CHAPTER 33

I wear chains, both literally and figuratively. My top is nothing but a black corset laced up the front with a thin silver chain. I had to heat the metal and solder it together myself. The irony is not lost on me. All my own choices led me here, even if I made some of them based on half-truths and lies. Sometimes I imagine myself back in the moment Deb offered to adopt us. I would smile this time. It wouldn’t be real, of course, but I would try it out anyway. Sometimes if you live in an illusion long enough, it becomes reality. You forget the strings to your own trick.

I sigh, running a hand across my heavy skirt made of black taffeta and chains that clank from my waist, falling in uneven lengths toward my feet. I can’t run in this. I can barely move. My heart beats unevenly at the sensation of being trapped in my own clothes. Lucius ordered this dress—maybe to remind me who is in control. He also ordered Reina to help put me in it.

I ignored her as she worked. Some cruel part of me enjoyed watching her squirm in my silence. When I arrived here, these people opened me, helped me become a softer version of myself. Now I’m colder and harder than ever.

Ethan stands ten feet to my right, dressed in a white suit again, although this time his shirt, vest, and tie are orange, green, and pink. His hand brushes Natasha’s arm.

He catches me staring and glares.

I turn away. I wonder if she loves him or if she’s pulling his strings the way Xander pulled mine.

Doesn’t matter. Either way, we’re both here, waiting below on platforms that will carry us up when the time comes. We will be lifted onto the stage, and these killers will decide which of us to let into their sick cult.

Heavy footsteps approach behind me, weighted with more than just his tall frame. I recognize the extra weight as sorrow now. Roman comes around to stand in front of me. His eyes drift, briefly, to my overexposed chest before darting to my face.

“I know.” I grimace.

“No.” He clears his throat. “I don’t think you do.”

My face flushes, and he turns his attention to my knives, busying himself with pulling them from the sheaths at my wrists and checking the points.

“I sharpened them this morning.” It’s become my ritual—a way to deaden my mind from anything besides the tip of my blade. Roman keeps checking anyway. Always overprepared.

He hesitates at my long skirt.

“They’re there.” I know he won’t lift the hem to check them, so I add, “They’re sharp.”

He nods, then finally meets my gaze, holding it so long that I fidget with a chain, clanking it against the others.