Dance of Monsters (The Darkest Dance #7)

Chapter 1

EVELINA

When your back’s against the wall, there’s no measure to what you will do to survive.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic for a personal mantra. I’m sure I originally saw it on some lame t-shirt or Pinterest page.

But in my current situation—feet rooted to the floor, jaw hanging open, and eyes wide as saucers as I watch what can only be described as an orgy unfold not fifteen feet in front of me—it’s truly the only thing that comes to mind.

Remember why you’re here. Remember what’s at stake. Remember—

Nope. Whatever else I was trying to coax my brain into remembering goes out the proverbial window when I hear the urgent groans of carnal ecstasy mingled with the violent and wet slapping of sweaty flesh against flesh.

To say that I’m out of my element standing in the middle of a kink club, wearing a mask and this dress, watching group sex unfold around me, is, bar none, the understatement of the flipping millennium.

Remember why you’re here.

Spoiler: it’s not to watch masked strangers have sex in a variety of positions and combinations, some of which I never even imagined were a thing.

No, I’m here, in the sordid, moan-filled lounge of New York’s most notorious and exclusive kink club, because I need help.

Heat creeps up my neck and face as I stare wide-eyed at the brunette being manhandled by two muscular, tattooed men on one of the couches in the center of the dark, elegant, seductively lit space.

Not that kind of help, thank you very much.

The sensation that I’ve just been caught doing something forbidden squirms and tingles up my spine like uncomfortable, clammy fingers.

It’s not that sex itself makes me uncomfortable. It’s just…

My face throbs.

Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true.

On a bed barely ten feet in front of me, a blonde woman arches her back and buries her face in the sheets, screaming in pleasure as a big, built guy rams violently and mechanically into her from behind.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

My pulse races. My palms feel sweaty at my sides as my nails dig into them. Despite the dim lighting, it still feels way too bright. Too hot. Too stifling.

Why am I like this?

I tear my gaze away from the moaning blonde, then yank it again to avoid watching two redheads writhe on a man covered in bratva tattoos—one grinding against his crotch, the other riding his face.

Again, this isn’t why I’m here. I haven’t snuck into Club Venom to watch orgies. I’m here because when you need to make a deal with the devil, sometimes you have to meet him in Hell.

Ugh, that came out wrong. I don't think sex equals damnation or anything. I’ve never been religious, and I don’t view sex negatively, per se.

It’s just…not for me.

But I'm also not asexual. I mean, I want sex. I think?

I have desires.

Sometimes.

I’ve watched porn and taken things into my own hands, so to speak.

On occasion.

But there’s this mental block when it comes to viewing sex in a normal, adult way. Chronic embarrassment. Nervous awkwardness. Nagging anxiety.

My friends, though it comes from a place of love, adore teasing me mercilessly about this. The fact that I can’t even say words like cock or pussy—I mean, Jesus—without blushing, and turn into a stammering mess whenever anyone starts talking about sex in front of me, even in the most vanilla terms.

The fact that I’ve managed to hit twenty-three years old without ever having had it…sex, that is.

That tingling sensation drags its way up my spine again as the pornographic gasps fill the room, which seems to be throbbing with its own sexual energy.

If my friends could see me now…

I cringe.

I’d die.

It doesn’t matter that I—like everyone in the club—am wearing a Venetian half-mask that covers my eyes. It doesn’t matter that I’m dressed more brazenly than I have ever been in my entire life. Or that I’m wearing a black wig to cover my blonde locks.

If I saw one person in this place that I knew, I’d spontaneously combust.

“There you are, beautiful.”

My spine snaps straight, but luckily, no spontaneous combusting occurs. Because this one person here who does know me doesn’t actually know me at all.

All the same, my body clenches and tightens, my skin prickling with anxiety as I turn toward the much older man with the paunch grinning down at me and reeking of vodka.

“Sooo…howsabout we go find a private room, baby,” he leers. “Unless you wanna be a bad girl and ride my dick right here for the crowd.”

Nausea surges inside me.

Remember why you’re here.

I reject the urge to run and instead force what I hope is a seductive expression to my face.

“You know what?” I bat my eyes beneath the mask. “Maybe I could go find another girl to join us for some real hot, steamy times.”

