Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery.
The air turned thick with a cloying sweetness that made my stomach lurch—something was terribly wrong. My head swam, limbs turning to lead.
"You... you—"
Darkness crashed over me before I could choke out another word.
I came to with my cheek mashed against velvet cushions, disoriented and nauseous. My clothes were gone. My wrists were wrenched behind my back, forcing me onto my knees, ass in the air like some broken marionette.
I tried to lift my head, but the drugs still clung to me, heavy as wet cement. My mouth hung open, spit trailing down my chin, dripping between my bare breasts.
Then I saw her.
Emily Ashcroft.
Naked. Motionless. Filthy.
A man—all corded muscle and predatory stillness—straddled her, fingers swirling in a dish of something dark and wet. Painting. Marking her skin in grotesque, swirling patterns.
His head snapped up.
Our eyes locked.
My stomach dropped. I slammed my eyelids shut.
Too late.
The rustle of fabric. The creak of weight shifting.
He was coming.
I forced my eyes open.
He crouched in front of me, fingers digging into my jaw, tilting my face up. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, the gaunt look of an addict—but his body was all wiry strength.
"Who are you?" His voice was quiet, dangerous. "Reporter? PI?"
Ice shot through my veins.
He knew about the outside world.
And he was sharp.
Too sharp.
My old life—digging up secrets for the rich and powerful—wasn’t common knowledge.
How the hell did he?
After a long, calculating stare, he let me go and turned back to Emily, resuming his work with eerie focus.
What the fuck was he painting? And with what?
He seemed lost in it, like I was already forgotten.
I swallowed bile, forcing words through my dry throat. "What are you doing? Is that... paint?"
A beat. Then, flat as a blade: "A masterpiece. Her blood."
Her blood?
My skin prickled. Was she even alive?
I pictured Emily’s bandaged face turning toward me, and my stomach twisted.
"What did you do to her?" My voice cracked.
"Gave her a choice." He misted something over Emily’s back. "Like all the women who come here."
"What choice?"
"Fuck me," he said, dead-eyed, "or let me carve up their pretty faces."
"You... you—"
Darkness crashed over me before I could choke out another word.
I came to with my cheek mashed against velvet cushions, disoriented and nauseous. My clothes were gone. My wrists were wrenched behind my back, forcing me onto my knees, ass in the air like some broken marionette.
I tried to lift my head, but the drugs still clung to me, heavy as wet cement. My mouth hung open, spit trailing down my chin, dripping between my bare breasts.
Then I saw her.
Emily Ashcroft.
Naked. Motionless. Filthy.
A man—all corded muscle and predatory stillness—straddled her, fingers swirling in a dish of something dark and wet. Painting. Marking her skin in grotesque, swirling patterns.
His head snapped up.
Our eyes locked.
My stomach dropped. I slammed my eyelids shut.
Too late.
The rustle of fabric. The creak of weight shifting.
He was coming.
I forced my eyes open.
He crouched in front of me, fingers digging into my jaw, tilting my face up. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, the gaunt look of an addict—but his body was all wiry strength.
"Who are you?" His voice was quiet, dangerous. "Reporter? PI?"
Ice shot through my veins.
He knew about the outside world.
And he was sharp.
Too sharp.
My old life—digging up secrets for the rich and powerful—wasn’t common knowledge.
How the hell did he?
After a long, calculating stare, he let me go and turned back to Emily, resuming his work with eerie focus.
What the fuck was he painting? And with what?
He seemed lost in it, like I was already forgotten.
I swallowed bile, forcing words through my dry throat. "What are you doing? Is that... paint?"
A beat. Then, flat as a blade: "A masterpiece. Her blood."
Her blood?
My skin prickled. Was she even alive?
I pictured Emily’s bandaged face turning toward me, and my stomach twisted.
"What did you do to her?" My voice cracked.
"Gave her a choice." He misted something over Emily’s back. "Like all the women who come here."
"What choice?"
"Fuck me," he said, dead-eyed, "or let me carve up their pretty faces."
End of Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery book page.