Chapter 11 Nicole
Nicole
The flames rise high, creating a ring that blocks the rest of the ballroom from view. The heat licking my skin offsets the chill from earlier, but my father’s stunned face remains in my mind. I look for my parents’ outline among the inanimate figures behind the fire.
They’re made of ice. Real ice.
While fire rages everywhere…
The Black Joker’s fingers tighten around my wrist. “As long as you dance, the flames stay here. The moment you stop, the fire will spread. And you know what happens when heat meets cold.”
“You’re lying,” I hiss through my helplessness.
He pulls me close. I collide with a body as hard as a rock, and the breath rushes from my lungs.
Fear paralyzes my muscles, but somehow I manage to lift my chin.
His face is inches from mine, and up close, his features are sharp and unforgiving—as though carved from the same stone as the rest of his body.
His black irises are saturated with countless pinpricks of light, holding me captive in their glow.
He arches his sculpted eyebrow. “Are you willing to test that?”
Before I answer, the air fills with dark notes. Heavy music vibrates through my chest and pulls me into its rhythm. I glance at the orchestra beyond the curtain of flame. The musicians’ bodies are rigid, but the strings of their instruments quiver, guided by invisible fingers.
The Black Joker spins me around. My legs give way to him, as if I’m a rag doll.
The turn is smooth, and somehow the soles of my shoes find the rhythm that now rules the ballroom.
The fire around us pulses with the beat of the music.
Its light dances across Gaetano’s face, softening his features or casting them into shadow.
Past his shoulder, I search for someone—anyone—who might help. I can’t make out the faces beyond the flames, but I know where the table is, the one where my father’s statue should be. With the next turn, I catch a glimpse of his unmoving figure through the fire.
That’s my father.
That’s my father.
Another wave of terror crashes over me. I stop dancing, rigid like the icy statues around us. The Black Joker releases my hand and steps back. The warmth on my skin vanishes, replaced by a chill in the air. The flames that once encircled us are pulling away, creeping closer to the figures.
His words echo in my mind. ‘As long as you dance, the flames stay here.’
It’s like I’ve wandered into the heart of a witch’s ritual. And even if the potential victims of the fire are the human statues around us, it still feels as if I’m the one about to burn at the stake.
I summon all my willpower and force my body to move. My muscles tighten with resolve, and my legs twitch before they start to shift. Hesitantly at first, then with increasing certainty.
Gaetano steps forward with a predator’s grace. His fingers curl around my hand. More flames flare up, but the proximity of the fire is a harsh reminder that the frozen figures are safe. At least for now.
With every beat of the dark melody, Gaetano’s moves grow fiercer, until I’m pressed against him. My chest brushes against his solid torso, and his heat seeps into me, sending sparks skittering down my spine. The sensation is so overwhelming that I stiffen, if only for a moment.
He leans in. “Relax. A dance can be a delight… or a punishment. The choice is yours.”
His breath brushes my ear, warm and infused with that familiar bittersweet scent.
The arrogance in his words snaps me back to my senses. “Do you honestly believe I could enjoy dancing with you?”
With a near-rough motion, he pulls me into a sidestep, then into a pirouette that ends in his arms. One hand glides down my spine, from my shoulder blades to the small of my waist. His touch burns against my skin, and my muscles clench in a desperate bid to stay composed.
“No,” he whispers into my ear. “Dancing is poetry. And you, Baroness, are as soulless as a glossy-covered book filled with hundreds of empty pages.”
I grit my teeth, swallowing the urge to retort. I may be many things, but “empty” is not one of them.
Stepping with more confidence, I take the lead. I’m no professional, but in seventh grade, my mother insisted on classical dance lessons to ensure I’d shine at high society events. Turned out dancing wasn’t my thing, but I remember enough.
I spin, forcing him to follow my movement. He does so with eagerness. His hand returns to my waist, tugging me in, his lips finding my ear once more. “Terrible choice of attire. I didn’t believe you’d cave to your mother’s taste.”
The heat from his palm seeps through the fabric, scorching my skin. “Says you?” I reply, nodding at his clothing.
A faint smile curves across his lips once more. “I was born in the fifteenth century. What’s your excuse?”
Oh, God… I don’t even think he’s joking. Another sign that it’s time for me to act.
I step back to create some space between us, preparing for negotiations. “I’ve been thinking about our contract,” I say.
He spins me. “It would’ve been foolish not to.”
“Exactly. It seems I have to accept it. However…”—I face him—“I don’t believe there’s nothing that can be done.”
“What do you mean?”
“There must be a way to… bend the terms.”
He pushes me away only to pull me right back in—so close our mouths nearly touch. His focus slips to my lips. “And why would I do that?”
