Prologue Curtain Call For The Damned #2
The name alone should make me tremble, should make me run, should make me do anything except what I'm doing—which is staring at him with the kind of hunger usually reserved for prey spotting a predator and deciding to bite back.
He stands with that casual arrogance of someone who's never been told 'no' in his entire privileged existence. Born into power, raised in violence, shaped into the perfect heir to an empire built on blood and broken promises.
The spotlight doesn't quite reach him—he's smart enough to stay in the shadows—but I can see enough. Tall. Broad. The kind of build that comes from years of training your body to be a weapon. Dark hair probably perfectly styled before he came here. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones.
And eyes—
God, those eyes.
Even from here, I can feel the weight of them. Calculating. Assessing. Seeing.
Those are the eyes I remember from that night. The eyes that found me dying in the rain and decided I was worth saving. Worth using.
He's not alone.
Three others flank him in military precision—his pack, his chosen, the ones who've earned the right to stand at his side while others grovel.
To his left: tall and lean, all grace and coiled tension. Someone who understands the language of movement and space. An aerialist. Jett Maddox. The one who knows what it means to trust the silk to hold you while you defy death.
To his right: broader but leaner than Kai, radiating controlled chaos. The kind of smile I can feel even from here—the kind that promises pleasure and pain in equal measure. Blade performer. Circus-trained killer wrapped in charisma. Blaze Vega.
And slightly behind them, almost melting into shadows: smaller, quicker, the kind of person who makes you forget they exist until they're picking your pocket or slipping your restraints. Escape artist. Ghost. Sage Wilder.
The Ruthless Pack.
Sons of the empire. Heirs to the throne. Future kings of a criminal dynasty that spans continents and leaves rivers of blood in its wake.
The same empire that murdered my family.
The same empire that took everything from me.
And now they're here. In my theater. Watching my performance like they have the right.
The madness bubbles up, hot and sweet and perfect.
I finally move.
Slowly, deliberately, I lower myself from pointe. Both feet flat on the stage now. My arms come down in a graceful arc before I bring my hands together in front of me.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
My laughter echoes through the theater—high and bright and just slightly too broken. The lights suddenly blaze to life, revealing everything I've created.
The golden bird cages sway in the sudden illumination, their contents now clearly visible. Bodies in various stages of decay, all positioned like twisted marionettes, all wearing expressions of surprise or terror or pain.
Welcome to my gallery.
Welcome to my madness.
Welcome to me.
"Welcome, welcome!" My voice rings out, saccharine-sweet with an edge that could cut glass. I spin on my toes, arms outstretched, addressing them like they're a sold-out crowd instead of four devils come to collect their dues. "I'm so glad you guys were able to attend my grand finale performance!"
I twirl again, letting my head fall back, exposing my throat before snapping upright with that manic grin still splitting my face.
"It was lonely not having anyone to witness such talent that I haven't performed in years." I gesture grandly at the stage, at the cages, at the carefully constructed nightmare I've built. "But this is what the world of Hard Knot Academy is all about, isn't it?"
My laughter multiplies, bouncing off the walls until it sounds like there are a hundred of me, all laughing at the same private joke about blood and vengeance and the price of surviving when you should have died.
"Or should we call a spade a spade—" I pause, letting my voice drop into something darker, more honest, "—and acknowledge the Ruthless part of this academy is not for the weak?"
They say nothing.
Don't move. Don't react. Just stand there like marble statues carved from ice and cruelty and all the cold things that go bump in the night.
So I move for them.
One foot in front of the other, still en pointe, still maintaining that perfect ballerina posture even as I descend the stage steps. The spotlight follows me—I programmed it to, spent hours getting the timing just right—bathing me in gold as I walk toward my devils.
My hips sway with each step, a seductive roll that's pure predator, pure threat, pure challenge.
My eyes never leave Kai's, even as I close the distance.
Even as I can finally see him properly—the sharp cut of his jaw, the brutal beauty of his face, the way his alpha scent hits me like a physical blow.
Smoke and cedar and something darker. Something that smells like power and violence and a promise I can't quite name.
My bare toes—still shoved into those mismatched ballet shoes—stop just inches from his polished boots. Up close, he's even more devastating. Tall enough that I have to tilt my head back. Built like a fortress.
And looking at me like I'm either the most interesting thing he's ever seen or the most dangerous.
Smart boy.
The others have gone stock-still, their body language screaming threat assessment. Calculating odds. Planning defensive positions.
But I only have eyes for Kai.
In one fluid motion—the kind that comes from years of practice, years of surviving, years of becoming something more than just a broken Omega—I pull the dual blades from where they've been hidden in the tattered layers of my tutu.
The metal sings as it comes free.
Matching daggers with black handles and wickedly curved blades that I've sharpened myself until they could split atoms. I twirl them once—a flashy little flourish that makes them catch the light—before bringing both tips to rest against the underside of Kai's chin.
His pack tenses.
I feel rather than see them move—Jett's hand going to wherever he keeps his weapons, Blaze's fingers flexing in that blade-work pattern, Sage already calculating exit routes and attack vectors.
But Kai?
Kai doesn't fucking flinch.
He stares down at me with those devastating eyes—dark brown, almost black, with flecks of amber that catch the stage lights—and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Like he's amused.
Like this is all some grand entertainment put on for his benefit.
The rage inside me howls.
I press the blades harder, not quite breaking skin but close. Close enough that one wrong move, one slight miscalculation, and I'd open his throat in a smile that would never stop grinning.
Forever used to sound impossible...
The song's final lyric echoes in my mind, a ghost of the performance still clinging to my skin. Forever. What a beautiful lie that word is. What a perfect piece of propaganda.
There is no forever.
There's only now, only this moment, only the sharp edge of a blade against the throat of the man whose family destroyed mine.
"So tell me, my ruthless enemy," I purr, my voice dropping into something soft and deadly, something that promises sweet violence and sweeter revenge. My eyes bore into his, unflinching, unafraid, unbroken. "What alliance is worthy enough for me to dare dance with the devils of Hard Knot Academy?"