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A second sound followed—a wet, tearing impact, then dead silence.
She didn’t move. Instead, her fingers clamped onto my left wrist.
Everything in me stopped.
Her nails dug into my skin right above the iron cuff. No guest had ever laid a hand on me. Thousands paid to watch me restrained under the lights, but nobody crossed the line. Nobody touched the freaks.
She did.
Her gaze dropped to her hand on my arm, then rose to meet my gray eyes. She didn’t let go.
“That was her,” she said. “That was my sister.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
I stared down at her. At the stubborn set of her jaw. Her fingers dug into my wrist like she thought she could hold me in place. Like she thought she had any control here.
“You have no idea what you just did,” I said.
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
Heavy footsteps broke the silence down the hall.
Boot leather against concrete. Slow, heavy, and dragging.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then a low, off-key whistle echoed through the dark. A broken tune dragged out through rotting teeth.
I grabbed her by the waist and yanked her behind my back in one motion, slamming her against my spine.
“What are you—”
“Shut up.”
The whistling stopped.
Dead silence filled the corridor.
“You’re supposed to be onstage,” a raspy voice called from the gloom ahead. Thick and wet.
I stared into the dark. “And you’re supposed to be dead.”
A dry chuckle rattled down the hallway, echoing off the iron pipes.
Behind me, the woman’s hand gripped my wrist tighter. Her breath was hot and fast against my bare back.
“Who is that?” she whispered.
I reached behind me and caught her fingers, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “Remember calling me a freak?”
