Dancing in the Dark

by T. L. Martin

  I’ve always painted pictures of them, skulls and other . . . parts. I paint them just as I recall. There are no peacock feathers. No perfectly proportioned streaks decorating their cheekbones. There is white, and there is red, and there are black bursts of agony hiding behind the oily remnants of flesh that were stripped from them.

  Watching that reporter, the images, I just wanted it to stop. I was ready to tear the cord straight from the wall if I had to. Batshit Betsy wouldn’t have it. “Hate me if you wanna, but you can’t ignore these things forever.”

  She wasn’t done at that either. She went on and on about Mama and Katerina, even when I covered my ears with my hands.

  “Never know what you’re gonna get with a closed adoption, you know. The family just wasn’t ever the same after Katerina, ‘specially Agnes. Two of my cats went missing when they were kids, and I swear to this day it was that woman who did somethin’ to ‘em. Shame, really, to see a brilliant mind weighed down by so much evil. Her poetry was dark, I s’pose, but it was music to my soul. Matter o’ fact, she won contests ‘round here for years.”

  Ugh. I jab the window button until fresh air whips at my face, and I close my eyes.

  I don’t want to know Katerina. I don’t want to remember that the only mother who ever told me she loved me was such a horrifying person.

  I do, however, have hopes of getting to know Sofia better.

  One day.

  “Hey, you all right?”

  Dazed, I turn to face Aubrey, who has one hand on the steering wheel and the other hanging out the window.

  “We can drive around a little if you want. I’m sure the boys will survive without us a bit longer.”

  The boys.

  Adam.

  Oh god. Did he have to watch that, too? Is he still watching it now, those images flashing in his eyes, that reporter’s voice drilling into his ears?

  I chew on my lip and shake my head. “No. I have to see him.” I have to hold him. I need him to hold me. I haven’t been able to shake the ache for him since I walked away with bitter words on my tongue. And now . . . god, now, it hurts so much worse.

  “Wait—” Aubrey slows the vehicle, focused on something outside her window. “Is that . . . Is that Adam? He’s outside?”

  I lean forward to see past her, squinting through the sun. Adam is bent forward, one hand on his thigh and the other rubbing the back of his neck.

  I’m unbuckled and out of the car before it comes to a full stop. “Adam!”

  My eyes burn at the sight of him. I’ve never seen him like this, and I don’t think I can take it. I race across the street and slide my fingers into his damp hair.

  His eyes are wild when they lock on me, unhinged and desperate. My heart stutters at the look alone. I take his hand, and I’m about to pull him toward the inn when I spot the rays of sun seeping past the glass windows, reflecting on the floor.

  Darting a glance back at the car’s blacked-out windows, I jerk my head across the street. “Come on.” He doesn’t move at first, his posture tense, muscles straining against his shirt. I step close enough to press my body against his and curl my arm around his torso. My voice is stronger than I feel. “Come with me, Adam.”

  When he steps forward, I breathe a sigh of relief and guide him toward the car.

  I need him to be okay.

  I need him.

  Aubrey slips out of the vehicle, leaving the keys in the ignition, just as I get him settled into the backseat. I pull the door shut and climb onto his lap so I’m straddling him, then cup his face in my hands.

  “It’s okay,” I breathe, leaning forward and softly pressing my lips to his forehead, his cheek—careful to avoid his lips. We haven’t kissed, and even though I want to so badly it hurts, I won’t make him cross that boundary. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  His gaze trails along my face as if he’s making a mental map of every curve, every freckle. “Emmy,” he croaks, his voice rough like he hasn’t spoken in days.

  “I’m here,” I whisper. For you, I’ll always be here.

  When his large palm covers my hand and squeezes, I inch closer.

  The longer I stare, the more I get lost in him. His expression is so pained, his muscles tensing against me and his skin burning hot. “You left me,” he rasps, his grip finding my waist and pulling me in tight. “I don’t know why I can’t—I can’t fucking breathe—”

  “Shh . . .” I tilt his chin up and run my tongue across the thumping pulse in his neck. A swallow moves down his throat. Bringing my lips to his ear, I tangle my hands in his hair. “I couldn’t leave you if I tried. Don’t you know that? You’re a part of me now. You’ve always been a part of me.”

