Chapter 15
NOVA
The first thing I notice when consciousness filters back is warmth. Solid, steady warmth pressed against my back, an arm draped over my waist like an anchor. I'm in Silas's bed. In his arms. And for the first time in my adult life, I don't feel the immediate need to bolt for the door.
The realization should terrify me. Should send me scrambling for my clothes and whatever shreds of self-preservation I have left. Instead, I find myself sinking deeper into his embrace, marveling at how different this feels from every other morning after in my memory.
I turn slowly in his arms, not wanting to wake him, needing to see his face in the pale morning light filtering through the trailer's small windows.
Sleep has softened his sharp edges, made him look younger somehow.
Less predator, more man. His dark lashes fan across his cheekbones, and his mouth—that wicked, clever mouth that said such filthy things to me last night—is relaxed in slumber.
Something painful unfurls in my chest as I study him. This man who sees too much, who asks all the wrong questions, who somehow makes me feel safe even as he strips away every defense I've spent years building…. This man promised to protect me from Roman.
The thought of my husband sends a familiar chill down my spine. But it's different now, muted by the solid presence of the man holding me. For the first time in twelve years, Roman feels like a problem that might actually have a solution instead of an inescapable prison sentence.
Silas's eyes flutter open, immediately focusing on my face with an alertness that speaks of years spent sleeping with one eye open. A slow smile spreads across his lips when he sees me watching him.
“Morning, beautiful.”
The endearment shouldn't make my heart skip, but it does. “Morning.”
His hand comes up to brush my hair away from my face, the gesture so tender it makes my throat tight. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in years.” The truth slips out before I can stop it, and I see the shift in his expression. Satisfaction, maybe. Or possession.
“Good.” His thumb traces along my cheekbone, and I lean into the touch without thinking. “You should move in here. With me.”
I stop breathing, staring numbly at the man inches from my face. Somehow, I must have misheard him. “Silas—”
“Hear me out.” His voice is calm, reasonable, but I catch the steel underneath. “The trailer you're in is small, impersonal. This one has better security, more space. You could make it your home.”
Home. The word hangs between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. I haven't had a home in a very long time.
Silas's hand slides down to rest on my hip, thumb stroking circles on bare skin. “You're safer here. With me. Where I can protect you if Roman decides to come looking.”
The logical part of my brain knows he's right. The guest performer trailer I'm staying in is basically a glorified closet with locks that wouldn't stop a determined teenager, much less a pissed-off husband with weeks of rage to work out.
But the terrified fifteen-year-old who's been calling the shots for over a decade is screaming at me to run. To put distance between myself and this man who makes me want impossible things.
“I need space to think,” I say, starting to pull away.
His grip tightens, not painful but implacable. “Think about what? Whether you trust me enough to let me take care of you? Whether you're brave enough to stop running long enough to build something real?”
The questions hit too close to home, and I lash out like I always do when someone gets too close. “I'm not some broken bird you can fix with the right combination of orgasms and pretty words.”
“No, you're not.” His eyes burn into mine, completely unrepentant. “You're a survivor. A fighter. A woman who's been through hell and came out the other side with enough steel in her spine to stab a man and walk away.”
The praise makes something warm unfurl in my chest, even as I try to resist it. “Flattery won't—”
“It's not flattery. It's the truth.” He sits up, pulling me with him until we're face to face. “You're the strongest person I've ever met, little fugitive. And you're also scared out of your fucking mind.”
I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's right. I am terrified—of him, of this, of wanting something so badly it makes my chest ache.
“What if you get tired of me?” The question slips out before I can stop it, small and vulnerable in the morning quiet.
Something fierce flickers across his face. “What if I don't?”
My throat constricts. “People always do. People always—”
“I'm not people.” He frames my face with his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I'm not Roman. I'm not whoever else hurt you before him. I'm me, and I want you exactly as you are. Damaged, dangerous, and absolutely fucking magnificent.”
The words wreck me, and suddenly I'm crying. The fear and loneliness and desperate hope I've been afraid to acknowledge come pouring out all at once.
Silas just holds me, one hand stroking my hair while I fall apart in his arms for the second time in twenty-four hours. He doesn't try to fix it, doesn't offer empty platitudes or false promises. Just solid comfort while I purge myself of poison I've been carrying for too long.
When the tears finally subside, I feel like I shed a weight I didn't realize was there until it was gone.
“Okay,” I whisper against his chest.
“Okay?”
“I'll move in. I'll try. But if you start leaving dirty dishes in the sink or hogging the bathroom, I'm out.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, and I feel his lips press against the top of my head. “Deal.”
