Chapter 19
TEDDY
Istare at the metal walls of this trailer, naked and sticky with the evidence of what just happened, trying to make sense of the wreckage of everything I thought I knew about myself.
My wrists ache where the zip ties cut into them. My ass still burns from Silas's fingers, that strange fullness I'd never experienced before. The image of them sharing my release is burned into my brain, and Christ—the memory alone makes my spent cock twitch.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I've been straight my entire life, surrounded by men, working alongside them, never once feeling anything beyond professional camaraderie. I've dated women. Had girlfriends. Normal, healthy relationships with the opposite sex.
But having Silas work me open while Nova's mouth tortured my cock... The way he commanded both of us, the heat in his eyes when he made me beg. I've never wanted anything more in my life.
And Nova. Damn it, Nova. The way she looked at me, like I was something to be devoured, her green eyes bright with cruel fascination. When she touched me, when she took me in her mouth…
I'm getting hard again just thinking about it.
This is insane. I'm a federal agent. I came here to investigate them, to gather evidence, to build a case. Instead, I let them strip me naked and fuck with my head in ways that make me question everything.
The smart thing would be to focus on escape. Test these restraints, look for weaknesses, formulate a plan. That's what my training says to do.
But all I can think about is the way Silas's fingers felt inside me, hitting spots that made me see stars. The way Nova's tongue worked my shaft while she hummed her appreciation. The promise in both their voices when they said this was just the beginning.
I want more. God help me, I want them to come back and finish what they started.
Hours pass—I can't tell how many in this windowless metal box.
My thoughts chase themselves in circles, shame and arousal warring for dominance.
Every time I think I've gotten myself under control, I remember the heat of Nova's mouth or the careful way Silas prepared me, and my treacherous body responds.
The door opens with a screech of hinges, and my pulse jumps. But it's not the performers here to finish me off.
It's just Nova, carrying a tray of food and wearing an expression I can't read.
She sets the tray on a small table I hadn't noticed before, then approaches with measured steps.
“Hungry?” she asks, settling onto a crate across from me.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly, reminding me I haven't eaten since what's probably now yesterday. “Depends on the terms.”
“No terms.” She picks up what looks like a sandwich, tearing off a piece. “You need to eat. I need information.”
“I thought you said you didn't want information.”
“I lied.” Her smile is sharp, unapologetic.
She brings the sandwich to my mouth, and after a moment's hesitation, I take the bite she offers. It's good—turkey and swiss on fresh bread that makes my stomach clench with hunger.
“Better?” she asks, preparing another bite.
I nod, studying her face. Without the haze of sex, I can see her more clearly. The freckles scattered across her nose, the way her auburn hair catches the light. She's beautiful in a fierce, untouchable way that makes me understand why Silas looks at her like she's worth killing for.
“You're FBI,” she says, feeding me another bite. “But you're here on your own.”
The question catches me off guard. “What makes you say that?”
“No backup, no surveillance team, no check-ins.”
These people are observant. And smart. “Maybe my leash is longer than you think.”
“Maybe.” She offers me water, tilting the bottle so I can drink. “Or maybe you're here because you know exactly what the Sanctum of Ash is, and you're not sure the system will deliver justice.”
The water tastes like absolution, cool against my parched throat. When she pulls the bottle away, I meet her eyes directly.
“Are you a survivor too?”
Her hand stills halfway to the tray. For a moment, something raw flickers across her features before she catches herself. “Of what?”
“The Sanctum of Ash,” I answer. “The cult. Is that why you're here?”
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. “My story is different, though it leaves similar scars.”
“I recognize the look.” I watch her carefully, noting the way her fingers tighten on the bottle. “I think you know what it's like to run from someone who's supposed to protect you.”
She snorts dismissively. “You're fishing.”
“I'm connecting dots.” I lean forward as much as the restraints allow. “Is Nova even your real name?”
Her green eyes narrow dangerously. “Careful, Agent Coleman. You're starting to sound like a cop again.”
“I am a cop. But that doesn't mean I'm your enemy.”
She sets the bottle aside and crosses her arms, studying me with renewed intensity. “Tell me about your investigation. What do you know about the carnival, about what's going on here?”
“I know at least six men have disappeared, all in towns where this carnival performed. I know they're all strong candidates for the Sanctum of Ash. I know these men are systematically hunting down the people who hurt them.”
“And?”
“And I'm starting to think they deserved it.”
The admission hangs between us like a confession. Nova's eyebrows climb toward her hairline, surprise replacing suspicion.
“That's not very FBI of you.”
“No, it's not.” I think about Malachi Voss's terrified face, the way he crumbled when confronted with his past. “But I know what those monsters did to children. I know how the system protected them while their victims cowered.”
“So why are you here? Why not just walk away?”
It's a fair question. One I've been asking myself since I first spotted the pattern.
“Because I needed to understand. Needed to see for myself what justice looks like when the law fails.”
