Chapter 11
NOVA
Three days at the Seven Sins Carnival, and I'm starting to feel at home—a feeling I haven’t felt in years. The routine helps—morning practice sessions in the equipment trailer, afternoon prep for the evening shows, then the electric rush of performing in front of crowds who hang on every movement.
And Silas. Fuck, Silas helps too, in ways I'm not ready to examine.
I've been avoiding thinking too hard about what happened in the dressing room after our first show. The way he made me forget everything except the feel of his hands, the sound of my name on his lips. The way I let him see me completely undone, barriers stripped away along with my clothes.
Dangerous territory. The kind that leads to attachment, and attachment gets you caught.
But when I'm alone in the Big Top during the quiet afternoon hours, working through escape sequences while dust motes dance in the filtered sunlight, I can pretend it's all simple. That I'm just Nova Calder, escape artist, perfecting my craft without a care in the world.
I'm working my way out of a particularly complex rope configuration when footsteps echo across the empty space. My pulse quickens before I even turn around, my body recognizing the sound of his approach before my brain catches up.
Silas emerges from the shadows between the bleachers, moving with that feline grace that makes my mouth go dry.
He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that showcases the lean muscle I've already mapped with my hands.
His floppy hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the canvas walls.
“Don't let me interrupt,” he says, but he’s already locked onto my position—arms bound behind my back with silk rope, ankles secured to the support beam I'm using as an anchor point.
“Just working through some knots,” I reply, continuing the careful process of creating slack. “The rope work in our act could use some refinement.”
“Could it?” He circles around behind me, and I feel his gaze like a physical touch. “Looks pretty refined from where I'm standing.”
The rope gives way enough for me to slip one wrist free. “There's always room for improvement.”
“Speaking from experience?” His voice is closer now, just behind my left shoulder. Close enough that I catch his scent—that dark, woody cologne that makes me want to press my face against his throat.
“Always.” The second wrist comes free, but I don't immediately move to untie my ankles. Being partially bound in his presence sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Though some restraints are more... challenging than others.”
“Challenging how?”
Silas walks to stand before me, rope still wound around my ankles. “Some are designed to be escaped from. Others are designed to keep you exactly where someone wants you.”
His pupils dilate, and I watch his jaw clench. “And which kind do you prefer?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with subtext. I bend to untie my ankles, taking my time with the knots, aware of how the position means he can see right down my tank top.
“Depends on who's doing the tying.”
When I straighten, he's moved closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, close enough that the heat radiating from his body makes my skin prickle.
“What about chains?” His voice has dropped to that rough register that goes straight to my core. “You seemed to enjoy them the other night.”
My cheeks burn at the memory. The weight of metal against my skin, the click of locks, the way his hands lingered as he secured each restraint during our practice sessions.
“Chains have their appeal,” I manage.
“Do they?” He reaches past me to the equipment wall, fingers trailing along a set of heavy performance chains. “These particular chains?”
“Those are your chains.”
“Are they?” The metal links clink softly as he lifts them from their hook. “Funny, I was thinking they might look better on you.”
My pulse jumps. “We already worked out the choreography for our act.”
“This isn't about the act.” He steps closer, chains draped over his forearm. “This is about what happens when the audience goes home.”
“Silas—”
“Turn around.”
The command in his tone makes my knees weak. I should refuse, should maintain the professional boundaries I laid out when I took this job. Should remember that I'm supposed to be lying low, not getting tangled up with a man who sees past the mask I’m wearing.
Instead, I turn.
His fingers find the hem of my practice tank top, lifting it over my head. The afternoon air kisses my bare shoulders, and I shiver despite the warmth.
“Better,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck. “Much better.”
The chains are cool against my skin as he drapes them across my shoulders, the weight familiar and comforting. His hands follow the metal, tracing along my collarbones with reverent touches that make me arch into the contact.
“You know what you do to me in chains?” His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear. “The way you move, like they're part of you. Like you were born to wear them.”
