I rise from the corpse like a goddess made of ruin, blood painting my thighs, my chest, my lips. The crowd gasps. Some cry. One woman faints. Two men come.

And I?

I lick the blood from my knife and blow a kiss to the altar, and that’s when I see him.

He’s not moaning.

Not touching himself.

Not flinching.

Tall. Dark-haired. Fur pelt draped over his shoulders like royalty. Tight black jeans, combat boots. Kohl around his eyes. Pale hands clasped in front of him like he’s at a funeral. Like he’s waiting for me.

And he’s smiling.

Watching.

Oh.

Now that’s interesting.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t moan. Doesn’t even blink at the mess I’ve made of the red-band beneath me. Just stands there like he belongs to the blood, like it’s his tent and we’re all just lucky to be in it.

I tilt my head, licking a streak of gore from my knuckles, and flash him a grin.

Game on, beautiful.

“Not bad,” a familiar voice purrs beside me. “A little theatrical, but you always did love a climax and a corpse.”

I turn with a bloody laugh, spotting Indie strolling toward me like a dominatrix dropped straight from the gods. She’s glowing in crimson leather, whip coiled at her hip, eyes lined in black and rimmed with heat.

“Guilty,” I say, twirling my dagger between two fingers. “You know I like ‘em screaming.”

“I saw. So did everyone else.”

She raises a brow, glancing down at the puddle of blood and other fluids leaking from the altar.

“Was he any good?”

“He came like a choirboy and bled like a sacrifice.” I shrug. “Ten outta ten. Would kill again.”

She laughs, low and dark.

We walk together through the firelight, both of us slick with red, bones crunching beneath our boots, torch smoke clinging to our hair like perfume.

“Gods, I missed this,” Indie mutters, voice lower now. “The smell. The screams. The sex. Makes me feel alive.”

“Makes me feel divine,” I say, spinning once in the center of the tent like a dancer drunk on death. “This is the only place that ever felt like home.”

She nods, quiet for a beat, eyes scanning the carnage around us.

One man is being branded with hot iron runes while begging to come. Another is being strung up by his ankles, his thighs slick with blood and candle wax. Someone else moans loud enough to drown out the drums.

“Think they’ll remember us?” Indie asks suddenly.

I grin, teeth bared, dragging my fingers through the blood on my chest like it’s lotion.

“They’ll be dead,” I purr. “But I’m sure they’ll curse us from whatever hell we send them to.”

We stop at the edge of the ring, gazes drawn once again to the mysterious man in the fur pelt.