  A tremble vibrates from his body to mine, like a tangible current in our souls. It’s the most divine thing I’ve ever felt. Without thinking, I lean back, lift my hand, and drag my fingernails down my upper arm the way I once did to him. Specks of crimson illuminate my skin, seeping from my wound as if pulled toward him.

  He lets out a broken groan as he stares, mesmerized.

  “Do you see it?” I whisper, running a finger over my cut and tracing it down his warm neck. He wears me like I was made for him. “Do you see yourself in me?”

  His eyes squeeze shut, his fingers slipping to my hips and digging into me like he can’t get me close enough. When his breathing gets hard, rough, he grinds me against him. A warm flutter zips between my thighs. He’s just trying to close the gap, but I want more. Doesn’t he know I want everything?

  And in return, I’ll give him all of me.

  I grab the bottom of my dress, sliding it a few inches up until it’s over my hips, then I wiggle and slip my panties off. His eyes snap open. He grits his jaw, his gaze trailing down my bare skin and leaving a shiver wherever it lands. But he doesn’t make a move to touch me. His body is stiff, and I wonder if he even can right now. Slowly, I reach between us and work his zipper.

  We watch each other for a long minute, all the things I want to say to him racing through my head. I don’t know how to be sentimental. Not aloud anyway. Maybe that’s my biggest secret of all. Sometimes the feelings in my heart feel too large and delicate to release into the world. Sometimes it’s easier to say everything and nothing all at once.

  Can I keep you? I silently ask from below my lashes, with nothing more than a heavy swallow.

  Leaning closer, I blow on his skin and drag my nose against his stubble. I slide my palm to his chest. A solid thump, thump, thump races beneath my hand.

  Will you let me into that place so deep your darkest secrets hide with ease?

  The air thickens between us. Soon it’s a sweltering stream of sunshine coating our bodies. When I pull back and his gaze flicks between mine, there’s something I’ve never seen before. It’s exposed and vulnerable. It makes my chest pang in a way I’ve never felt. My lips part to breathe it in, and I swear I get high on Adam Matthews.

  A shaky breath pours from his mouth, like he hears every word I can’t speak. Lifting his hips, he tugs his pants down. He tilts his head, skims his lips over my open wound. Then he presses his mouth to it so gently a tender ache swells inside my heart.

  He’s inviting me in during his most exposed moment. Warmth seeps into my soul. For a moment, I’m lighter than someone so capable of darkness should be allowed.

  I curl my hands around his neck. Then I lower myself onto him. My eyes flutter shut as he fills every inch of me. An agonized groan tears through him, and he angles his head to look at me. His hands find my ass and squeeze, but instead of keeping them there, he brings them higher, higher, until he’s cupping my face. He never breaks his gaze as I grind delicious circles, and my heart skips at the intimacy of it.

  I’ve never been held like this during sex. I never expected something so small to be like an anchor keeping me bound to him.

  After a second, I quicken my pace, and he drags one hand down to grip the nape of my neck; the other finds my waist. A long tremor ripples through
his body, and hell, everything about him feels so good. Mewls spill from my lips, one after the next, as the sensations build and build with every roll of my hips.

  When I find his eyes, they’re hooded and consumed with raw hunger.

  God, lust is scorching hot on him.

  Throwing my head back, I grip his shoulders and ride him hard. Greedier than I’ve ever been. A rough noise rips through his chest, and he raises his hips, thrusting deep enough to make me gasp.

  Soon, his hands drift to my hair, and he pulls my face to his. My rhythm slows, each movement more satisfying than the last. His eyes are intense as he holds me so close our parted lips brush. My breath fills his mouth, and he inhales each exhale like he needs them to survive.

  And I think he might.

  I think we both might.

