Chapter 4
SILAS
Igrab my performance chains from the supply trailer, taking my time selecting the heaviest set—the ones with the trick locks that stump even seasoned escape artists. If this woman wants to prove herself, she'll do it properly.
When I return, Nova's standing several feet from Elias and Jules, arms crossed tight over her chest, looking anywhere but at them. Smart. Jules has shifted position entirely, straddling Elias's lap while he grips her hips and guides her movements with zero concern for their audience.
The wet sounds of them fill the dark. Jules's breathy moans tangle with Elias's deeper groans—a soundtrack that would send most people running. Nova just stands there, jaw set, studying the carnival lights like they owe her an answer.
“Hey.” I jangle the chains to get her attention. “Come on, show me what you can do.”
She turns, relief flickering across her face before she masks it. Those green eyes drop to the chains in my hands, and I catch the slight widening—she recognizes quality when she sees it.
“Those aren't your typical performance chains.” She steps closer, away from our shameless leader.
“You said any lock in thirty seconds.” I hold them up, letting her see the complex mechanisms. “Triple-pin tumblers. False gates. Most professionals need two minutes minimum.”
She takes them from me, running her fingers over the metal with the care of someone who truly knows their craft. Behind us, Jules cries out, and I watch Nova's shoulders climb toward her ears.
“Is this... normal?” She keeps her voice low as I help her wrap the chains around her torso.
“Which part? The exhibitionism or the complete lack of boundaries?”
“Both.”
I shrug. “You get used to it. Elias does what he wants, when he wants. The rest of us learned to work around it.”
“And you're okay with that?” She produces two more bobby pins from her hair, already bending them into shape.
“I’m okay with a lot of things that would shock your delicate sensibilities.” I circle her slowly as she starts to work and I start to count internally. “Question is whether you can handle our particular brand of chaos.”
She snorts, manipulating the first lock with steady hands. “Trust me, I've seen worse.”
“Have you now?” I stop directly behind her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. “Care to elaborate?”
The lock clicks open.
Twenty-three seconds left, and she’s already working on the second lock, those green eyes narrowed in concentration.
“No elaboration necessary.” Her voice carries that same deflection from earlier, but her hands never falter. “Everyone's got their demons.”
“Demons.” I taste the word, watching her shoulders shift as she manipulates the pins. “That what you're running from?”
The second lock pops open. Fifteen seconds total.
She moves to the third without missing a beat. “Who says I'm running?”
“The way you showed up here, middle of the night, looking over your shoulder every few seconds.” I lean against the trailer beside her. “The cash bulging in your jacket pocket. The way you flinch at loud noises.”
Her fingers still for half a second before resuming their work. “You're observant.”
“It's a survival skill.”
Behind us, Elias's voice rises in a string of curses filthy enough to peel paint. Jules laughs, breathless and wild. Nova's jaw clenches, but she doesn't look back.
“Twenty-eight seconds.” The third lock falls open. The chains drop from her body at my feet and she straightens, meeting my gaze directly. “Satisfied?”
“Getting there.” I pick up the chains, noting how she'd bypassed the false gates entirely—a technique most escape artists never learn. “Where'd you train?”
“Here and there.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's the only one you're getting.” She tilts her head, studying me with those striking eyes. “Unless you want to tell me why an illusionist is doing second-string admin work for a traveling carnival?”
The question hits closer than she could possibly know. I keep my expression neutral, but something must show because her lips curve slightly.
“Everyone's got their demons,” she repeats softly.
A sharp cry from Jules cuts through the air, followed by the distinctive sound of a hand meeting flesh. Nova's eyes widen slightly.
“Jesus Christ.” She runs a hand through her auburn hair. “Do they ever stop?”
“Eventually.” I gather the chain, taking my time. “Though Elias has impressive stamina when he's properly motivated.”
“And she motivates him?”
The note in Elias's voice as he growls Jules's name answers that question better than I could.
“You could say that.” I study the woman in front of me, noting the way she holds herself—ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
The woman's got secrets buried deeper than a carnival's debt, but I file that away for later. Right now, she's here, she's talented, and she's exactly the kind of trouble that keeps life interesting.
“You handle those chains like a lover.” I step closer, letting my voice drop to match the intimate darkness around us. “All gentle touches and knowing exactly where to apply pressure.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, a spark of heat mixing with wariness. “Locks respond better to finesse than force.”
“So do most things worth opening.” I run my thumb along one of the chains, maintaining eye contact. “Though sometimes a little force has its place.”
She shifts her weight, not quite stepping back but creating space between us. “Speaking from experience?”
“More than you might expect.” I wrap the chains around my forearms in a practiced motion, the metal links sliding against my skin. “I've been working on chain escapes myself. Started about six months ago.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise breaking through her guarded expression. “You're kidding.”
“Why would I kid about that?” I flex my wrists, demonstrating the proper tension needed for a wrist-chain escape. “Magic's all about misdirection, but escape artistry? That's pure skill. No smoke and mirrors, just you against the restraints.”
“Most illusionists think escape work is beneath them.” She watches my movements with interest, her earlier defensiveness temporarily forgotten.
“Most illusionists are pompous asses who couldn't pick a padlock if their lives depended on it.” I unwind the chains slowly, enjoying the way her eyes track the movement. “I prefer expanding my skill set.”
“Show me.”
The challenge in her voice makes me grin. I wrap the chains around my wrists properly this time, using a standard eight-wrap configuration. The locks click shut, and I roll my shoulders, settling into the familiar discomfort.
“Time me.” I begin the careful process of dislocating my thumb—just enough to create slack.
She doesn't pull out a phone or watch, just counts under her breath while I work. The chains bite into my skin as I maneuver, using a different technique than she'd demonstrated, contortion.
Forty-five seconds later, the chains hit the ground.
“Not bad for a magician.” She crosses her arms, but I catch the impressed glint in her eyes. “With some work, you could get that down to thirty.”
“Or...” I gather the chains again, an idea forming. “We could work together. A double act. The illusionist and the escape artist.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, those green eyes darting between me and the chains. “I've never done a double act. Always worked solo.”
“First time for everything.” I wrap the chains around my arm, letting them clink softly in the space between us. “Unless you're having second thoughts about joining our merry band of misfits?”
Behind us, Jules lets out another cry that could wake the dead. Nova's jaw tightens, and I watch her hands curl into fists at her sides.
“Do you want the job or not?” I ask, cutting through whatever internal debate she's having.
Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. The frustration rolling off her is tangible—she needs this, needs somewhere to hide, but every instinct is probably screaming at her to run. I recognize the look. We’ve all worn it at some point.
“Fine.” The word comes out sharp, bitten off. She squares her shoulders and fixes me with a killer glare. “But if we're doing this, you better be professional. No grabby hands, no innuendos, no trying to cop a feel during the act.”
A smirk tugs at my lips before I can stop it. Professional. Right. She stands there with her auburn hair catching the carnival lights, freckles scattered across her nose like stars, that choker around her throat begging to be replaced with something more interesting—and she wants professional.
The fact she's actively resisting makes my blood run hotter. Most people who end up at the carnival are either running from something or running to it. But Nova? She's got walls built higher than our main tent, and I find myself wanting to scale every single one.
“Professional as a heart attack,” I lie smoothly, already imagining how those tattooed hands would look gripping my headboard. How that defiant mouth would part when I—
“I mean it.” She steps closer, and I catch her scent—leather and something floral, probably from whatever shampoo she used at her last stop. “I need this job, but I don't need complications.”
Too late for that, I think, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each agitated breath. She's already a complication, and she doesn't even know it yet.