Chapter 5
NOVA
The morning sun beats down mercilessly as Silas leads me toward a cluster of trailers arranged in a rough semicircle.
My stomach churns—not from nerves, but from the gas station coffee that's been my only breakfast for the past three days.
The carnival looks different in daylight, less magical and more like what it really is: a collection of worn-down rides and faded paint held together by determination and duct tape.
“Ready to meet the family?” Silas asks, his voice carrying that same sardonic edge from last night.
“As ready as anyone can be to meet a whole set of new coworkers.”
The first trailer we approach has its door propped open, and I can hear voices drifting out—deep, masculine laughter punctuated by the occasional curse word. Silas climbs the metal steps and gestures for me to follow.
“Morning, ladies,” he calls as we step inside.
The trailer's cramped interior houses what looks like a mobile office mixed with a weapons cache.
Maps cover one wall, and I spot enough knives displayed on another to stock a small army.
Six men look up from various positions around the space—some seated at a fold-out table, others leaning against the counter.
“Everyone, meet Nova. She's our new escape artist.”
The man from last night, Elias, sits behind what must pass for a desk, wearing a black button-down that's definitely more expensive than anything else in this trailer.
His pale gray eyes assess me with the same intensity as before, but without Jules draped across his lap, he seems more. .. businesslike.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” he says, inclining his head slightly.
Jules emerges from a back room, her short blue hair slightly mussed. She's wearing leather pants and a tank top, and she moves with the confidence of someone who's never doubted her place in this world.
“Nova!” She grins, genuine warmth in her dark eyes. “Sleep well? Or at all?”
“Sleep's overrated,” I reply breezily.
A massive man unfolds himself from a chair that looks comically small beneath him. He has to be six-foot-seven, with shoulders wide enough to bench-press a car. Despite his intimidating size, his green eyes hold surprising gentleness.
“Jonah,” he says, extending a hand that could probably crush my skull. His grip is firm but careful. “Strongman act. Welcome aboard.”
“Nova. Try not to break me.”
He chuckles, a rumbling sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “I'll do my best.”
A man with light blue-gray eyes and an ethereal quality steps forward next. He's quieter than the others, moving with an almost ghostly grace that makes me think of smoke and shadows.
“Marek,” he says simply. “Fortune teller.” His voice is soft but carries in the small space. “The cards were... interesting this morning.”
“Good interesting or 'pack your bags and run' interesting?”
A smile ghosts across his lips. “That remains to be seen.”
Before I can process that cryptic response, two nearly identical men approach. Both are tall with brown hair, but one carries himself with barely contained violence while the other seems more withdrawn.
“Logan,” says the first, flashing a grin that's all sharp edges. “Fire eater. And before you ask, yes, it's as stupid and dangerous as it sounds.”
“And twice as fun to watch,” adds his twin, though his gray eyes hold a sadness that makes something in my chest tighten. “Rowe. Animal tamer.”
“Twins,” I observe. “That must be convenient for alibis.”
Logan barks out a laugh. “I like her already.”
The last man stands apart from the group, idly flipping a knife between his long fingers. His floppy black hair falls across his face, and when he looks up, I catch a glimpse of slanted brown eyes that hold a predatory gleam.
“Cole,” he says, never stopping his knife play. “I throw things at people for money.”
“Sounds like my kind of hobby.”
His grin turns wicked. “Something tells me you and I are going to get along just fine.”
I feel rather than see Silas stiffen beside me. When I glance at him, his jaw is set in a hard line, blue eyes fixed on Cole with unmistakable tension.
“Cole specializes in... sharp objects,” Silas says, his voice carefully neutral.
“Among other things.” Cole's grin widens, and he makes a deliberate show of looking me up and down. “So, escape artist. What's your specialty? Handcuffs? Chains? Rope work?”
The innuendo in his tone is unmistakable, and I see Logan elbow Rowe with obvious amusement. Even Jonah's trying to hide a smile.
“Whatever needs escaping from,” I reply, matching his energy. “Though I find the more complicated the restraint, the more... satisfying the release.”
Cole's laugh is pure appreciation. “Oh, we're definitely going to have fun.”
Silas's hand lands on my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Nova and I will be working up a double act. Combining illusion with escape artistry.”
“How... intimate,” Cole purrs, never taking his eyes off me. “All that close contact, those lingering touches during the performance. Must require quite a bit of... practice.”
“We'll manage,” Silas says tersely.
I can practically feel the testosterone-fueled tension crackling between them, and something mischievous sparks in my chest. After years of looking over my shoulder, of jumping at every shadow, there's something deliciously freeing about being fought over by attractive men who probably break laws for a living.
“Actually,” I say, stepping slightly away from Silas's touch and closer to Cole, “I find that chemistry can't be forced. It either exists or it doesn't.”
Cole's knife stops spinning. “And does it?”
“The jury's still out.”
Logan lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Si. She's got your number already.”
Silas's smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “I think Nova and I should get started on our rehearsal. We've got a show tonight, after all.”
“So soon?” Rowe asks, surprise coloring his quiet voice.
