Exile (Dance with my Demons #4)

by Steph Macca

balance. In my peripheral vision, I see her throw a punch, managing to get a guard in the nose. That's my fucking wife.

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

"Normal people don't go around murdering others." "Thank fuck I'm not normal then."

"Hug?" "Fuck off." "I love you too,"

See—brothermates. Not quite soulmates, but something along those lines.

I tell myself it's okay. Because I'm the badass who stabbed that motherfucker with a pen.

"That's just how men are, sweetheart." No. We are not. It isn't a chromosomal trait to make women cry. Nor is it something to be proud of.

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

"Don't be mad at me," Damon shrugs, squeezing my knee. "She's the one cackling like a hyena."

His stunned face looks as though he's been slapped by a fish.

"Ohh," he says amused. "Look at that. We missed all the action. Ding dong, the bitch is dead."

"I'm going to miss this place," I sigh heavily. "Should we be concerned?" Grey jokes. "I mean… it is the morgue, after all."