Dancing in the Dark

by T. L. Martin

  Over time, we learned to repeat the process with all the kills on our list. If they made so much as a penny off the shit Katerina, Hugo, and Murphy executed, it’s guaranteed to become ours, eventually.

  Of course, there’s no goddamn way I’m going to live, eat, and sleep off the money that’s behind our black souls—hence our front: Matthews House, Inc. Selling cryptocurrency allows us to stay behind the scenes, working online or through Skype, and with three of the branches we developed now topping cryptocurrencies worldwide, it funds our real agenda.

  Which is my forte.

  Raife is the face of Matthews House, Inc. while I focus on our list, and for the most part, it works—me staying in the shadows. I’m not exactly social.

  “They want in,” Raife says on a pleased sigh.

  “Which account?” I check my watch, then swipe a hand over my mouth, wondering if Emmy is in my room by now.

  On my bed.

  In my sheets.

  “Silver Jack. But I have a feeling that’s not what you came by to discuss.” I grit my teeth. Raife smirks and folds his hands on the desk. “Hoping I have more deals to offer?”

  Resting my ankle over my opposite knee, I look him straight in the eye. “She’s mine now, Raife.”

  His eyes flicker with triumph. “Is that righ—”

  “Cut the shit. Stella would’ve informed you by now.”

  His grin widens in response.

  “I came to tell you myself”—I lean forward, ensuring he can read the severity of my expression—“so I could personally see that you understand when I tell you not to fucking touch her.”

  “Well, now that just doesn’t seem fair to the poor girl.” His voice drips with amusement. “We both know you won’t touch her. You’re going to force her to be deprived just because you are?”

  Tension pulls my muscles tight, and my fingers rap against the leather armrest. “If I’m not mistaken, I’m the only reason she isn’t deprived right now.”

  Raife inches forward so we’re level. “Yes, and how was that for you? When she came apart on your hands.” Blood rushes to my veins, hot flames dancing beneath my skin as my adrenaline spikes. Raife cocks his head. “Careful with her, little brother, or your precious control just might snap.”

  A muscle in my jaw twitches, and I run my fingers across the bottom of my chin.

  Raife is the only one who knows firsthand how close I got to Sofia. The way I childishly convinced myself I was some kind of savior, the promises I made to get her out of there, to give her a chance to grow up and have a normal life. Then how her death almost unraveled me completely.

  Before I found an outlet through sex and blood.

  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—they passed in a blur of ecstasy. And my brothers—before they legally became my brothers—were in as deep as I was when it came to women. For Griff and Felix, that was enough for a while.

  Me, I needed more.

  I needed red.

  But I wasn’t the only one who discovered a taste for blood all those years ago.

  The differences between Raife and I, however, are immense. I may be unhinged, but I’m constantly working to channel my urges. It never stops, the self-restraint, the need for more.

  I make no mistakes.

  When Raife gets violent, truly violent, there’s nothing controlled about it. It’s a wildfire in a gasoline-drenched forest. He cost us one mistake with Murphy already, one that would have ended everything if it weren’t for Felix’s talents.

  I won’t risk another slip. Not when I’m so close to ensuring every single person on our list gets what they deserve.

  I sit back against the leather, letting out a breath of dry amusement. “You know you can’t go back, Raife. None of us can.”

  Finally, he drops his smile. Black oil eats up his brown eyes. “No, I can’t. Just like you can’t move forward. You are who you are. Lucas.” I narrow my gaze at his, but otherwise keep my expression slack. “We all are.”

  After a second, he opens the drawer to his right and pulls out papers. Then he tosses them into the bin beside him, watching, waiting for my reaction. I know full well it’s the document Felix and I drew up this morning. The same document he made a fucking deal to read.

  I work my jaw, the only sign of agitation I’ll allow myself to reveal.

