Chapter 2
SILAS
“You're going to dislocate your shoulder doing it that way.” Logan's sprawled across the picnic table behind the big top, boots up, lighter clicking open and shut in his palm.
“I'm not going to dislocate anything.” I roll my shoulder, testing the range of motion. The chains are heavy tonight—real iron, not the aluminum props most illusionists use. “I've been practicing this for weeks.”
“Weeks,” Rowe echoes from where he's leaning against the table's edge. His lion, Caesar, is stretched out in the grass nearby, tail twitching. “Remember when you practiced that underwater escape for weeks?”
“That was different.”
“You nearly drowned.”
“I nearly perfected the timing.” I adjust the cuffs at my wrists, checking the give. “Tonight's crowd deserves something special. Everyone does the standard straitjacket routine. No one's escaping chains while—”
Logan snorts. “While what? Setting them on fire? Because I could help with that.”
“No fire.”
“Everything's better with fire.”
“Your solution to everything is fire.”
“Because it works.” The lighter clicks again. Open. Shut. Open. “When has fire not solved a problem?”
Rowe's fingers find the scars on his forearms, tracing them absently. “When we were five and you tried to cook eggs over a candle.”
“I was hungry. We all fucking were,” Logan replies.
“That was arson.”
He shrugs. “Practice arson.”
I'm about to tell Logan exactly where he can shove his practice arson when movement catches my eye. A figure cutting through the crowd near the ring toss booth. Deep auburn hair, wild and loose, catching the string lights.
The words die in my throat.
She moves like she's being chased. Not running—that would draw attention—but there's something in the set of her shoulders, the way she weaves between the early arrivals. A black leather duster despite the heat.
“Si?” Logan's voice sounds distant. “You having a stroke?”
But I'm already moving, leaving the chains pooled on the ground behind me.
“Where the hell are you—” Logan's question fades as I push into the crowd, following that flash of red through the maze of carnival-goers.
She's ten feet ahead now, close enough that I can see the way her hips sway beneath that burgundy skirt.
The fabric clings to curves that make my blood run hot, tights stretching over thighs I want wrapped around my waist. One glimpse of a stranger and I'm thinking with my cock like some teenager at his first peep show.
The leather duster shifts as she navigates past a family with cotton candy, revealing more of that skirt. Short enough to be criminal. Short enough that if she bent over—
Focus, you idiot.
But focusing becomes impossible when she glances back over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. Those eyes floor me. Green. Not hazel pretending to be green, not muddy or muted—pure, vivid green that cuts through the carnival lights and noise and finds me staring like a slack-jawed fool.
Our eyes meet for half a heartbeat. Less than that. A fraction of a second where the world narrows to just her face—high cheekbones, full lips, something fierce and hunted in her expression that makes me want to follow her into whatever trouble she's running from.
Then she's turning away, quickening her pace toward the far end of the midway where the crowds thin out. My feet move without permission, drawn after her like she's got me on invisible strings. The irony isn't lost on me—the illusionist being pulled by someone else's magic.
She ducks behind the funnel cake stand, and I lose sight of her for a moment.
When I round the corner, she's pressed against the back of the booth, chest rising and falling like she's been running miles instead of yards.
The string lights don't reach back here.
Just shadows and the distant screams from the Tilt-a-Whirl.
“You following me?” Her voice is husky, breathless, but there's steel underneath.
“I—” Words. I'm supposed to have words. I perform in front of hundreds every night, but this woman in her too-short skirt has stolen every syllable from my tongue.
Up close, I can see what I missed from a distance.
The leather duster hangs open, revealing a black corset that should be illegal.
The boning pushes her breasts up and together, creating cleavage that makes my mouth go dry.
Burgundy and black—carnival colors on a body that belongs in my bed. She looks like a performer.
“I saw you.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Thought you might be looking for someone in charge around here.”
One perfectly arched brow rises. Red lips curve into something that might be amusement if not for the tension still coiled in her shoulders.
“Is that so?” She shifts against the booth wall, and the movement does things to that corset that threaten my sanity. “And are you that someone?”
The question hangs between us. I should say yes.
I run security, help Elias coordinate everything, have my finger on the pulse of every inch of this operation.
But standing here with her green eyes challenging me, with her tits practically spilling out of that corset, I can't think straight enough to form a proper lie.
“Depends what you need.”
“That's not an answer.”
I take a step closer, drawn by some magnetic pull I don't understand. She smells like leather with a floral undertone. “You're dressed for the show.”
Her laugh is short, brittle. “Astute observation from an illusionist.”
“How'd you know—”
“The playing cards sticking out of your pocket. The chalk dust on your fingers.” Her gaze drops to my hands, then drags back up slowly enough to set my skin on fire.
“You've got me at a disadvantage then.”
“Good.” She pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us until I can count her freckles in the dim light. “I like having the upper hand. So who would I talk to about joining?” She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, and I have to force my gaze back to her face. “About work.”
