A Dance Macabre (Perverse City, #1)

by Naomi Loud

“I’m sure you’ve done far lewder things than touch an old bone in a cemetery, Vainglory. Quit the act.” My first urge when I hear her provoking words is to shove her into whatever half-dug pit I can find and fill it with dirt. I stop in my tracks when I find her piercing gaze fixed on me. Studying me amidst old graves, half of her face cloaked in shadows. The fire burning behind her irises propels me back to when I found her spying on me in the bathhouse. And I suddenly realize the intent behind her three last words. Quit the act. Because I know what she saw that night when I played the violin. She’s seeking the man behind the mask.

While the sun set over Crèvecoeur cemetery, Mercy informed me that Gemini wanted her to come visit him at Pandaemonium. In addition to a century-long feud between our two families, I’ve never been particularly fond of Gemini. But that didn’t prevent me from telling Mercy I would accompany her. “Great opportunity for a candid photo-op of us,” I said.

Now here we are, in Mercy’s town car, each of us staring out of the window on our respective sides of the back seat. Except. I’m carefully watching her from the corner of my eye, my thumb cradled under my chin and index finger resting near my temple. It’s like being confined in a tight space with a deadly predator. Even if I’m just as much a predator as she is, it doesn’t remove the vague but uneasy feeling pulsing inside my chest when I look at her.

My eyes flit down to her feet. She’s changed back into pumps, and there’s a pinch somewhere deep in my gut when my eyes skate over the dainty row of pearls wrapping around her ankles. It’s those same damn stilettos again. Must be her favorite pair. My fingers twitch on my lap, and I flex my hand around my thigh while my mind replays feverish flashes of Mercy splayed wide open, her skin supple under my touch.

Heat curls up my spine, my gaze smoothing up her fishnet stockings to the slit in her dress where her dagger is proudly displayed. Then upwards to the swell of her breasts pushed up high by the tight corset around her waist, until I end up staring directly at her jeweled eyes already trained on me. I don’t look away. Don’t pretend I wasn’t just caught surv...

The molecules in the air charged with whatever untapped need I know we’re...

There’s an underlying current of anticipation rumbling inside of me; I’ve never watched Wolfgang kill before.

Especially Wolfgang, who has now taken off his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his black shirt. He’s leisurely swinging the axe in the air as he positions himself perpendicular to the soon-to-be corpse. He holds up his free hand, his gaze on the crowd, and the masses fall to a murmured hush. The anticipation now prickles up my arms, my heartbeat quickening as I watch Wolfgang gently place the sharp blade against the man’s neck.

But the kill is not over, only half of the man’s neck has been severed. The force of the blow has sprayed blood upwards into Wolfgang’s face, and the image of him has a smoldering heat twinging low in my stomach. I lick my lips in anticipation, slowly taking off my sunglasses, needing to see him as clearly as I can, hypnotized by the sight of him like this.

Swiftly, he raises the axe again. The second blow detaches the final tendons keeping this man’s head on his body, successfully beheading the actor who impersonated Wolfgang. Because there is only space for one Wolfgang on this wretched earth.

Wolfgang strolls up to the head and picks it up by the hair. Raising it to his shoulder, he grins widely, blood splatter dripping from his face as the crowd caterwauls for their ruler. I ignore the pinch of jealousy in my heart at the sight of him so comfortable basking in the crowd’s approval. Keeping the head raised, he turns toward it. His darkened gaze snaps to mine before his lips touch its cheek for a chaste kiss. A small gasp tumbles out of my mouth, my heart stuttering inside my chest as I watch in rapture as he softly presses his lips to the severed head, his eyes glued to mine.

My senses are muddled but heightened, and my breathing isn’t slowing down. I refuse to acknowledge the steady throb of my clit while I replay the burn of Wolfgang’s gaze on me.

Suddenly, two firm hands coil around my waist from behind me, a hard chest pushing into my back. Between the split seconds it takes for me to reach for my dagger, I notice two things: The Vainglory signet ring on his left pinky finger and the smell of Wolfgang’s cologne, smoky with a hint of vanilla. My actions continue to dumbfound me as I abruptly stop in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.