  “Once upon a time,” he continues, “you wouldn’t have given a shit about my method for madness, so long as I was mad. Remember yourself, Lucas. We were real brothers once, before our empire. Two boys who saw each other for what we were and never had to, never wanted to, hide it. You will eventually lose control, and when you do—when you lose every last shred of it until you can’t see red from black, right from wrong—I will be here. Ready to back you up, the way you should be doing for me.” He leans closer, and my gaze threatens to burn straight through his skin. “Because that’s what brothers fucking do.”

  Carefully redoing the buttons on my collar, I stand. I watch him for a second, taking in the anger simmering behind his words. The mad glint in his eyes that we share.

  I lean forward and rest my palms on the desk. “Don’t mistake our brotherhood for weakness. I’m the same person I was when we first got out. The difference is that back then, I was a boy who dealt with guilt by giving into every temptation. Shortsighted, unprepared. Uncommitted. I evolved into a man a long time ago.” After pushing off the desk, I shove my hands into my pockets and tip my chin back. “I suggest you do the same.”

  He stands, but I’m already turning away. I don’t have time for his shit. We have lives to ruin, and time’s a wastin’.

  “It’s only a matter of time before she gets to you, my friend,” he calls as I walk out the door. “And I’ll be watching every step of the way.”

  “Because, little one, you are not allowed to let go.

  The best of us hurt the most.”

  —Erin Van Vuren

  (Fourteen years old)

  Pink. Blue. Pink. White.

  Jesus.

  How many pillows does one little kid need?

  My ass is sore from sitting in the same position on the cement for so long, one leg bent with my right arm draped over it. But Katerina’s got another interview going, and I’d rather watch her tiny clone stack pillows than listen to that woman’s voice for another second.

  Sofia walks to her cot, picks up her final pillow—pink again—and drags it across the cement, then puts it against the iron bars with the others. I scratch my chin, wondering what the hell she’s doing, when she sits on the ground right behind them.

  Squinting, I glance from her to the work table next to us then back again. She made a fucking wall. I mean, the thing is small—five pillows can only get so tall—but for a five or six-year-old, it’s legit. Blocks the work table from her view perfectly.

  She’s been here long enough to sense when an interview is coming to a close.

  And we all know what comes next.

  Blowing out a breath, I rest my head against the wall. It’s been months, and the little girl still hasn’t said a word to anyone. But I’ve learned a lot from spending every day and night across from her. She has exactly three dresses, all white, all ragged with small holes, sometimes strings hanging at the bottom. Her bare feet are dirty, like the rest of ours, and her hair is stringy, due for a bath.

  At least I assume she gets a bath.

  The rest of us get a five-minute hose down once a month—or those of us who last long enough for it, anyway—but Sofia disappears for half a day each month and always comes back clean.

  The clanking of metal snaps my head to the right. The burly, bald guy who does our hose downs is here, unchaining the tear-streaked teen from the work table.

  “Wh-what . . . y-you’re letting me go?” The girl’s shaky voice is so hopeful it rips straight through my chest.

  She’s got no clue.

  Katerina runs a hand down the girl’s skinny arm. “Oh, darling. Our energies just aren’t matching up quite right. It’s m
y duty as your storyteller to ensure we’re inspiring each other, understand? I’m having trouble getting that connection from you.” She takes a breath and smiles reassuringly. “We have other, more fitting, opportunities for someone as pretty as yourself.”

  A shriek leaves the girl’s mouth, but Baldy clamps a hand over her lips and drags her toward the exit.

  Katerina stops him at the door. “Send her to Murphy for redistributing, and bring me another crate. Perhaps a boy? Someone with enough fire to pull me out of this horrid slump and get our backlogged orders filled.”

  The door closes, and the room falls still.

  My pulse ticks faster, my breath strained, when she turns to Sofia. These aren’t feelings I was used to dealing with in the real world—unease, anxiety, helplessness. I’ve been on my own since I was eight, when my mom disappeared while I was out stealing our next meal, and before that we lived together on the streets. I caught on real quick. Emotions, good and bad, get you nowhere—if you’re lucky. Killed, if you’re not. Trust no one but yourself, care for no one but yourself.

  Simple.

  Even in this room, with strangers’ screams and bright lights constantly beating against my head—the others in the crates next door aren’t so different from me: self-taught to look after themselves. To survive.

