshit.”

I try to escape again, but he doesn’t budge.

“Tell me, wife.” His voice turns dark, dangerous, hypnotic. “Who the fuck are you working for?”

My pulse arrests.

“What?”

“Tell me!” he roars. “Tell me who the fuck you’re collecting information for!”

I don’t answer.

His fingers tighten around my waist, yanking me against him. I gasp, my body arching involuntarily, my hands gripping his arms as his dominance rolls over me like a goddamn electrical storm.

Suddenly, he’s spinning me around and the breath is knocked out of me as he slams me against the bookshelves.

He grabs a hank of my hair in his fist. His knee jams between my thighs, shoving them apart, as if he’s about to fuck the truth out of me.

The whole room goes dim and faraway.

I want this.

I don’t.

I want him.

I don’t.

I crave him.

I’m fucking terrified of him.

The air crackles, my skin throbbing and prickling as he grabs the back of my leggings and prepares to shove them down. I can’t think. Can’t speak.

Can’t breathe.

And suddenly, as everything comes to a frenzied crescendo…

I stop fighting.

I don’t thrash. I don’t scream. I don’t move at all. I just go completely still and limp against the bookshelves.

Carmine’s breath rasps against my ear, his body wound tight, ready for me to resist.

But I don’t.

I just… give up.

Give in.

Stop fighting.

His chest heaves against my back. His grip tightens for half a second, waiting.

But I just stay still, and silent.

Suddenly, his hands loosen and then drop away. The very air in the room stops moving. The tension doesn’t snap. It dissolves into something cold. Something wrecked and ruined.

His face is stricken, unreadable, as I turn to face him. Just a hard look in his eyes and a grimness in his jaw.

A little while ago, I wondered about the two of us coming up with a safe word—something to let reality back in if we were ever playing too rough and things got too much for me. But then, I realized this man I’ve married was so deep inside of me—so entwined and ensnared with what makes me me, that we wouldn’t even need a word. He can already read my thoughts and every nuance of me, after all.

Maybe that was naïve. But I never brought it up, which means there is no safe word between us.

Except, now I realize there is. It’s just not a word at all.

It’s silence.

It’s the absence of fight or flight.

It’s me letting the ball drop to the ground, because I’m not playing the game anymore.

And so, silently, the air crackling around us, Carmine and I just stare at each other.

I don’t say anything.

He doesn’t either.

Neither of us blinks.

Neither of us breathes.

He steps away from me, and my heart begins to wrench. I blink, my haggard eyes meeting his fierce ones in the silent room.

A flicker of something raw and broken flashes across his face. Something that won’t ever be mended. Not now.

Neither of us says a word, but we both feel the weight of what just happened.

It’s the only way this ends.

The only way this was ever going to end.

Slowly, I back away from him, my eyes never leaving his. I keep going, bumping a side table before I get to the door. I reach behind me, twisting the knob and pulling it open before I slip out.

Just before I close it, our eyes lock again through the crack.

Then, with a click, our connection breaks.

I turn, and I run.

This time, he doesn’t chase me.

And that’s the unkindest cut of all.