Chapter 3
NOVA
“What's your name?”
The question catches me off guard. After all his probing, all his attempts to crack me open, he asks for something as simple as my name.
“Nova.” The truth slips out before I can think of a lie. “Nova Calder.”
“Silas.” He doesn't offer a last name, doesn't extend his hand for a shake. Just watches me with those blue eyes that see too much. “Follow me if you want to be considered.”
He turns and walks away, not checking to see if I'll follow. Arrogant bastard. But my feet move anyway, trailing him through the maze of carnival booths and scattered performers.
His shoulders fill out that white shirt in ways that make my mouth dry. Each step showcases the controlled power in his body—a performer's grace mixed with something more dangerous. He knows I'm watching. The slight swagger in his walk tells me he's putting on a show, and I hate that it's working.
My pulse still throbs where he held my wrist. The man practically interrogated me, caught me in lie after lie, and still my body responded anyway, which is inconvenient. Responded to the way his gaze traveled over me like he was memorizing every curve, every freckle, every inch of exposed skin.
He's undressing me with his eyes, has been since the moment he found me behind that funnel cake stand.
Not in the leering way Roman used to—no, this is different.
Silas looks at me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve, a lock he wants to pick.
The heat in his gaze promises he'll take his time doing it.
We pass a group of performers practicing diabolo tricks. They nod at Silas, but their eyes linger on me, curious and assessing. Fresh meat in their territory. I keep my chin up, meeting their stares. Let them wonder.
Silas leads me deeper into the carnival grounds, past the public areas, toward a cluster of trailers and practice tents.
His ass in those dark pants deserves its own conviction.
If he weren't so insufferably perceptive, if he hadn't nearly stripped me bare with questions alone, I might enjoy the view more.
Who am I kidding? I'm enjoying it plenty.
The largest trailer sits at the heart of the carnival's private area, black with gold trim that catches the string lights overhead. A small table sits outside, and at first I think the couple behind it is just having dinner.
Then I notice how the woman's bare legs bracket the man's thighs, how her hips shift in tiny, rhythmic movements. Her short blue hair catches the light as she tips her head back, accepting whatever he's feeding her from his fingers.
“Fucking hell,” Silas mutters beside me. “Every damn time.”
The man—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing no shirt—has one hand on the woman's hip, steadying her. The other brings something to her lips. She opens for him, and the way his pale eyes track the movement of her throat makes my cheeks burn.
Because I know exactly what's happening under that table. The subtle rock of her body, the tension in his forearms, the way she grips his shoulders—they're fucking. Right there in the open, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
“Put your dick away, Elias,” Silas calls out, sounding more exasperated than scandalized. “We have a potential recruit.”
The woman's face flushes crimson, but she doesn't scramble off the man’s lap. Doesn't even attempt to look embarrassed beyond that initial blush. The man—Elias—turns his head slowly, fixing Silas with a glare that could freeze blood.
“My dick stays exactly where it belongs.” His voice carries the kind of authority that makes people stop talking. Makes them listen. “If you have business, state it. Otherwise, find somewhere else to be.”
The woman shifts again, a barely-there movement that makes his jaw tighten. She's doing it on purpose, the minx. Testing how long he can maintain that icy control while she works him over.
“This is Nova,” Silas says, jerking his thumb at me. “Says she's an escape artist. Thought you might want to meet her before I send her packing.”
Those pale eyes turn to me, assessing. The woman twists to look over her shoulder. Her dark eyes are sharp despite her compromised position.
“Nova Calder,” I offer, trying to keep my voice steady. Trying not to think about what's happening beneath that table, how casually they're conducting business while—
“Elias Vale.” He doesn't move to shake hands. Obviously. “This is Jules.”
Jules's smile spreads across her pretty face, slow and wicked. “Hey.”
Not a hint of shame in her voice. She adjusts her position on Elias's lap, deliberate in her movements, and I catch the way his fingers tighten on her hip. A warning or encouragement—I can't tell which.
“Have a seat.” Elias gestures to one of the empty chairs across from them. “We'll decide if you get to join the Seven Sins Carnival.”
The casualness of it all makes my head spin. They're conducting an interview while she rides him. While his cock is buried inside her. The thought makes my thighs clench, and I hate myself for the reaction.