  We’re more adult than any of the ‘real’ adults here.

  Sofia, though, she’s not like us. She’s too young. Too innocent. Pure enough to be molded.

  My knuckles curl as Katerina walks to Sofia’s cage. She unlocks it, then sits on her haunches and tilts her head. “Baby, how many times do I have to tell you?” She reaches forward, grabbing each pillow one by one and placing them outside the bars. “This is good for you. Death is a thing of beauty, and it needs to be executed in such a way that does it justice.”

  Sofia swallows, but it’s the only sound she makes.

  “You will understand when you’re older, working at a table of your own.” Katerina points her index finger and taps her daughter’s nose playfully, and it makes me sick to my stomach. Like she thinks she’s Mom of the Year or something.

  She stands and grabs her purse from beside the table then returns to Sofia. My nostrils flare when she pulls out the cuffs for the second time this week, and Sofia’s little body stiffens. Katerina wastes no time looping the things around one of the bars and then her daughter’s wrists.

  My growl comes out quiet. Katerina’s head jerks to me.

  “What?” I snarl quietly from my spot on the ground, my eyes locked on hers. “Having your own kid in a cage isn’t abusive enough for you?”

  Katerina’s eyes spark with something—interest?—and she turns back to her daughter. She gives her a peck on the cheek. “You’ll thank me for this later, baby girl, once you’ve come into your own.”

  After a second, she pushes off the ground, locks the cage, and strolls toward me. She stops a foot away and pulls her notepad from the front pocket of her black dress, then flicks glances from me to the pad as she jots something down.

  I narrow my eyes. From Mom of the Year to Certified Psychologist.

  “This is a real breakthrough, you know,” she murmurs. The scratching of a pen against paper nags at my ears. “I’ve been watching you with her, and I think we’re really getting somewhere.” Finally, the scrawling stops. She sets her blue eyes on me, and when they soften, it creeps me the hell out. “My pretty pet. I knew I was right about you. There’s something genuine here. Vulnerability. Passion.”

  Gritting my teeth, I break my gaze to stare at the blank wall to my left. She’s poison, and so are her words. She doesn’t know shit about me. She never will.

  The door to the studio creaks open, and I keep my gaze on the wall but follow her movements out of the corner of my eye. A thump hits the ground as a new crate’s lowered off the forklift, then Baldy unlocks it.

  Same routine every time.

  “Hello, there,” Katerina says sweetly. “Where’s your name card?”

  “There isn’t one,” Baldy grunts. “Been on the streets since he was practically in diapers. No one knows his name. Not even him.”

  “Is that so?” She’s quiet for a moment. “Approximate age?”

  “Eh, this one? Fifteen, maybe.”

  “This one is sixteen.”

  My gaze snaps to the new guy. He’s skinny, dirty, like the rest of us. His blond hair looks almost brown, his cheekbones are sunken, his nose pointy. He’s still sitting in the crate, peering through the wiry bars, which is weird, because most of them jump out the second it’s opened. Weirder still, he looks as casual as I do—leaning back, almost relaxed.

  Who the hell is this guy?

  “Watch your goddamn—”

  “Hush, Mikey.” Katerina lowers a hand to the guy, and he takes it, letting her pull him to his feet. She cocks her head. “Not a shy one, are you?”

  His eyebrow quirks, and he glances around the room. His gaze lands on the work table. The restraints. The silver tray holding a single needle. “Not so shy yourself.”

  My lips twitch, but when Katerina chuckles, the unnerving sound wipes my expression clean. “Strap him in,” she instructs.

  I watch with rapt attention as the guy voluntarily walks to the table, hops on, then lays back and folds his palms behind his head.

  This is a first.

  When Baldy and Katerina stare at him blankly, he looks up. “Well?”

  Katerina’s mouth curves, and she snatches up her notepad again. With her gaze and her pen locked on the paper, she mutters, “You heard the boy.”

  After buckling the restraints without facing a hint of a struggle, Baldy scratches his scalp and turns to leave.

