I watch Harlequin squirm like a trapped rat, and it almost makes me laugh. Almost. His little grin is still there, flickering on and off like a dying spotlight. He wants to act brave. He wants to pretend he's still the darling of the stage, still the one who gets the applause.
Pathetic.
The ropes bite into his wrists, and I can tell he's trying not to show fear. I can smell it anyway. Fear has a scent—sharp, sour, honest. Way more honest than his stupid painted smile.
"You're enjoying this," he spits, voice rough.
I lean closer, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch until it chokes him. "Enjoying?" I murmur. "No. I'm correcting something."
He tugs again, desperate. I hear the strain in the fibers, the tiny creaks of resistance. He thinks effort will save him. That's the funniest part.
I reach out and brush my thumb across his cheek, smearing his makeup. Ruining the mask.
His eyes follow my hand like he hates it, like he needs it to stop.
I grin wider.
Because this is what he never understood: laughter is a weapon, and I'm the one holding it now.
And he's not laughing anymore.
YOU ARE READING
The ringmaster's pet
FantasyA story from Pierrot's POV This story is entirely from Pierrot's POV. A slow burn mystery with drama and plot twist! It does have curse words and it a very explicit dark-violence-situation story! Hope you have a nice time reading it!
