Wild Cat

Florence

I spin across the marble floor on bare feet, the skimpy black dress clinging to my skin and riding up my thighs with every turn. The fabric’s cheap and thin—perfect for movement, useless for anything else—and the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows catch on the dagger tattoo across my collarbone like it’s winking at me. My knife stays steady in my right hand, blade flashing silver as I rise onto the balls of my feet in a perfect relevé, one leg extending behind me into a slow, controlled arabesque.

“I could’ve been fucking incredible,” I tell the guy tied to the Eames chair, voice light, almost chatty. “Madame LeClerc used to say I had the feet of a principal. Told me I’d be at the Royal Ballet by twenty-three. Or the Bolshoi. Somewhere rich people pay stupid money to watch skinny girls starve and float like they’re made of glass.”

He groans through the gag—wet, pathetic, bubbling with blood and spit. A thick drop slides down his chin and splats onto his ruined shirt.

I snap mid-spin, knife pointed straight at his swollen face. “Shut up and watch, Kevin. You’re ruining my recital.”

I drop into a deep plié, thighs burning in the best way, then explode upward into a clean pirouette. The dress flares. My pink pixie cut sticks to my forehead in sweaty spikes. The penthouse smells like expensive leather, spilled whiskey, and that sweet-metallic tang of blood that always makes my pulse hum a little louder. I love this part. The dance. The audience. The way his eyes follow the blade like it’s the only thing left in the world that matters.

“Daddy used to watch me practice out in the orchard,” I continue, landing soft as a cat. I rise again, knife tracing lazy circles in the air an inch from my cheek. “He’d sit on that old picnic table with a beer, clapping every time I stuck the landing. Said violence and beauty were the same goddamn thing if you did them right.” I laugh once, short and sharp. “Said I was living proof.”

Kevin’s head lolls. Another groan escapes him, low and broken.

I stop dead, bare feet planted, knife now leveled at his throat. “I said shut up and watch.” My voice stays sweet, but the edge is there—sharp enough to cut. “You paid for the front row, asshole. Least you can do is stay conscious for the finale.”

I resume the dance, lighter now, almost playful, the knife an extension of my arm. The city sprawls behind me, indifferent and glittering. And for a second—just a second—I let myself imagine the stage lights instead of neon, the applause instead of this man’s ragged breathing.

But the fantasy never lasts. Not when the blood is this fresh.

Not when I’m this good at both.

I drop into another plié, thighs screaming in that perfect burn, then rise into a slow, deliberate fouetté, the blade slicing clean arcs through the air like it’s part of the choreography. Kevin’s head lolls forward, a fresh trickle of blood sliding from his split lip onto the gag. I laugh under my breath.

“You’ve probably heard of Daddy, right?” I say, voice bright and conversational as I spin again. “The Orchard Butcher. Peter Witlock. Big name back in the day. Orchards full of bodies, pretty little graves under the apple trees. Real artist, my old man.”

He groans—low, wet, half-conscious.

I freeze mid-turn, knife pointed at his chest like a spotlight. My grin sharpens. “Oh, you have heard of him. Yeah, I know, right?” I bounce on my toes, bare feet slapping the marble, dress riding higher. “I know a goddamn celebrity. Most kids get bedtime stories about princesses. I got the ones about how to make a man disappear between the rows and still have time for supper.”

Another groan bubbles out of him, weaker this time.

“Shut up and watch, Kevin,” I snap, but there’s real delight threading through the words now, dark and warm like whiskey. “You’re in the presence of royalty. The Butcher’s little girl, all grown up and still dancing for an audience.” I pirouette again, faster, the knife flashing close enough to his cheek that he flinches even through the haze. “He’d be so fucking proud.”

The penthouse lights catch on the blood spatter across the floor and for a moment it looks almost beautiful—like rose petals scattered for a prima ballerina who never quite made it to the stage.

I laugh again, soft and vicious, and keep turning, the knife an extension of my arm, carving silver through the air like it belongs there.