With one hand, Wolfgang tugs the scarf down from my head, his breath hot against my earlobe, a slew of pleasure-filled shivers prickling my neck. He presses his hips against me, his hard erection against my ass, both palms slowly burning a path up and down the front of my tight skirt.

“You know,” he says while his fingers dance over my hips to the back, finding the zipper. “I wish it was you kneeling on that stage.” His voice is coarse but full of heat as he slowly unzips my skirt. I can hardly bear the thought that I’m letting him touch me like this. But the thought of stopping him is even harder to bear.

“I’ve imagined killing you countless times,” he groans, his cock digging into my ass. He wastes no time, his fingers slipping under the lace, letting out a throaty groan when he finds me drenched. I bite my lip, concealing the whimper lodged somewhere in my throat.

Wolfgang tuts, circling my clit with two fingers. “Don’t you have any shame, Crèvecoeur?” His hand travels further down, dragging his fingers through my soaking slit. “What’s making you so needy?” He thrusts two fingers into my pussy, the palm of his hand grinding against my clit and I bite down on another moan. “Couldn’t possibly be me, could it?”

“You know,” he says, his tone laced with carnal need, “I thought nothing could ever come close to the idea of watching you die.”

“But then I witnessed you watching me take a life.”

“And then I experienced the intoxicating thrill of your rapt attention,” he growls into my ear. It’s my turn to grind myself against Wolfgang’s hard cock, and this time I’m unable to suppress the low moan that follows. My hand wraps around his wrist as my orgasm furiously builds and builds. “And now I wonder if anything will ever come close to that feeling ever again.” I can feel his battering pulse under my palm. “The thought makes me sick,” he spits.

“My ruin.” His delighted hum feels almost perverse while his fingers are still deep inside of me. The tip of his nose trails up my neck. “Aren’t you glad I made you come this time?” he muses. He pitches his hips forward, reminding me how hard he still is. “Remember, Crèvecoeur?” His body tenses while his mouth remains next to my ear. “When you served your cunt up on a silver platter for me at Manor?”

His chuckle is filled with darkness. “Pretty little crescent moon you have tattooed on your hip,” he taunts hoarsely before ripping his hand out of my skirt and shoving me away, leaving me breathless and keening.

Through the cracked door, I peer into the room. Only the warm light from his bedside lamp illuminates the space, and my eyes immediately land on Wolfgang sprawled in bed. He appears to be naked, gold satin sheets covering most of his lower body, except for … Except for. My mouth falls open.

Gripping his cock in his palm, his head rests on the headboard behind him as he pumps up and down his hard shaft with a tight fist, the muscles in his arm and naked chest tight with exertion. A moan falls from his mouth, and my clit throbs as if in answer. In the way his jaw is clenched, and eyebrows furrowed, he seems angry, fucking his fist with a barely discernible rage.

His free hand grips the sheets, and a low curse traverses his lips before his movements turn more frantic as he fucks his cock even faster. He comes with a long hiss, his head falling downward, abs growing taut while the cum pulses again and again all over his stomach. My body is aflame, my mind a ruined...

“Next time you want to slither into places you don’t belong, I’ll force-feed you my cum with your caviar on toast, really make it a delicacy.”

Mercy would hate them. The thought jumps from the shadows like a fanged nightmare.

The fact that I’d think of Mercy’s likes and dislikes over something so anodyne as Aleksandr’s aquatic pets makes me grind my teeth as I step down into the conversation pit.

I subtly try to sound like I’m not the one who’s plagued with unwanted thoughts. Of that pest no less. And of how unbelievable it felt to have her eyes fixed on me while I fucked my fist. I can’t deny she was the reason I was so hard and desperate in the first place. I’ve been stroking my cock raw since the executions two days ago. And every time I come, her name permanently tattooed on my lips, I promise it will be the last. It never is.

My reality has slowly begun to sink in … I’m doomed to be forever riddled with this cancerous lust for Mercy.

