Exile (Dance with my Demons #4)

by Steph Macca

I always said that if people saw me as the villain, then I'd be their fucking villain.

In violence and corruption, I found an unexpected peace. An inferno of flames in an otherwise dark abyss—someone to dance with my demons.

For the first time since my mother died, I experienced love again—even if I didn't want it. Her vibrant light choked me, wrapping around my black heart like barbed wire, ripping me apart, until finally, she cracked me wide open. In my own personal hell, I found her. Avery. For the first time, someone saw me as more than their savior. More than a leader and someone to fear. She wanted to save… me. So now, it's only fitting that I should die for her.

We could have played rock paper scissors to decide who gets to marry her, even if I'd be awfully tempted to chop off their hands to win by default.

I stumble back slightly, clutching my fist. Looking down, it's easy to tell that through the blood one of my knuckles is probably broken. I'll just switch hands. I can punch just as well with my non-dominant one—Ambidextrous overachiever of vengeance.

Once again to my horror, I find myself at the hospital, tainted and covered in the ending existence of someone else. Except this time, it's different. I'm covered in my husband's blood. My husband.

Lilydale promised to save me, even when I adamantly believed I was beyond salvation. But in a strange turn of events, I was saved. By Grey. By Theo. And by Damon.

I guess, bloodied knuckles aside, maybe I could have a career as a doctor. Likes blood—check. Remains somewhat calm in an emergency—check. Able to remove limbs—double check.

"He'll be fine," I say blankly. "Plus he has Avery with him." "I understand that. But she's not a doctor—" "No, but she's his everything, Christopher. She's his reason to live, to fight. Just like she's mine. He has to be okay. There's no other option here."

"You were, by far, the best birthday present I could have received," I tell her, running my hand up her spine. "I always thought the ultimate gift would be my father's death, but I was wrong." "Maybe that can be your Christmas present," she murmurs. "A little murder goes well with mistletoe."

"Good to see you in one piece, Grey." "Shame no one else is in pieces though," I murmur playfully, frowning at my chipped nail polish. Those fuckers ruined my hard work.

Patients in Lilydale all have one thing in common. Trauma. And with that comes forced personality traits. Untrusting, anxious, fearful.

"À nous pour toujours jusqu'à ce que la mort nous sépare," Damon murmurs, gently clutching my hand and kissing it. "And all the lifetimes after."

There's something satisfying about new toys. It's like that feeling at Christmas, when your whole body is filled with excitement after ripping open a brand new toy that you'll inevitably break within a week. Holding the blowtorch in my hand, I feel the same way. That's the best part about being an adult—more expensive toys to play with.

We're family now—connected and founded by death. Just like Cirque des Morts. Except where Cirque des Morts is my greatest creation, the weapon that will bring down Alexander Dale once and for all, this right here, this is my biggest achievement. This is my family.

"And it will keep beating for you, for as long as I'm your husband," I tell her, referring to the gift. Avery twists her head to look at me, eyes focused and looked thoroughly fucked in all the best ways. "Forever?" She asks. "Even when it stops, I'll still be yours," I promise. "Because you're ours now and no one is taking that from us—not even death itself."

"Fire is significant, Grey. It can mean rebirth." "Like a phoenix rising from the ashes?" he states playfully. "I feel like we're more akin to a bunch of crows." "A murder?" I snort. Grey taps the temple of his mask. "Exactly."

That's why we are the society—born out of pain and trauma. Sticking together and fighting for the voices who can't speak. We'll be the monsters they claim us to be. Hell, we'll be the villains too. But what we won't be… is their victims any longer.

Cirque des Morts isn't just a group of unhinged psychos. We're a fucking legacy.