But the laughter dies on the next spin. My steps slow, the fouetté losing its snap. I sink into a low, deliberate arabesque, leg extended behind me, back arched just enough to feel the stretch pull at my spine. The city lights blur behind the windows, cold and distant now. The dress clings to my sweat-damp skin, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs, but the playfulness is gone. Something heavier settles in my chest—familiar, sour, the taste of what-ifs I usually swallow down with whiskey and blood.

“Unfortunately,” I murmur, voice dropping, quieter, almost gentle, “Daddy had to go and get himself caught.” The words come out slower, each one weighted. I hold the pose, knife balanced at my side, blade catching the low light like a warning. “Those FBI agents rolled up in their cheap suits and ruined all my big dreams. Just like that. One raid, one set of cuffs, and poof—goodbye Royal Ballet. Goodbye spotlights and tutus and all the pretty lies Madame LeClerc fed me about how far these feet could take me.”

Kevin makes a small, broken sound—half groan, half whimper—his head lolling against the chair.

I don’t snap at him this time. I just lower my leg, bare feet padding across the cool marble as I circle him once, slow and deliberate, the knife trailing lightly along the back of the Eames chair. “He was in the middle of teaching me how to field-dress a body when they kicked the door in,” I say, the words soft, almost confessional. “I was foutreen. Still thought I could have both worlds. The orchard at night and the stage lights by day. Stupid, right?”

I stop in front of him, close enough that the toe of my bare foot brushes his blood-spattered shoe. My hazel-green eyes—Daddy’s eyes—lock onto what’s left of his face. The smirk is gone. There’s only the quiet, simmering ache I never let anyone else see.

“This is it, Kevin,” I whisper, but there’s no bite left in it. Just the sombre truth hanging between us like the blood on his shirt. “This is the part where the music changes.”

I rise onto pointe again, slower this time, the knife lifted high like a final bow no one will ever applaud. The penthouse feels colder now. Emptier. And for a heartbeat, I let myself feel it—the dream I buried with every body I’ve ever left behind.

My eyes flick to the slim watch on my wrist. The glowing numbers hit me like a slap.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping out of the pose so fast my bare feet slap the marble. “I’m late. Cal’s going to be so pissed.”

The knife lowers, but I don’t put it away. Kevin’s head lolls toward me, one swollen eye cracked open just enough to register the shift. His breathing is wet and ragged now, like he already knows what’s coming.

“Anyway, Kevin,” I say, voice flipping back to that light, almost friendly tone as I step in close, “I don’t know who you pissed off or why, but you did. So now you’ve got to kick it.”

I don’t give him time to groan. My hand moves fast—practiced, clean—and I drive the blade straight into the side of his throat, just above the collarbone, angling up so it slices through the carotid and trachea in one smooth push. The resistance is perfect, warm flesh parting around steel like it was made for this. His body jerks once, hard, against the ropes.

I keep the knife buried deep and twist it just a little, feeling the hot rush of blood spill over my fingers, coating my hand in that thick, slippery heat I love. It pulses in time with his fading heartbeat, soaking the cuff of my dress, running down my wrist in rivulets that feel almost intimate. His mouth works uselessly around the gag, and then the sound starts—the wet, gurgling rattle as blood floods his lungs, bubbling up his windpipe and out around the blade. It’s a low, ugly symphony, like someone trying to scream underwater. I lean in closer, ear tilted toward his face, eyes half-closed, savoring every ragged choke.

“Shhh,” I whisper, almost tender. “That’s it. Listen to that. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

His body spasms again, weaker, the gurgles turning wetter, slower. Blood wells between my knuckles and drips onto the marble with soft, rhythmic plinks. The warmth of it on my skin sends a slow, dark thrill curling low in my belly—the same rush I get every time, the one that reminds me exactly whose daughter I am.

I hold the knife there until the gurgles fade to nothing, until the only sound left is the faint drip-drip of what’s left of him pooling on the floor.

Then I pull the blade free with a soft, wet suck, wipe it casually on his ruined shirt, and straighten up.

“Show’s over, Kevin,” I tell the empty eyes staring back at me. “Thanks for the audience.”

I glance at my watch again, curse under my breath, and head for the door, bare feet leaving bloody prints across the marble like a signature. Cal really is going to lose his shit if I’m not behind that bar in twenty minutes.