Chapter 7
NOVA
The dressing room behind the Big Top buzzes with post-show energy. Adrenaline still courses through my veins from our performance, from the way the crowd hung on every movement, every chain that fell. From the way Silas looked at me while I picked those locks.
The performers—Silas calls them his brothers—filter in one by one, peeling off masks and catching their breath. Logan tosses his furnace-grate mask onto a chair and grins at me.
“Not bad for your first night, Red.”
“Thanks.” I set my own chains and mask carefully on the vanity, muscle memory from years of caring for my equipment. “That was...”
“Intense,” Jonah finishes, unwrapping the chains from his massive chest. His eyes catch mine in the mirror. “You two had some serious chemistry out there.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It's called professionalism.”
“Is that what we're calling it?” Cole spins a knife between his fingers, a sleazy grin spreading across his face. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like foreplay.”
“Shut up, Cole.” Silas strips off his white shirt, revealing the lean muscle underneath.
Sweat gleams on his chest, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
Like remember how it felt when his hands found my hair during the act.
How his fingers tangled in the strands while I picked his locks, his body heat bleeding through the thin fabric of my corset.
“Just saying,” Cole continues, flipping the knife in a lazy arc. “If you two need a private moment to work out all that tension—”
The door bangs open, cutting him off.
Jules bursts in like she's being chased, her dark eyes scanning the room until they land on Elias. He's still wearing his ringmaster coat, but she doesn't give him time to take it off.
She launches herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist. Her mouth crashes against his with a hunger that makes my cheeks burn.
“Fucking hell,” Logan mutters, but he's grinning. “Here we go.”
“Show got you worked up, Little Sapphire?” Elias's voice is rough against her lips, his hands already gripping her ass.
“You know what it does to me,” Jules breathes, grinding against him. “Watching you command that crowd. Watching you own that stage.”
“Christ,” Jonah says quietly. “Not again.”
But Elias is already moving, carrying Jules toward the door while they devour each other. Her fingers work at the buttons of his coat, desperate to get underneath the fabric. His teeth find her neck, and she makes a sound that's part moan, part plea.
“Get a room,” Silas calls after them.
“Getting one,” Elias replies without breaking away from Jules's mouth. “Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone.”
The door slams behind them, and the sudden quiet feels almost oppressive.
“Every damn show,” Marek says softly, his pale eyes amused. “Like clockwork.”
“Can't blame him,” Cole shrugs, cleaning his blade with a cloth. “She does look particularly edible tonight.”
“You need to get laid,” Logan tells him, a wicked grin on his face.
The brothers begin dispersing slowly. Rowe heads for the back exit—probably to check on his animals. Marek drifts out, humming as he shuffles his cards. Logan and Jonah wander off together, muttering about something to do with fire safety.
Cole lingers long enough to shoot me one last grin. “Welcome to the family, Red. Try not to let our boy here corrupt you too much your first week.”
Then it's just Silas and me.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with the tension that we didn’t leave on the stage. The way he touched me. The way I let him. The way the crowd disappeared until it felt like we were performing just for each other.
“So.” He turns to face me, and I catch my breath at the intensity in his expression. “How'd that feel?”
“The performance?” I busy myself organizing my lock picks, anything to avoid looking directly at him. “It went well. Good crowd response.”
“That's not what I meant.”
His voice is lower now, rougher. I look up and find him watching me with predatory focus. He's still shirtless, lean muscle shifting under ink as he moves closer.
“The way you moved out there,” he continues, closing the distance between us. “Like the chains were part of you. Like you were made to be bound.”
My pulse quickens. “It's just an act, Silas.”
“Is it?” He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with sweat from the performance. “Because when I had my hands in your hair, when you were pressed against me picking those locks... that didn't feel like acting.”
The memory sends a rush of heat through me. The way his fingers tangled in my hair, dominant and demanding. The way his body radiated heat and danger while I worked.
“You're imagining things.” But my voice comes out breathier than intended.
“Am I?” His hand rises, fingertips barely grazing my cheek. “Your pulse is racing.”