I ignore the sting in my chest. “Because I don’t want to lose my soul. And I know there must be something I could offer you in exchange for that favor.”
A slight crease forms between his eyebrows. “And what would you offer me?”
He catches me by the waist and dips me with such ease, it’s as if my body is merely an extension of his. My back arches, my hair almost grazing the floor, and only when I feel the solid support of his arms do I dare to complete the movement.
For the first time, I’m grateful to my mother for choosing this dress. Its modest, thick fabric covers my thighs, and saves me from the sensation of having my skin laid bare to his every touch.
As I regain my balance, I say, “You have a castle, you’re obviously rich, but—”
Gaetano laughs, his deep, velvet-toned vibrations rising above the music and sending a flutter through my stomach. “My apologies. Do go on.”
I suppress my irritation. “Surely I have something to offer you?”
He pulls me close, so close our faces are mere inches apart, his breath brushing against my lips.
My heart pounds to the rhythm of our steps, and the world around us blurs.
My control slips, while his presence fills every inch of space.
The sensation is disturbingly intimate—less predator and prey, more… partners.
His gaze drops to my lips again. “Unexpected, but intriguing offer, Baroness. Considering I haven’t had a human lover in years.”
A wave of heat rises in my stomach. My fingers grip his shoulder tighter, and my pulse accelerates, as if my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
The thought sneaks into my mind. Yes, he’s a witcher.
Yes, he’s cruel. But he’s not all dark. And underneath that tough exterior…
he’s still a man. Maybe—just maybe—he has typical male weaknesses.
If I can figure out how to use them, I might gain an edge in this situation.
He’s a witcher from the fifteenth century, my reason chimes in. He has nothing in common with the horny little rich boys I usually wrap around my finger.
Reality hits me hard. “That’s not what I meant!”
He laughs again and spins me. The next time we’re face to face, I rush to speak. “The contract states that if we fail to complete it, we’ll both burn in Hell. Which means you’re bound by it, too. We could figure out a way to break it. My father has influence—”
“Do you enjoy the role you’re playing?”
I frown, my patience wearing thin. “What?”
He arches his eyebrows in that same sarcastic manner. “For a woman with so many claims in high society, you’re quite deluded.”
My cheeks burn, but I force myself to mask the irritation. He’s trying to provoke me—to make me stop dancing. “And what could a fifteenth-century sorcerer possibly understand about society?” I snap.
He spins me again and yanks me back, my spine hitting his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place. The sensation is confusing—a mix of safety and danger, followed by a jolt of electricity shooting through my body.
My focus shifts to the flames, which are dimming, shrinking, until at last, they melt away into the surrounding space. In their stead, the gallery of rigid figures remains. For a moment, I’d forgotten everything but us.
Gaetano’s breath grazes my ear once more. “Do you see these people? This room is full of fools who believe money is power. That gold and titles can buy respect. Love. Freedom.”
I grit my teeth. “Isn’t that the truth?”
The ground beneath my feet cracks open, and we fall into a bottomless black void. My stomach tightens into a painful knot, like I’ve dropped at full speed on a rollercoaster. I’m about to scream, but my shoes hit solid ground.
And suddenly, we’re back. Standing at the Deliberov table, in front of my father’s unmoving figure and his influential friends.
Statues of ice, so fragile they could shatter into a thousand shards with the slightest pressure.
My mother—lips parted, face twisted in familiar disapproval, resembles a piece of crystal: delicate and lifeless. The way she always looks, anyway.
The heat radiating from the Black Joker seeps through my clothes, a lingering reminder of everything that just happened. “What do you think?” he says behind my back. “Is that still your truth?”
The Black Joker releases me and steps away. Bone-deep cold crashes into me.
The frozen statues start to thaw. The ice on their faces cracks like shattered glass.
My father blinks once, then again. My mother’s half-open mouth twitches with bewildered outrage.
In an instant, life picks up again. The ballroom comes alive with laughter, conversations, the clinking of glasses. As if nothing ever happened.
And then everything shifts into slow motion, but just for me. The guards finally reach the Black Joker, locking handcuffs around his wrists.
Shouts draw my attention to the table. Mr. Deliberov is clutching his chest. His face flushes deep red, and his eyes bulge.
Thick beads of sweat form on his brow as his features twist in pain.
His wife stands up, trying to give him a glass of water, but her hand trembles so badly that droplets spill onto the tablecloth.
Chairs scrape back. Voices rise into a chaotic symphony.
“He’s having a heart attack! Call 911!” someone screams.
My own heart stutters. The scene is surreal. And there’s no way it’s a coincidence.
I whirl around to where the Black Joker was standing and—
He’s gone. The cuffs hang empty as the guards stare at their own hands in stunned confusion.