A Dance Macabre (Perverse City #1)

51. Mercy

51

MERCY

T he small velvet string purse I’m clutching in my fist burns a hole into my palm, the ridges and edges of what’s inside reminding me of what I’ve set off to do tonight.

I hate it.

I’m a nervous wreck.

My gait is stiff as I stalk through the enfilade, hoping to find Wolfgang in our bedchamber.

When we returned from our time at Vainglory Tower two days ago, he promptly had all of his belongings moved into the ruler’s quarters without a word of explanation. I must admit that I was relieved that there was at least some progress being made.

Something shifted between us after the Hall of Mirrors, especially in Wolfgang’s demeanor. Although we have spent time alone since—reading in the library, soaking in the bathhouse—he’s kept mostly silent, evidently still waiting for my damned apology.

Entering the bedchamber, I notice the French doors leading out to the balcony are ajar, Wolfgang’s silhouette beyond it.

My heart flies into my throat.

I swiftly turn around and take a large step out of the room. I stop myself from going any further. I curse under my breath. Swivel back around. My steps stutter, and I nearly let out a loud shriek at how embarrassing I’m acting.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep inhale. I focus back on the open balcony door on my exhale and straighten my spine.

It’s pouring rain outside, the scent of muddy earth rising from the ground and wafting around me even from this high up. Most of the balcony is covered, and Wolfgang sits on one of the large cushioned seats sheltered from the downpour, his back to me.

Smoke lazily curls around his head, a cigarette hanging from his long fingers, his wrist reposing on the armrest.

I’ve begun to familiarize myself with his habits; he only smokes when he’s in a pensive mood.

Thinking the heavy rain is concealing my furtive steps, my stomach flips when Wolfgang’s head turns to the side, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

I stop dead in my tracks as if I’ve been caught, my fist gripping the string purse even harder into my palm.

When I don’t move, Wolfgang reaches for the ashtray and stubs his cigarette out before sitting back in his seat. He keeps his head facing the cityscape, but his arm stretches out to the side, his palm up, slowly uncurling his fingers as if silently beckoning me to him.

He pulls on the invisible string.

I’m tugged forward.

Just a few steps and I’m standing in front of him.

His attention lingers on my tight fist and the small velvet pouch spilling out of it. He says nothing, his eyes sweeping up my body to meet my anxious gaze.

His smile is warm but distant.

Taking my free hand in his, he pulls me into his lap. I don’t resist. Not even a little bit. I welcome his embrace as I slide my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder, staring out into the rainy sky. He wraps an arm around my waist and pushes out a pleased sigh, the drum of the rain feeling meditative as he caresses my hair and down my arm.

We stay silent for what feels like an eternity.

It’s barely a few minutes.

But every moment feels like a lifetime with Wolfgang.

He’s the first to break the silence, his voice hoarse when he speaks. “What’s in your hand, my ruin?”

The dread returns like a tight noose around my neck. I almost throw the damned thing over the balcony.

Trying to create distance between us, I pull away, hoping to find a seat of my own—or run away, I’m not quite sure yet—but Wolfgang pins me to him, his arm locking around my body.

I huff loudly and avoid eye contact as a form of protest.

His low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Is it something for me?” he asks, trying to reach for it but I pull my hand away. “Mercy,” he warns, his warm palm squeezing my naked thigh teasingly.

I swallow hard. Find his seeking gaze.

“It’s something for us,” I finally admit softly.

His brows jump up. “Oh?”

I stare into his eyes, wishing words weren’t so important.

“I—” My voice sticks in my throat. Sighing, I look away. He gives me another squeeze as if coaxing me on. I turn back to face him.

“I’m so sorry, Wolfgang,” I whisper. His body tightens underneath me … almost as if he never thought he’d hear those words from me. “I apologize,” I continue, my chest feeling heavy, “Please forgive me — I need you to forgive me. I can’t take it a second longer.”

I feel faint, my heart battering against my ribcage, and I’ve never despised silence more than I do right now. Wolfgang conceals a small grin as he studies me, his palm smoothing up and down my thigh.

“What’s in your hand, Mercy?” he repeats.

I feel outraged. “Did you not hear me?” I say gruffly. I once again try to leave his lap to no avail.

“I heard you,” he rasps, “I want to know what’s inside that pouch first.”

“Why?” I ask petulantly, my heart racing so fast I think I might be having a heart attack.

“Indulge me,” he urges.

Unceremoniously, I drop it on my lap between us and give him a quirk of the eyebrow signaling that he can pick it up himself.

He doesn’t conceal his victorious grin this time, and I find it especially hard not to smile in return. He takes his arm away from my waist and delicately opens the string purse. His hand disappears inside before reemerging with two necklaces between his fingers.

Both are made of a thin gold chain, a small engraved vial hanging from each of them.

“The vials contain a mixture of our blood,” I blurt out nervously.

Wolfgang’s fingers curl into a fist, the chains still in his hard grasp, his burning gaze blazing a hole right through me.

I nearly lose my courage all over again.

I somehow find the strength to soldier on.

“I had Tinny make them for us, one has my initials and the other yours. I thought we could—” Everything in me wants to look away. Run. Hide. Anything but this. I can barely manage to push the words out. “I thought we could exchange them at our wedding.”

Wolfgang’s expression brightens, turning boyish, and a weight suddenly lifts from my shoulders.

“Our wedding?” he says, his voice silky with hope.

“I want you to be my husband,” I say, looking into the distance, trying my best to act unbothered. “If you forgive me, that is.”

Wolfgang’s laugh is dark and deviant as his hand finds my cheek, turning my head back to face him. His thumb smooths over my lips before he presses a soft kiss to them. Pulling away, he gazes deeply into my eyes, his thumb still caressing my cheek in small circles.

“To forgive you is to love you,” he finally says.

My breath hitches in my throat.

The silence lingers.

“And do you?” I ask quietly, not sure to which statement I’m asking for an answer.

He smiles wide, revealing the gold of his canine.

“I do.”