  It’s gradual the way ecstasy grips me this time, rolling through me in long, full waves. My nails dig into his shoulders, and moans fill the car as I ride him faster, chasing every drop of it.

  He pulls my lower lip into his mouth, his hands guiding my ass and grinding my clit against him just right.

  “Shit. Adam.”

  “Fuck.” He slams into me, curling his arms around my shoulders and pumping so deep shockwaves clench my core, one after the other.

  I scream out at the same time a ragged groan tears through him, his muscles trembling beneath my touch. My eyes fall shut as tingles spread to my core and disperse down my thighs. I collapse against him.

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe against his damp neck, every muscle in my body spent and satisfied.

  His chest pounds against my own, his breathing heavy. His hand grips my hair, and he tilts my head back so I’m looking at him. We stare at each other, his brows puckered and his eyes tortured, and I don’t understand.

  It takes a long minute for my heart rate to slow. “Adam.” I swallow, my gaze bouncing between his eyes and his lips. “Why are you looking at me like tha—”

  He crushes his lips against mine, his tongue plunging into my mouth and tangling with my own. Devouring me, he steals my breath with every stroke. Tingles sizzle down my skin, my hands shooting to his hair and grabbing, tugging, twisting.

  His kiss is carnal, desperate, and filled with all the torment I saw in his eyes. Tilting my head, I take everything he gives me, and I give him more.

  When he finally tears his mouth from mine, it’s to trace open, hungry kisses along my jaw and down my neck. “I think—” His rough voice vibrates against my throat, his arms curling around my waist and gripping me like nothing else exists. “I think I—fuck, I love you, Emmy.”

  My heart thunders in my chest, and a thousand somersaults flip in my stomach. His words sink into my bones, filling my veins with heat as I rewind them in my head over and over.

  Leaning back, I cradle his jaw in my hands. His eyes pierce through me, layers of vulnerability hiding behind the torment, and his chest goes still like he can’t breathe without my response.

  “Yeah,” I finally whisper, my words broken with emotion. “I fucking love you, too.”

  He swallows, his eyes darkening while my words hang in the air, and I curl into his chest. He holds me like that for a long time. So long that my eyes, prickling with tears, flutter shut.

  Pressure builds and vibrates under my skin. It’s strong enough that I’m sure it’s not meant for just one person to contain.

  He grips me tighter, and I nuzzle my nose against his neck.

  We have everything we need to survive.

  “Everyone wishes to ascend.

  But it is through the descent that you see the truth up close.”

  —Maya Luna

  I squeeze my fingers around Adam’s, so tight they ache. He doesn’t stop me.

  Maybe he knows I need this small, tangible thing right now. Maybe he needs it too.

  Dirt and dried leaves crunch beneath our feet, protesting each step. Even the land urges us to leave. Miles of trees surround us, long and thin and casting shadows in all directions as though trying to frighten us away. The clouds are grey and murky above our heads, the sun nowhere in sight; at least it’s one piece of nature that’s accommodating us. Soft drops of water fall to the ground and decorate our skin. It should be beautiful.

  If we were anywhere else, it would be.

  It’s been four months since the news on Misha was released. I haven’t been tracking the stories, yet versions of our past follow us everywhere.

  For a while, we received unsolicited articles at the inn where we were staying. We knew Raife was forwarding them to us because the signed Sofia in his handwriting at the bottom gave him away. When he realized Adam and Felix were able to figure out his and Stella’s location no matter how many times they moved, I think he got cold feet because he sent a postcard. From the North Pole. With a picture of cold feet. There was a note, too, but it was a single line, and it wasn’t meant for me. Not directly, anyway. Fate always finds those who run from it. For now, goodbye my old brother and friend.

  We haven’t heard from him since. But even without Raife, Misha is everywhere. Civilians still talk about it, spreading rumors with hushed whispers and disapproving eyes. Like it’s something they read in a celebrity gossip magazine.

  I heard the woman drowned her daughter so they could die together, like some final poetic act.

  I’ll tell you something, people these days are too trusting. It’s exactly why I never go anywhere without my 9mm.