“Have you ever wondered about the consequences resulting from breaking a divine law? The one which forbids two heirs to marry? Or—” I clear my throat, feeling like I’m crawling out of my skin. “Consummate?”

We’ve always assumed that the latter included any kind of sexual relationship between us. But the punishment for breaking this law has always been unclear, and I’ve never had any desire to look into it until now. But ever since the night at Manor with Mercy, I’ve been brazenly toying with the boundaries of this gods-given law, half expecting to be struck dead at any moment. And yet …

“Crèvecoeur and I have been … playing with fire,”

“I thought you two were feuding behind closed doors?” he says drolly. I huff out a breath. “I never said otherwise.”

“Have you not wondered how Mercy walked away unscathed from her little coup at the Lottery?”

“Maybe the gods have a larger plan for you two

I pretend the dip I just experienced in my stomach has nothing to do with Mercy’s name. My mind sticks to the mention of her birthday, and I try to wrangle the thought before it sears my brain like a hot iron, but I’m too slow. Why didn’t she tell me it was her birthday?

I don’t bother fighting the burning urge to locate Mercy in the sea of people. I find her sitting a few seats over, chatting with Belladonna.

my throat grows dry at the sight of the skin-tight leather pants she has on, her dagger on display over the leather. Unusual for her but just as striking as her typical dress or skirt, her tits spilling out of her black lace bustier, red painted toes in five-inch stilettos. Gods help me.

My eyes stay on Mercy, her gaze now tracking my movements, flawless face stoic as I sit at an empty table near her. I meticulously endeavor to keep some distance, our seats connecting into one long booth with a vacant table between us.

And if the truth wasn’t so maddening to swallow, I’d admit that the tension was sexual in nature.

Aleksandr finds pleasure in witnessing the perverse and gluttonous needs of others. He instigates it, seeks it, and revels in it. His power is an ironic one. He himself can never be satisfied, whether it be from food or drink, and try as he might, he will never experience the freeing release of inebriation. He is but a humble spectator to the hedonism of his adored god.

When my attention returns to Mercy, a man now sits in Belladonna’s seat. I can’t see his face, only that he must be whispering something into her ear by the way he’s leaning into her. A stunning rage fizzles under my skin as I watch his hand trail up her arm, his fingers caressing over the scar from when I pushed her into the pit. When I hurt her. Me.

I react from somewhere beyond my rational mind. Standing up, I fling the table out of my way, glass shattering to the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see Mercy looking up in surprise as I stalk over to where she sits. I don’t glance her way, too busy reaching for an empty wine glass and smashing it against the table, breaking the stem off.

The next series of events happen in a flurry of movements but I cherish every second. I’ve never been one to shy away from murder, but this one feels a lot more personal than most, and heat scorches up my spine knowing Mercy will be witnessing it all. His eyes widen when I grab his collar with a snarl, dragging him off of Mercy and out of his seat.

And inside the small liminal moment before I bring my arm back down, my crazed gaze flicks to Mercy. Her mouth is open in slight shock, but I don’t miss her pinkening cheeks and rising chest. I shoot her a dark grin and then plunge the broken stem deep into the man’s unprotected neck. Pulling it forcibly out again, I make sure the spray of blood doesn’t reach Mercy. And I ram the stem back into his neck. Again. And again. And again.

Mercy tries to stand, but I grab her by the back of the neck and pull her backward onto my lap, letting out a few small tsks near her ear. The fragrance of burnt almonds and cherries is just as heady as always.

“He was one of yours,”

Her legs straddle my left thigh and I hook my arm around her waist, pulling her back tighter against my chest. “All the more reason to kill him,” I answer heatedly. “This isn’t what a united front entails,”

“You knew that the useless heap of muscles and bones was about to die, didn’t you?” Upon hearing my question, she tries to rip herself away from me. But it’s futile. I laugh darkly as she struggles against my lap. My breath feathers over her neck, and I don’t miss her skin pebbling as my thumb idly rubs circles on her waist. She straightens her back, head now facing forward, but answers my question. “Yes, I could sense death around him.” I’m suddenly made aware of a subtle rock of her hips against my thigh.