“Work.” The word comes out flat. “What kind of work?”
“What do you think?” She gestures at herself—the corset, the costume beneath that leather jacket. “I'm not exactly dressed for selling popcorn.”
“What's your act?”
“Escape artist.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
My eyes narrow before I can stop them. Of all the fucking things she could have said.
Weeks I’ve spent perfecting my craft, dislocating joints to master angles no one else would attempt.
And now this woman appears out of nowhere, built like every filthy fantasy I've ever had, telling me she does exactly what I've spent ages attempting to master.
What kind of cosmic joke is this?
“Escape artist,” I repeat, tasting the bitterness of it.
“Problem?” Her chin lifts, defensive. “Let me guess... You think girls can't handle the real tricks. Probably assume I do basic rope ties and handcuffs for the perverts in the back row.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Your face did.”
Fuck, she's observant. Too observant. I school my expression, but the damage is done. She's already seen the flash of—what? Jealousy? Territorialism over an act I don't even own?
The truth is uglier. I want to grab her by those perfect hips and press her against this booth until she forgets about performing anywhere except my bed.
Want to find out if she's as flexible as escape artists need to be.
Want to test exactly how well she can get out of restraints when I'm the one putting them on her.
“Elias makes the final call on new acts.” The words taste like surrender. I should tell her we’re not hiring. Should protect my place in the show, keep this green-eyed threat far from our stages.
But my cock’s already making decisions my brain should be vetoing.
“Elias,” she repeats. “Is he the ringmaster?”
“Among other things.”
“And you could introduce me?”
“I could.” I step closer, near enough to feel her body heat. “But I'll need more than just escape artist. We’ve got standards here.”
“You won't find better than me.” She steps into my space, close enough that her breasts brush my chest with each breath. “I can slip any lock, untie any knot, escape any box you put me in.”
The double meaning isn't lost on me. My cock stirs, already half-hard from proximity alone. “Big words.”
“I back them up.” Her hand rises between us, fingertips grazing my shirt. “Want me to prove it?”
The challenge in her voice makes my blood sing. She's baiting me, this green-eyed stranger who walked into my carnival like she owns it. Part of me wants to call her bluff, see exactly what those nimble fingers can do.
“Why'd you leave your last carnival?”
The question stops her cold. Whatever she expected, it wasn't that. Her hand drops, and for the first time since she turned those eyes on me, uncertainty flickers across her face.
“Does it matter?”
“Everything matters.” I catch her wrist before she can step back, my thumb finding her pulse. It races beneath my touch. “We're not some traveling flea market where performers drift in and out. This is family. Blood or not, we protect our own.”
Her pulse jumps. “How very noble.”
“Answer the question.”
She tries to tug her wrist free, but I hold firm. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make my point. We stare at each other in the shadows behind the funnel cake stand, sexual tension crackling between us like a live wire.
“Creative differences,” she finally says.
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Creative differences is what you tell civilians. It's the polite mask fiction performers use when the real story's too ugly for public consumption.” I lean down until our faces are inches apart. “Try again.”
Her jaw sets, stubborn. Damn, even pissed off she's gorgeous. “The last place didn't feel right.” She meets my gaze, but there's something careful in how she chooses each word. “Sometimes you know when it's time to move on.”
Truth wrapped in omission. I recognize the dance—I've performed it myself more times than I can count. The pulse beneath my thumb stays too quick, too uneven for someone telling the whole story.
“How long were you there?” I press.
Her eyes narrow. “What are you, a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“You look like someone who asks too many questions.”
“And you look like someone with too many secrets.”
She laughs, but it's sharp at the edges. “Everyone in this business has secrets.”
Fair point. But the way she deflects, turning my questions back on me—that's not just a desire for privacy; it’s evasion. The kind you learn when staying means more than just a bad review or a personality clash with management.
“How many carnivals?” I release her wrist but don’t step back. “Before this one.”
“Enough to know what I'm doing.”
“That's not what I asked.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a lock she needs to pick. “Why does it matter? You checking references? Want to call my previous employers, see if I played well with others?”
The derision in her voice can't quite mask something else. Fear? Not of me—she's standing too close for that, letting her body brush mine with each breath. Fear of what I might find if I dig too deep.
“Maybe I'm just curious why a talented escape artist needs to find work at a new carnival on such short notice.”
Her chin lifts. “Maybe I heard you were the best show in three states. Maybe I wanted to work with performers who actually give a damn about their craft.”
Flattery. Another deflection. She's good at this, keeping me off-balance with those eyes and that mouth and just enough truth to make the lies taste real.
“Or maybe,” I say slowly, watching her face, “you're running from something.”
The mask slips for just a second. Something vulnerable flashes across her features before she catches herself, schooling her expression back to defiance. But I saw it. That moment where the performer's bravado cracked and showed the woman underneath.
Scared. Desperate. And definitely lying about why she’s here.