flying around the yard like she’s searching for a hidden camera. “But you—you took me out. You came to see me—why did you do that?” Her voice is high and thin, like she can’t get a full breath. Neither can I.
“You have a killer body, sweetheart. I wanted to fuck you. That’s it.”
And I’ll be damned, damned for all eternity, because fresh hope lights her eyes. She steps back into the ring. “If you do, then maybe—”
“Fuck, Bethany.” I grab for her, hooking one hand around the back of her neck and yanking her in close. This is my one concession. I’m going to take this one thing like the selfish fucking bastard that I am. I can feel her hope and hesitation through the palm of my hand. I’m cutting her as deep as I know how, and she’s still holding out hope. Lowering my mouth to her ear, I take one last breath of her. “Do you honestly think your pussy is worth that much?”
Bethany’s shoulders sag, a half-sob escaping her, and she pulls herself back. Her hands go to her stomach, and she presses in on some invisible stab wound. “Stop.” There’s almost no voice behind the word, only breath. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true.” I taunt her even though the words scorch my throat. “Little Bethany Lewis thinks her precious pussy is worth committing treason for. That I’d give up turning in one of the nation’s worst criminals for a mediocre fuck. As if I even wanted that.” She shakes her head wordlessly. No, no, no. “Yes. You’re not even worth a fuck to me.” I shiver like the thought disgusts me. “Your body is nothing special. You can turn in your music box all you want, but you’ll never be anything more than the sister of a criminal. A poor little wretch, clawing for scraps. That’s you, Bethany. That will always be you. And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.”
I can’t believe I’m still drawing air into my lungs. I can’t believe the universe hasn’t struck me down. I can’t believe I’m still standing.
Bethany swallows hard. The moon shines brighter than a floodlight, so I get a front-row seat to every moment of the pain I’m causing her. Her fists shake against her belly. For a terrible moment I think she might really have a knife sprouting from her skin. I would believe it if my barbed words had become barbed metal.
It’s fucking unbearable. This is it. This is the thing that breaks me. That shatters my spine and leaves me broken at her feet. I’ve survived all this time only to tear myself apart in the name of some fucked-up need to remain invulnerable.
Bethany straightens up.
It’s slow and painful. It’s all I can do not to reach out to her.
Even in her agony, she can’t shed her inherent grace. When she’s at her full height, she looks up at me. It doesn’t matter that I’m bigger and stronger and mean to the core. The look she levels me with is beyond all of that. It’s the look of a queen passing final judgment on behalf of her realm. The wind goes silent around us. The babble of the creek in its low bed ceases. Everything on the earth bows before her.
Everything except me.
She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m the heretic. I’m as much under her command as the clouds above us and the grass below. So it feels worse than exile when she pronounces my sentence.
One word, and one word only. She delivers it looking deeply into my eyes. Bethany lets her silvery tears run free down her cheeks, but her jaw doesn’t shake, and her voice is clear. The penalty for what I’ve done is nonnegotiable. There is no room for interpretation. No going back.
“Leave.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The dancing plague of 1518 was a case of dancing mania that occurred in modern day France. Around four hundred people, mostly female, danced for days without rest, some of whom died from heart attack, stroke and exhaustion. Modern theories for the mania include food poisoning or stress-induced psychosis.
Bethany, five years ago
The swing creaks underneath me while I sway back and forth in the dark. The rusty chains dig into my palms. This thing is a death trap. I could get tetanus or something. But it probably doesn’t matter, because I already feel dead.
Dead for days. Dead for the rest of my life. Dead, dead, dead.
Or at least empty, which is as good