We lie there for a while longer, wrapped in each other. Eventually, though, the sounds of the carnival waking up filter through the walls—distant voices, the rumble of equipment being moved, the eternal rhythm of circus life.
“We should probably get up,” I say reluctantly. “Face the day.”
Before I know it, Silas is—unfortunately—dressed, moving around the small kitchen with ease, his hair still mussed from sleep. The domesticity of it hits me sideways—watching him crack eggs into a pan, the way he hums absently under his breath.
When did I start wanting this? This ordinary magic of shared mornings with a man who doesn't hurt me for sport?
“Hungry?” He glances over his shoulder, catching me watching him.
“Starving.” And not just for food, though the plate he sets in front of me makes my mouth water. Perfectly scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and toast that's golden brown. “You're going to spoil me.”
“That's the plan.” His smile is soft, but I catch the gleam in his eyes.
We eat in comfortable silence. When I reach for the coffee, our fingers brush, and the simple contact sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“There's something else we need to discuss,” Silas says eventually, setting down his fork. His expression grows serious. “My brothers. They should know you're with me now. That you know about the Sanctum and what we're doing here.”
My pulse quickens. We spent the night talking about our pasts, but what he’s proposing… Suddenly I feel like I’m auditioning to join a family.
“All of them?”
“They're my brothers, Nova. We were born in the same hell. If you're part of my life, you're part of theirs.” He reaches across the small table, fingers intertwining with mine. “They'll accept you because I say they should. That's how it works with us.”
The certainty in his voice both comforts and terrifies me.
“What if they don't approve?” I ask, voicing my fears.
“They will.” His thumb traces circles on my knuckles. “Trust me.”
Twenty minutes later, we're walking across the carnival grounds toward the meeting trailer. My stomach churns with nerves, but Silas's steady presence beside me keeps me grounded.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, sensing my tension.
“I am breathing.”
“You're hyperventilating.”
He's right. I force myself to slow down, to match his unhurried pace. Whatever happens, I've survived worse. Much worse.
In the trailer, Elias sits behind his makeshift desk, Jules perched on the arm of his chair with coffee cradled in her hands.
The others occupy various positions around the cramped space—Logan sprawled in a chair by the window, Rowe leaning against the wall, Jonah's massive frame somehow folded into a corner.
Marek hovers near the counter with his tarot cards, and Cole cleans his knives while whistling under his breath.
All conversation stops when we enter.
“Morning,” Silas says, his hand finding the small of my back. “We need to talk.”
Elias's pale gray eyes assess us both as if he's taking in our proximity, the way Silas touches me, the tension radiating from my shoulders. “I see.”
“Nova's with me now,” Silas continues, his voice carrying that quiet authority I've come to recognize. “She knows about the Sanctum. About what we're doing. About why we're here.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken questions. I force myself to meet their gazes one by one, refusing to show weakness even as my heart hammers against my ribs.
Jules breaks the tension first, a slow smile spreading across her face. “About fucking time I get a woman to talk to about all of this.”
“A stranger,” Logan comments.
“She's one of us,” Silas says simply. “A survivor. Someone who understands what it means to run from monsters.”
Cole's knife stills in his hands. “That so?”
I lift my chin, finding my voice. “I stabbed my abusive husband with a rigging spike and left him to bleed. Does that qualify?”
I watch their faces, waiting for judgment, for the inevitable rejection.
Instead, Cole grins, the smile sharp and approving. “Definitely qualifies.”
“Welcome to the family,” Jonah says, his deep voice gentle despite his intimidating size.
Rowe nods once, a gesture of acceptance from the quietest of them. Marek shuffles his cards, nodding with approval.
But it's Elias who speaks with final authority, rising from his chair with fluid grace. “Well, Nova, you're now a member of the Seven Sins family. Which means we protect our own, no matter what.”
The words hit me with such force. Family. Protection. Belonging. Concepts I'd given up on years ago, written off as fairy tales for people luckier than me.
Jules sets down her coffee and crosses to me, pulling me into a fierce hug that smells like leather and bubblegum. “Welcome home.”
Home. That word makes my chest tighten. When was the last time I felt like I belonged anywhere?
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with unshed tears.
“Don't thank us yet,” Logan says with dark humor. “You haven't seen us at our worst.”
“Trust me,” I manage, finding my balance again. “I can handle worse.”
Elias's smile is sharp as a blade. “I believe you can. Now, shall we discuss tonight's plans? Our guest of honor will be attending the show.”
The conversation shifts to logistics, and I listen, absorbing details about their mission, about the man they're hunting. Malachi Voss. About justice delayed but not denied.
As they talk, I feel what I haven't felt in over a decade: the solid certainty of belonging somewhere. Of being wanted, protected, valued for exactly who I am—scars and all.