I should step back. Should maintain the boundaries I laid out earlier. Should remember that I'm here to hide, not to get tangled up with a man.
Instead, I tilt my face into his touch.
“The performance was...” I search for words that won't betray how much I want him. “It was good. We work well together.”
“We do.” His thumb traces along my jaw, sending shivers down my spine. “The question is what we're going to do about it.”
“Nothing.” The word falls flat even to my own ears. “I told you—I need this job. I can't afford complications.”
“What if I want to be your complication?”
The question is loaded with promise and threat in equal measure. His eyes search mine, looking for cracks in my armor.
And God help me, he's finding them.
“Silas.” His name comes out like a warning.
“Say it again.”
“What?”
“My name. Say it like you did out there, when you were unlocking my chains.”
The memory makes my thighs clench—the way his name fell from my lips while I worked, breathy and desperate. The way his body went rigid when he heard it.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Liar.” He steps closer, backing me against the vanity. “You said it like a prayer. Like you were worshipping at some dark altar.”
My hands find the edge of the vanity behind me, gripping it for support. “You're delusional.”
“Then prove it.” His other hand braces beside me, caging me in. “Say my name now. Just once. If it doesn't affect you, it shouldn't be a problem.”
It's a trap. But looking into those blue eyes, feeling the heat radiating from his body, I can't bring myself to care.
“Silas,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches. “Again.”
“Silas.” Louder this time, but still breathless.
Something dangerous flickers across his face. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”
Before I can answer, his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is fire and need, all the tension from our performance pouring out in desperate hunger. His hands frame my face while I grip the vanity behind me, anchoring myself against the storm.
He tastes like sin and promises, like everything I should run from and everything I want to devour. When his tongue traces my lower lip, I open for him without thinking.
The sound he makes—part growl, part groan—sends liquid heat straight to my core.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth. “I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you.”
“Silas—”
“Say it again.” His lips find my throat, teeth grazing against sensitive skin. “Say my name like you need me.”
I should push him away. Should remember that I'm supposed to be lying low, staying invisible. Should remember that men like Silas are dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the law.
Instead, I arch into his touch. “Silas.”
He makes that sound again, deeper this time. His hands drop to my waist, fingers digging into the boning of my corset.
“This has to come off,” he says roughly. “Now.”
“Someone could walk in—”
“Let them.” His fingers find the laces at my back, working them loose. “I don't give a fuck who sees.”
The corset comes apart, and I can finally breathe properly. But breathing becomes impossible again when his mouth finds the swell of my breast above my bra.
“God, you're beautiful.” His voice is muffled against my skin. “Those freckles drive me insane. I want to worship every single one with my tongue.”
My hands tangle in his hair, holding him against me. “This is a bad idea.”
“The best ones always are.” He straightens, those blue eyes now dark with hunger. “Turn around.”
The command makes me shiver. I should refuse, should maintain some semblance of control. Instead, I turn to face the mirror.
He stands behind me, his hands spanning my waist. In the reflection, I can see the hunger written across his face, the way his gaze devours every inch of exposed skin.
“Look at yourself,” he commands softly. “Look how beautiful you are when you stop hiding.”
I meet my own eyes in the mirror—green and wild, pupils blown wide with desire. My hair's coming loose from its pins, auburn strands framing my flushed face. The corset hangs open, revealing the black lace bra underneath.
“Silas...” His name falls from my lips like a plea.
“That's right.” His hands slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. “Say it like you need me to touch you.”
“I do.” The admission tears from my throat before I can stop it. “I need…”
“Tell me.” His mouth finds my ear, breath hot against my skin. “Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you.”
I should lie. Should deflect like I've been doing since the moment I met him. But the woman in the mirror—flushed and desperate and completely undone—doesn't look like someone who lies.
“I need you to stop asking questions.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I need you to just... take me. Make me forget everything else for a little while.”
Something shifts in his expression. The playful seducer disappears, replaced by something darker and infinitely more dangerous.
“Turn around,” he says again, but his voice is different now. Rougher. Commanding.