  “Hey,” Katerina calls, “bring me a chair, won’t you?” Her gaze drifts back to the table. “I have a feeling this one might put me through some hoops.”

  The new guy, staring straight up at the ceiling, grins—fucking grins.

  I get the feeling a few hoop tricks is the least of what Katerina has to look forward to.

  “All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water.

  And that’s the tragedy of living.”

  —Iain Thomas

  “This will be your closet for now, okay?” Stella asks as she hangs the final dress in the smaller of two closets. My stomach tightens at the simple question.

  My closet. In his room.

  I let out a breath and nod.

  When I went to find Aubrey in the spa, Stella had been down there too, and she insisted on showing me to Adam’s room herself. As it turns out, the brothers’ quarters are on the main floor like ours, except they’re on the east end.

  “Well, then.” She slides the closet shut before turning to me, clasping her hands in a way that reminds me of Raife. “I’ll leave you to it. If there’s anything you need, let me or Aubrey know. All right?”

  “Okay.”

  After she exits, she pokes her head back inside. “And remember, you’ve had a big day. It’s important to get your beauty sleep.” She pauses. “That is, if he lets you.” Before I have time to respond, she gives a little wave and disappears behind the door.

  With my feet stuck to the floor, I gulp as her words echo in my head.

  If he lets you.

  Adam Matthews, I am officially his.

  To serve.

  To please.

  To be at his mercy.

  I bite my lip as I wonder . . . what will it be like? Thoughts of earlier today come rushing back—his gaze burning mine, his warm body beneath my palms, strong hand working between my thighs.

  Icy guilt stabs me when a heat wave floods my body. I shouldn’t feel the way I do. I shouldn’t be interested in anything other than finding Frankie. But knowing that isn’t enough to make it stop.

  I want Adam.

  Not just his hand, not just his body; a craving, new and unfamiliar, is gnawing deep within my core for him—his shadows and his secrets, the hidden caves inside his mind.

  It�
��s twisted, and it’s sinful, and it’s everything Mama says I am.

  My eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the scolding voice I always hear.

  I just need a closer look. A deeper taste. A little touch.

  My eyes snap open.

  With a shaky exhale and sweaty palms, I walk backwards toward the bed, Adam’s bed, jumping when the backs of my knees brush its coldness.

  I’m supposed to be here for Frankie.

  Not for my own dark temptations.

  I wipe my palms on my nighty and finally let my gaze absorb my surroundings. The room is slightly bigger than the one I was given, but it’s still modest for a mansion. It smells of fresh linens with a hint of his aftershave. A large black rug sprawls across the white tiles, and a single rectangular dresser sits along the wall beside the bathroom.

  I flick my gaze from corner to corner, looking for any personal touches, but there are none. A splash of black fabric dangling off the side of the laundry hamper is the only sign someone lives here.

  Slowly, I turn and glance at the bed stretched out before me. It’s big enough to fit at least six people. The differences between this place and my trailer greet me at every turn, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. The color scheme, though, I could get used to. Reaching forward, I run my fingers along the cool, smooth material of the comforter. It’s cold, just like the rest of the room, and perfectly made, not a wrinkle nor crease in sight.

  My eyelids are heavy as exhaustion rolls through me.

  Stella was right. I’ve had a long twenty-four hours, and standing in this silent, dark room, I’m beginning to feel every minute again. I let out a breath and look toward the door. There’s no way to tell how long it will be before he arrives.

  I wonder what’s expected of me. Am I supposed to wait for him before I lie down? Do I draw a bath, undress, light candles? I shake my head. None of those things feel right for a man like Adam.

  Not that I’ve known any men like Adam.

  After a moment, I wander to the closets and peek inside the smaller one first, not really looking at the dresses or lingerie before my eyes. I’m stalling, my nerves tight, trying to build the courage to open his. I don’t know why it feels so wrong to snoop around his personal space when I didn’t think twice about the rest of the house, and yet it’s there—an undercurrent of uncertainty, danger, even a twinge of fear.