Dance of Ruin: Chapter 36

It’s funny: I remember walking into Nico’s apartment that first time with a sense of dread, like I was going to prison. I remember staring at the walls and windows and noticing how soulless the place was.

It doesn’t feel like that anymore.

Now, when I step into his—our—apartment, it feels lived in.

Like home.

I drop my ballet bag by the door, peel off my hoodie, and stretch out my shoulders and triceps. For once, I didn’t stay late, pushing myself to the brink of collapse chasing some invisible, ever-moving goalpost, trying to outrun my imposter syndrome.

Weirdly, I feel okay about it.

I quietly thank Dove and her little pep talk the other night for that. Then I make a mental note to ask her if she wants to hang out some evening soon.

Know your worth.

I’m trying, Dove. I’m trying.

I head to the bathroom and let the shower scald my skin until I’m a loose-limbed prune. When I step out, I throw on cotton shorts and one of Nico’s T-shirts, which falls to mid-thigh on me and smells faintly like him. Fuzzy socks complete the chic ensemble, and I pad back to the living room, fall onto the couch, and turn on some mindless reality TV.

New, improved Naomi takes the damn night off.

I glance at my phone. Nothing from Nico, which is a little strange. He usually tells me when he’s going to be out late.

Just as I’m debating texting him, an incoming message lights up the screen.

I stare at it, old instincts bubbling up, that frantic pull to fix things, to be the daughter he wants.

I hit the lock button and flip the phone face-down on the table.

That’s another New Naomi thing I’m working on: choosing myself.

I sink onto the couch, Nico’s shirt warm against my skin, hair damp at my neck.

The reality show is even more boring and mindless than I thought it would be. So a minute later, I pick the phone back up and click on my text thread with Vaughn.

Weird.

He still hasn’t responded.

He wasn’t required for the latter part of rehearsal today, but he always sticks around, even just to be a pain in my ass. But today he didn’t, and there’s still no reply to me asking him where he went.

Still no reply. I stare at the phone, an uneasy feeling creeping down my spine. Not quite fear yet. Just the beginnings of a bad feeling.

THUD.

I jolt upright on the couch, heart punching my ribs. The reality show is still playing, but that sound didn’t come from the TV.

It came from the door.

I snap my head toward it and shriek when another slam rocks it, so hard that the frame splinters.

My blood ices over, and I’m already running as the door burstsin behind me.

I bolt into the kitchen, bare feet skidding on the tile, and dive into the walk-in pantry. I shove the slatted door closed behind me and crouch low, forcing myself not to sob, or breathe too loud, or shake.

I hear the low thud of boots on the hardwood floor.

“Fan out,” a voice grunts quietly. “She’s here. The Marquis’ orders are kill on sight.”

My heart stops.

I bite down a gasp and press my hand to my mouth, crouched behind a rack of canned tomatoes and imported oils, eyes locked on the entryway through the thin wooden slats.

Four of them move into the apartment dressed in tactical gear, faces covered, guns out.

One moves to the bedroom. Another heads down the back hallway.

A third starts for the kitchen.

…Straight toward me.

He moves with precise, deliberate movements, like he already knows I’m here. Like this is a game that I’ve already lost.

My whole body trembles. I shrink back farther against the shelves, nails digging into the wood.

He’s almost at the door.

Two more steps and he’ll⁠—

Gunshots rip through the silence.

I scream and flinch. But the man standing right in front of the door whirls away from me at the sound, and I realize it’s someone else shooting.

More rapid-fire shots tear through the air, followed by a man screaming in pain. Another shot, another cry.

The man in the kitchen is backing up toward me when he suddenly grunts, reeling backward, blood erupting from his torso and spurting across the floor.

My hands slam over my mouth, trapping my scream just as another figure slowly moves into the kitchen.

Moving with dark intent. Gun drawn. Walking right toward me.

Please. I don’t want to die like this.

Please, please, please⁠—

The pantry door slams open and I scream, raising my hands to shield myself.

“Naomi!”

It’s Nico.

He storms into the pantry like madness unleashed, eyes blazing, smoke still curling from the barrel of his gun. He grabs me and pulls me to him like I’m oxygen, and I collapse into his arms with a sob, clinging to him, choking on relief.

“It’s okay,” he breathes into my hair. “I’ve got you.”

A grunt makes my eyes fly back open. The gunmen on the floor is staggering to his knees, blood pouring down his arm as he aims his gun at Nico’s back.

“NICO—!”

Another shot crackles through the kitchen.

The attacker jerks, then crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.

But that’s not where my eyes are looking in pure shock.

I’m staring at the man standing behind the body, gun still raised, eyes steely.

Vaughn.

At least…sort of?

The man looks like my friend, but with a different haircut, and no tattoos on his arms. But then Nico pulls me to him again, burying his face in my hair and clutching me like I might blow away in the next breeze, and that’s all that matters.

“You’re okay, love,” he growls quietly. “You’re safe now.”

“Naomi!”

My brain short-circuits, my eyes not trusting themselves as Vaughn rushes into the kitchen from around the corner. This Vaughn is bleeding all over the place and looks like someone just beat the shit out of him.

And now he’s standing next to the other Vaughn, who’s lowering his gun.

“What the fuck?” I whisper.