Some real hot, steamy times.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit one million, four hundred and three as to why Evelina Nikitin is a twenty-three-year-old virgin.

My idea of “sexy talk” sounds like something out of a Rita Hayworth movie.

Luckily, my date—and my ticket into Club Venom tonight—is wasted. Not just drunk. Russian drunk. That's saying something.

I met Oleg—or was it Olev?—outside the nondescript entrance to Venom about half an hour ago.

Not by chance. I’ve spent a week canvasing the place from the outside, trying to figure out how I—obviously not a member of the exclusive, members-only club—could get in.

I mean, it’s not like a gym where they’re giving out free trials.

A few nights ago, though, I spotted a couple of girls who looked about my age walking out of the club quite late, giggling as they made their way to a cocktail bar down the street.

I followed them there, and while I might not do sex, I’m a pro at small talk.

Which is how I found out that they, like me, weren’t members, but had both been brought as “personal dates” by older men who were.

Now, I don’t have a “sexy and alluring” bone in my body.

But Oleg-Olev is drunk as a freaking skunk.

All it took was waiting outside wearing the sexiest dress I own, flashing a little of my almost nonexistent cleavage when he stumbled up to me, and swallowing my nausea and saying “of course” when he asked me with a leer if I was looking for a “daddy” for the night.

I mean, puke.

But you do what you have to for family. You meet the devil in Hell if you want to cut a deal with him.

When your back’s against the wall…

Oleg-Olev grins drunkenly at me, sloshing the tumbler of vodka in his hand.

“Oh, you dirty little thing,” he slurs, breathing alcohol fumes in my face that make my nose wrinkle. “Lookin’ for a little backup to handle my dick, Vivian?”

It has since occurred to me after entering this place that the whole point of the mandatory masks is anonymity. But Oleg-Olev told me his name outside, so I happily told him my fake name: Vivian.

Because, again, my idea of sexiness is rooted in black and white movies from the 1940's and the first “femme fatale” name I could think of was Vivian Leigh.

I really do deserve all the good-natured ribbing my friends give me.

“Exactly,” I smile at him, watching the way he sways on his feet, his gaze unfocused. “So why don’t you find a seat at the bar, baby, and I’ll be right back to rock your world.”

Rock your world.

I mean, shoot me.

But again, he’s so drunk he probably thinks there’s two or even three of me. So he just smiles a messy grin at me before weaving his way over to the bar.

I exhale slowly as my stomach knots.

Step one was to get inside. Now comes the hard part: finding the devil and seeing exactly what part of my soul he wants in exchange for granting me the favor I need.

I take a slow breath as I turn to survey the X-rated scene in front of me. My face heats as I then look past the orgy, toward a hallway leading to what I hope are the private rooms and lounges.

That’s where the devil is waiting for me.

I edge around the perimeter of the room, making my way to the dimly lit hallway with the blood-red wallpaper and brass sconces.

Technically, the devil isn’t waiting for me. In fact, he’s not expecting me at all. I’m hoping that gives me an advantage.

I’m not usually intimidated by power. I was raised in one of the most powerful bratva families in the country. My father sat at the Iron Table along with the heads of several of the most powerful families in the Russian mafia before my brother, Roman, took over at the helm of the Nikitin Bratva.

But Vaughn Bancroft is a whole other level of power. Of darkness. Of danger.

Honestly? He scares me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Because that’s not being a wuss, that’s survival instinct.

You wouldn’t apologize for being afraid of a great white shark you came across while swimming in the ocean, or a snarling, hungry wolf you found yourself face to face with in a dark cave.

But again, you do what you have to when it comes to family. Even the family you know deep down is poisonous to you.

And the smoke and mirrors with the wig, the mask and the phony name? It's not just so I’m not recognized by anyone here at Club Venom, or because Vaughn scares me.

It’s because Vaughn knows me.

And he knows me as Evelina the perpetually-in-pink, always smiling, innocent bratva princess, because his younger brother Val is one of my best friends. Val dances professionally in the Zakharova Ballet with me. He also happens to be dating my brother, Roman.

Evelina the Pink Princess is not who can meet with the head of the Obsidian Syndicate tonight. It’s one of the most powerful, shadowy, and secretive criminal organizations on the planet. That Evelina would be laughed out of the room.