  It’s a conspiracy. There are entire societies, secret dungeons in every city, waiting to take our kids even now. We’ll never be safe again.

  Can you believe they’re calling him the Ghost of Misha? Naming and praising the person responsible for all those disappearances like he’s some sort of hero?

  A murderer is what he is. Just as guilty as the rest of them. For all we know, he was one of them.

  Then there are the posters, flowers, peacock feathers, and other offerings adorning tree trunks and abandoned buildings all throughout the states. Some of them pray their gift is enough to keep their loved ones safe. Others give thanks to the Ghost of Misha for protecting them and their children. Then there are those that anonymously praise Misha for their ‘brilliant’ and ‘transcending’ art. I get sick to my stomach every time I spot the latter. I’m just grateful Adam doesn’t have to see them.

  There are days he goes out, like today, when the sun is hiding and I’m at his side. But every day is a journey for the both of us, a slow and intimate dance. I’m reveling in each intoxicating step we take together.

  I angle my head to stare at the man walking beside me. His footfalls are long, his jaw set, and his intense gaze focused straight ahead. His shirt sleeves are folded up, revealing the tendons bulging in his forearms. His hair is damp, wild, and falling into his eyes.

  The Ghost of Misha.

  He shows me that side of him every minute of every day, whether intentionally or not. It lives in the shadows beneath his eyes. In the electricity that zings through me when his fingers brush mine. The way he curls his large hands around my smaller ones when I hold his knife. Each act breathes life into the darkest and brightest pieces of me.

  My feet halt, and I suck in a breath when we reach a worn picket fence.

  It’s a garden.

  Come to my garden.

  A pang strikes my chest.

  I know this spot as intimately as I know her song. But it’s not easy sorting out the scattered images in my mind.

  I flick my gaze all around, resting a hand on the fence’s splintered wood to keep my wobbly legs from giving out. I can feel it, the way the sunrays warmed my skin when I sat right there, within reach of where I stand now. I’d be alone for hours at a time, sometimes longer, while Katerina disappeared beneath the garden. Once, when she returned for me, she sat in a bed of roses, and she held me. Her blue eyes sparkled, reflecting the kind of love I would later ache for from Mama. Then, Katerina sang. I sank into her, and she stroked the side of my face, leaving smooth, red stains on my
cheek, in my hair. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, the lifeless body maybe five feet behind her, but I was too busy soaking up any attention I could get to try to care, or try to understand.

  How sick it is that a garden hiding years of torment feels more like home than Mama’s house ever did. It looks different than I remember, though. An old friend, childhood ghost story, and total stranger all rolled into one.

  There are no more colorful flowers dancing in the wind. No butterflies to sparkle in the sunlight as they watch me come and go. Now, weeds overtake the stone pathway I used to follow when she led me to the cottage for bath time. Thick vines climb up the cottage walls at the garden’s center. Full bushes bleed into one another. And forgotten waste, pieces of wood and broken pipes, are piled up.

  The place is as dead and as alive as my mother is.

  “You can change your mind.” Adam shoves his hands into his pockets, staring down at me through squinted eyes. Raindrops slide down his olive skin, from his jaw to his neck, and disappear beneath his undone collar. “All you have to do,” he says lowly, “is walk away.”

  My breaths shorten, and I stumble back a step.

  For a fleeting moment, I see him so clearly. Too clearly. The boy I once knew. He’s right here, inches from my face, and god, I can’t do this. I can’t take the unexpected guilt washing over me.

  “So can you,” I whisper, a swallow sticking in my throat as I break my gaze from his. “You can walk away.”

  He’s been a part of me for so long, before I even knew that he was. It’s excruciating to think of what being here—seeing me here—is doing to him. I’m the daughter of the woman who took his life without lifting a finger. Her clone. Her apprentice before I knew what an apprentice was.

  I’m not wallowing. These are facts.

  Something the man in front of me must be more aware of in this moment than ever before.

  A bird whistles from the distant trees. Raindrops pitter patter on the leaves. And a twig snaps as he takes a step toward me.