“No time like the present,” Silas replies, his hand returning to my back with more pressure this time. “The sooner we get synchronized, the better.”
Jules smirks from her perch on Elias's desk. “Synchronized. Is that what we're calling it?”
Heat flares in my cheeks, but I refuse to back down. “I'm a fast learner. I'm sure Silas and I will find our rhythm quickly.”
The double entendre hangs in the air like smoke, and I watch as Silas's pupils dilate slightly. Got him.
“Alright,” Elias says, cutting through the tension with obvious amusement. “Before you all combust from sexual frustration, why don't you actually go practice? The equipment trailer should have everything you need.”
Silas practically herds me toward the door, his hand now firmly gripping my elbow. “Gentlemen. Ladies. We'll be... rehearsing.”
“Try not to get too tangled up,” Cole calls after us, and I hear Logan's laughter following us out the door.
The equipment trailer sits at the far edge of the carnival grounds, isolated from the main cluster of living spaces.
Silas unlocks it and gestures me inside, and I'm impressed by the professional setup.
Chains, handcuffs, rope, and various restraint devices hang from hooks along the walls.
A padded mat covers most of the floor space, and mirrors line one wall.
“Impressive collection,” I say, running my fingers along a set of particularly intricate shackles. “Some of these look antique.”
“Collected over the years.” Silas closes the door behind us, and suddenly the trailer feels much smaller. “We take our craft seriously.”
“I can see that.” I pick up a coil of silk rope, testing its strength. “This is high-quality stuff. Not cheap carnival props.”
“Nothing about this operation is cheap.”
I turn to face him, rope still in my hands, and find him watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. In the confined space, his height seems more pronounced, his presence more overwhelming. The easy banter from the group trailer feels heavier here, weighted with possibility.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “What did you have in mind for this act?”
He moves closer, ostensibly to select chains from the wall, but his arm brushes mine as he reaches past me. “I was thinking we start with something simple. Basic chain restraint, then work our way up to more... complex scenarios.”
“Define complex.”
Instead of answering directly, he lifts a set of chains that look like they could anchor a ship. “Turn around.”
Every self-preservation instinct I possess screams at me to refuse, but I find myself complying. His fingers brush the nape of my neck as he moves my hair aside, and I have to bite back a gasp at the contact.
“Hands behind your back,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
The chains are even heavier than I expected, and the weight of them around my wrists sends an unexpected thrill through my system. Silas's fingers linger as he secures the locks, each touch deliberate and maddeningly brief.
“Too tight?” His voice is lower now, rougher.
“I've had tighter.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel him go still behind me.
“Have you now?”
I test the restraints, feeling for weak points and escape routes. “Nothing I couldn't handle.”
His laugh is dark, promising. “We'll see about that.”
He moves around to face me, and the heat in his eyes makes my mouth go dry. This was supposed to be practice, professional development, but the way he's looking at me now suggests he has other ideas entirely.
“The key to a good escape,” he says, circling me slowly, “is understanding the restraint completely. Every weakness, every angle.”
“I'm aware of the fundamentals.”
“Are you?” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trapped.”
The challenge in his voice sparks something defiant in my chest. I dislocate my thumb just enough to create the slack I need, then begin working the chains.
But instead of the usual thirty seconds, the process takes longer—partly because these chains are more complex than the ones from last night, but mostly because Silas is watching my every movement with predatory focus.
“Having trouble?” he asks when I fumble slightly with the second lock.
“Just... taking my time.”
“Or maybe,” he steps closer, his hand coming up to trace the edge of the chain against my collarbone, “you're distracted.”
The touch sends electricity shooting through my nervous system, and my fingers slip again. His satisfied smile tells me he knows exactly what effect he's having.
“That's cheating,” I manage.
“All's fair in love and performance art.”
The chains finally give way, falling to the trailer floor with a metallic crash. But instead of stepping back, instead of putting distance between us, I find myself moving closer to Silas.
“My turn,” I say, reaching for a set of handcuffs from the nearby hook.
His eyebrows rise, but he doesn't resist when I guide his hands behind his back. The cuffs click shut, and I'm suddenly very aware of how this position pushes his chest forward, how the fabric of his shirt stretches across his shoulders.
“Comfortable?” I ask, my voice slightly breathless.
“Getting there.” His eyes never leave mine as he tests the restraints. “Though I should warn you—I'm very good at getting out of tight situations.”
“Prove it.”
What follows is the most erotically charged practice session of my life.
We work through various restraints and escapes, but every touch lingers a heartbeat too long, every brush of skin against skin sends heat shooting through my veins.
When he demonstrates a particular wrist technique, his hands cover mine completely.
When I show him another technique to dislocate a joint safely, my fingers trace along his forearms, feeling the raised texture of old scars beneath his sleeves.
By the time we've run through a dozen different scenarios, the trailer feels like a sauna and my heart is hammering against my ribs. Silas is breathing hard too, his hair mussed from our practice, and when our eyes meet across the small space, the hunger there nearly knocks me sideways.
“I think,” he says, his voice rough with want, “we're going to put on quite a show.”