Page 30

“I said back the fuck off,” Malachi warned, his eyes black with proprietary rage. “She’s registered for the main stage. The contract is logged in the third-act ledger. You touch her before the audience sees her bleed on my altar, and the House will strip the skin off your back for the stage curtains.”

Rook didn’t flinch. He reached out with lightning speed, his heavy fingers locking around Malachi’s throat, slamming him back into the wall. Malachi didn’t hesitate; the blade at his hip flashed in the dim pink light, the steel tip pressing hard against the soft flesh under Rook’s jaw.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them yielded. They stood locked in a vicious, silent standoff, two monsters disputing ownership of the meat caught between them.

“Contracts can be broken if the Hound claims the kill first,” Rook said softly, tightening his grip until it forced a rasp from Malachi’s throat. “I take her down to the cells, break her over an iron bench, and tell The House she died resisting the breach protocol.”

“You could try,” Malachi choked out, a cruel, mocking smile breaking across his bloodless lips. “Except The House witnessed the stage bargain. Her blood is already promised to the altar. You take her now, you violate the primary rite. You know what the entity does to Freaks who steal its offerings.”

The air between them grew cold. Black condensation began dripping down the plaster walls, the House asserting its claim over the dispute.

I crossed my arms, looking between the two of them with all the acid I could summon. “If you two are done measuring dicks in the hallway, let me know which one I need to stab so we can keep moving.”

Rook’s eyes shifted down to me, dark amusement flickering behind the slits. “Sharp tongue. I like that.”

The supernatural pressure in the corridor spiked, a sudden, violent crack running down the ceiling between them as the House signaled its impatience. The stage contract took precedence over the open hunt, and Rook felt the pull of the command grinding against his ribs.

Slowly, Rook released Malachi’s throat and stepped back. Malachi lowered the blade, though his knuckles remained white around the hilt.

“The stage only buys you an hour, Malachi,” Rook said, his rough voice dropping lower. “Once the curtain falls and the crowd gets their show, she’s back in the open corridor. And I’m going to run her until her knees bleed.”

Rook turned back to me, leaning close enough for the cold metal of his muzzle to brush the curve of my jaw. “Remember my face, little flower. When the lights go out, run as fast as you can. I like the ones who fight before they break.”

Before I could answer, Rook spun on his heel and melted into the shadows, his heavy steps silent as he vanished down the dark stairs toward the lower level.

Chapter 6

Zinnia

“JADED” BY SPIRITBOX

Rook’s heavy boots retreated into the gloom, but the vibration of his departure lingered in the floorboards like an idling engine. Before vanishing around the iron staircase, the Hound dragged the serrated tip of his leather claw along the mortar between the bricks, gouging a deep, jagged furrow at eye level. A black, oily discharge seeped from the score mark, steaming faintly in the chill air. A territorial boundary. A promise that the corridor still belonged to his hunt the second the stage curtain dropped.

Malachi didn’t look at the mark. His fingers dug deeper into the meat of my upper arm, wrenching me around with enough force to make my ribs ache. The veins in his neck were corded tight, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath the pale skin of his cheek.

“Move,” he snapped, his voice rough and venomous.

“It looked like your dog almost slipped his collar,” I muttered, planting my feet for half a second to force him to drag me. “Must be embarrassing, needing House rules to keep your own pets from tearing your throat out.”

Malachi shoved me ahead of him into the narrow passage, his free hand resting heavy and menacing on the hilt of his sheathed blade. “Rook isn’t a pet. He’s a blunt instrument that executes what the House commands. And if you think I invoked the primary rite to protect your delicate skin, you’re stupider than you look.”

“You did it because you’re greedy. You want to be the one holding the knife.”

“Damn right.” His mouth brushed my ear as he crowded me against the damp brick, his breath burning hot against my temple. “The Hound breaks bones and leaves carcasses in the drainage chutes. I have an audience waiting, hundreds of witnesses ready to pay in blood and secrets, and an altar that needs a fresh offering. You belong on my stage, little flower. Nowhere else.”

He propelled me past the flickering hot-pink sconces, dragging me toward a rusted service elevator tucked behind a false wall. We bypassed the sealed red door at the end of the hall, though the low, vibrating thrum behind the wood seemed to follow us, a suffocating pulse that matched the frantic cadence of my heart. Dahlia’s scream had faded, but the memory of her voice clung to the back of my throat like ash.

Malachi hauled me up a narrow, perforated-iron spiral staircase. At the landing, he shoved open a reinforced oak door and pulled me into a chaotic backstage labyrinth that smelled of greasepaint, scorched dust, damp wool, and copper.

Costume racks choked the narrow hall, heavy velvet cloaks brushing against leather harnesses and stained linen smocks. Freaks and masked handlers drifted through the shadows, their eyes darting toward Malachi before immediately dropping to the floor. Nobody dared challenge him here, but every glance lingered on me with predatory curiosity.

He stopped outside an iron-plated door stenciled with PREPARATION ROOM 3 and kicked it open.

Harsh tungsten lighting bounced off a wide wall of fractured mirrors. A long wooden vanity sat covered in jars of cold cream, silver pins, vials of dark tinctures, and shears. Two women in high-collared black dresses stood beside an elevated dressing chair, waiting. Their faces were pale, their hair scraped back into severe buns, their hands clasped tightly in front of their aprons.

“Thirty minutes,” Malachi ordered, tossing me toward the center of the room. I caught the back of the heavy chair to steady myself. “Dress her in ceremonial white. The porcelain mask stays on. If she tries to run, break her fingers. When the third chime strikes, bring her to the stage left wing.”

The taller woman, her fingers trembling slightly, dipped her head. “Yes, sir.”