I pull out a chair and sit, trying to look anywhere but at them. But it's impossible. They're magnetic—him with his tattooed chest and those otherworldly pale eyes, her with that blue hair and leather that hugs every curve. Together they're beautiful and dangerous in a way I don't have a word for.
Jules reaches for a strawberry from the plate between them, bringing it to her lips. The way she bites into it, juice glistening on her mouth, feels like a performance meant just for him. But her dark eyes stay on me, assessing.
“So,” Elias says, his voice perfectly controlled despite what's happening below his waist. “What can you do for us?”
I force myself to meet his gaze instead of watching the subtle play of muscles in his forearms as he maintains perfect control. “Escape artistry. Locks, chains, handcuffs, straitjackets—whatever restraints you've got, I can get out of them.”
“Everyone says that.” Jules's voice carries a hint of breathlessness, but her tone stays conversational. “What makes you different?”
“I've never failed to escape.” I lean back in my chair, projecting confidence I don't entirely feel. “Not once. Give me thirty seconds with any lock, and I'll show you why.”
Silas crosses his arms, skeptical. “Thirty seconds is a bold claim.”
“It's not a claim. It's a fact.” I pull a bobby pin from my hair, straightening it with practiced movements. “Test me.”
Elias tilts his head, studying me with those unsettling pale eyes. Jules reaches for another strawberry, her movements causing him to draw in a sharp breath through his nose. But his attention never wavers from me.
“What's your background?” he asks. “Where did you perform before this?”
The question I've been dreading. I keep my expression neutral, fall back on the half-truths I practiced during the bus ride here. “Small venues mostly. Underground circuits, private parties. Places that value discretion.”
“Underground.” Jules repeats the word like she's tasting it. “Illegal gambling rings? Fight clubs?”
“Among other things.” I shrug, letting them draw their own conclusions. Better they think I'm running from debt collectors or angry gamblers than the truth. “The pay was good, but the atmosphere got... complicated.”
Silas frowns. “Complicated how?”
“Let's just say some patrons got too invested in whether I could escape their particular brand of restraints.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I prefer audiences who keep their hands to themselves.”
It's not entirely a lie. Roman's grabbing, his demands, his threats—that counts as complications. Just not the kind they're probably imagining.
Elias nods slowly. “Fair enough. Show us what you can do, and we'll consider adding you to our roster.”
Jules shifts again, deliberate and slow. This time, Elias's control slips just enough for his jaw to clench.
“Find her some chains, Silas,” he says through gritted teeth. “Put her to the test.”
I glance at Silas, expecting him to move, to fetch the chains his boss ordered. Instead, he leans against a nearby post, an infuriating smirk spreading across his face.
“Chains, huh?” His blue eyes rake over me with deliberate slowness. “I've got plenty. The question is whether you can handle what I'll wrap around you.”
The innuendo is unmistakable. Jules makes a soft sound that might be a laugh, might be something else entirely. Elias's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes.
I narrow my gaze at Silas, letting him see the flash of temper he's been poking at since we met. “Honey, I've slipped out of tighter spots than anything you could dream up.”
“Is that right?” He pushes off the post, stalking closer. “Because I've got a very active imagination.”
“Good for you.” I tilt my chin up, meeting his approach head-on. “Must be all that time you spend alone.”
Jules definitely laughs at that, a bright sound that cuts through the tension. Even Elias's mouth twitches.
Silas stops just outside my personal space, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and woody that makes me want to lean in despite myself. “Careful, little fugitive. You don't know what kind of games we play here.”
The nickname sends ice through my veins. Does he know? Has he figured out—
No. He's fishing, same as before. Testing boundaries, looking for cracks.
“I'm not here to play games.” I keep my voice steady, bored even. “I'm here for a job. So get your chains and stop wasting everyone's time trying to impress me.”
“Trying to impress you?” His grin turns wicked. “Sweetheart, I haven't even started. Though I should warn you—I don't need chains to make a woman beg.”
Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it. The arrogant son of a—
“Silas.” Elias's voice cuts through like a blade. “The chains. Now.”
Silas holds my gaze for another heartbeat, that smirk still playing at his lips. Then he backs away with a mock salute to his boss.
“Your wish is my command.”