“It's just performance—”
“Bullshit.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “You come alive when you're bound. Like it's the only time you feel safe enough to be yourself.”
The observation is too astute, and I stiffen in his arms. He notices immediately, hands stilling on my waist.
“Did I hit a nerve?” His voice is gentler, but still carries that edge of hunger.
“You don't know anything about me,” I say, trying to inject frost into my tone.
“Don't I?” He turns me to face him, hands framing my face with surprising tenderness.
“I know you're running from something or someone.
I know you sleep with one eye open and jump at loud noises.
I know you've got more walls built up than Fort Knox, but when you're performing, when you're escaping...” His thumb traces my lower lip.
“That's when the real Nova comes out to play.”
“The real Nova is none of your business.”
“Isn't she?” His hands drop to the chains around my shoulders, adjusting their position with ease. “Because from where I'm standing, she seems very interested in what I have to offer.”
Heat floods my system as he begins winding the chains around my torso, creating an intricate harness that emphasizes rather than conceals. Each loop is placed with deliberate precision, the metal warming against my skin.
“This is insane,” I breathe, but I don't pull away.
“Probably.” He secures the first lock at the center of my chest, the click loud in the empty tent. “Does that bother you?”
It should. Every instinct I've developed over the years of survival screams that this is dangerous, that letting anyone this close is asking for trouble. But watching his hands work the chains, feeling the careful way he positions each link—there's a meditative quality to it.
“No,” I admit. “It doesn't.”
His smile is sharp. “Good girl.”
The praise sends a rush of heat to my core. He notices my reaction, of course—notices the way my breathing changes, the flush that spreads across my chest.
“You like that,” he observes, securing another lock. “Being told you're good.”
“I like being appreciated for my skills.” The words come out breathier than intended.
“Oh, I appreciate your skills.” His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs. “All of them.”
The double meaning isn't lost on me. I can feel myself getting wetter as he continues working the chains, creating a pattern that's both beautiful and inescapable. By the time he finishes, I'm bound in an intricate web of metal that showcases every curve, every freckle, every inch of exposed skin.
“There.” He steps back to admire his handiwork. “Perfect.”
I glance down at myself, surprised by what I see. The chains don't look like restraints—they look like armor designed to protect rather than imprison.
“Now what?” I ask.
His grin turns wicked. “Now we see how good you really are at escaping.”
“This is hardly a challenge.” I test the bonds, feeling for weak points. “Give me thirty seconds—”
“Not so fast.” He produces a small padlock from his pocket, one I didn't see him attach. “I made a few modifications to your usual setup.”
My eyes narrow. “What kind of modifications?”
Instead of answering, he circles around me slowly, like a predator studying its prey.
“You know, most escape artists rely on technique alone. Dislocating joints, manipulating locks, using flexibility to create slack.” His fingers trail along one of the chains, making me shiver.
“But the really exceptional ones understand something else entirely.”
“Which is?”
“That the mind is the strongest cage of all.” He stops in front of me, eyes burning with intensity. “And the only way to truly escape is to surrender completely first.”
I scoff. “That's not how escape artistry works.”
“Isn't it?” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “Tell me, Nova—when you're performing, when you're working your way out of restraints in front of hundreds of people, what are you really escaping from?”
The question feels like a slap. Images flash through my mind—Roman's hands around my throat, the trailer that felt more like a prison than a home, years of looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Liar.” But there's no accusation in his voice, just understanding. “We're all running from something, beautiful. The difference is whether we run toward freedom or toward another kind of cage.”
His words strip me bare more effectively than any physical restraint. He understands too much about the woman I've spent years trying to hide.
“I should go.” I tug at the chains, but they hold fast. “People will wonder where we are.”
“Let them wonder.” His mouth finds my throat, pressing hot kisses along the column of my neck. “Right now, you're exactly where you belong.”
“Silas…” His name comes out like a plea.