Nova considers this, her head tilted like she's seeing me in a new light. “And what do you think now?”
“I think...” I struggle for words that won't damn me completely. “I think some debts can only be paid in blood.”
She nods slowly, as if I've passed some kind of test. “You want to know how I ended up here?”
“Only if you want to tell me.”
She picks up the sandwich again, tearing off small pieces as she talks.
“Silas was the first person I told this story. You’ll be the second.
” She pauses. “I ran away from home when I was fifteen.
Not because my parents were abusive. They weren't. They just had different dreams for me than I had for myself.”
I accept another bite, noting the careful way she chooses her words. This feels like the truth, but not the whole truth.
“They wanted me to go to college, become something respectable. But all I ever wanted was to perform. To be part of something magical.” Her smile is wistful, tinged with old pain. “I was naive. Thought the world would welcome a teenage runaway with big dreams and no experience.”
“What happened?”
“I met a man at a truck stop outside Wichita. Roman Miller. He was older… seventeen years older. But he seemed so worldly, so charming. He ran a traveling carnival, and when he offered me a job, it felt like fate.”
My stomach clenches at the age difference, at the implications. “Fifteen and thirty-two.”
“I was almost sixteen,” she says defensively, then catches herself. “Shit, listen to me. Still making excuses for him after all these years.”
“He hurt you.”
It's not a question, but she nods anyway. “Not at first. At first, he was everything I'd dreamed of. Sophisticated, passionate, completely focused on me. We got married on my eighteenth birthday, and I thought I was the luckiest girl alive.”
I exhale slowly. “But it changed.”
“Of course.” She offers me more water, her hands steady despite the pain in her voice. “He started small. Criticism under the guise of helpful suggestions. Isolation framed as protection. By the time I realized what was happening, I was trapped in a web I couldn't see my way out of.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “Twelve years of walking on eggshells, of making myself smaller and smaller until I disappeared completely.”
I want to reach for her, to offer some kind of comfort, but the restraints hold me in place. “What changed? What made you finally leave?”
Her laugh is bitter, sharp-edged. “He tried to kill me. Not the first time, but close enough. I defended myself with a rigging spike. Put it right through his gut. I thought I'd killed him.”
“But he survived.”
“Unfortunately.” She tears another piece of bread with unnecessary violence. “Though I still wish he hadn't.”
The honesty in her voice makes my chest tight. This woman—fierce, beautiful, damaged—carries wounds that may never fully heal. And somehow, she's found a family in these traveling killers who understand exactly what she's survived.
“Have you ever contacted your parents again? Since you left home?”
She goes very still, her eyes distant.
“I couldn't face them.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “How do you explain to the people who raised you that you threw away every opportunity they gave you? That you chose a life of abuse over the safety they provided?”
“They probably just want to know you're alive,” I say carefully.
“Maybe.” She wipes her eyes quickly, like she's angry at herself for showing vulnerability. “But it's been too many years, too much water under the bridge. I'm not the daughter they remember.”
I tilt my head. “You could be.”
She shakes her head firmly. “That girl died a long time ago. The woman I am now doesn't need anyone's approval or forgiveness.”
But I can hear the lie in her voice, see the longing she's trying to hide. A part of her still wants to go home.
“How did you find the Seven Sins Carnival?” I ask, changing the subject.
Her expression shifts, becoming more guarded. “After I stabbed Roman, I ran. Did underground shows for a while. Just places that don't ask questions about performers with uncertain documentation. I saw a flyer for the carnival, and something about it called to me.”
“Something?” I prompt.
“I can't explain it. The imagery, the promise of something different. It felt like...” She searches for words. “Like coming home.”
I think about the way Silas looks at her, the casual intimacy between her and the other performers. They're not just colleagues—they're family, bound together by shared darkness and mutual protection.
“They took you in.”
“They understood me.” She meets my eyes directly. “When you've survived what we've survived, you recognize the signs in others. We're all running from something, all trying to build new lives from the ashes of our old ones.”
“And Roman? Your husband?”
Her jaw tightens at the reminder. “I'm still married to him, technically. One more thing I need to fix when this is all over.”
“You know what happened to you was self-defense, right? Even if he reported it, which he probably didn't, you were protecting yourself from an abuser.”
Nova blinks at me. “You think he didn't report it?”
I scoff. “Men like Roman don't call the police when their victims fight back. Too many questions about why a grown man was sleeping with a fifteen-year-old.”
For the first time since she entered the trailer, Nova looks genuinely surprised. “I never thought about that.”
“He was breaking the law long before you put a blade in him.” I shake my head, my lip curling with disgust. “Any investigation would have put him under scrutiny he couldn't afford.”
She absorbs this, and I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. The hope and anger warring for dominance.
“I hate that I'm still legally tied to him.” Her voice is quiet, venomous. “I wish he had died that night. I wish I'd been brave enough to finish the job.”
That's when the door opens again, and Silas enters with that wolfish grin that makes my pulse spike.
“Don't worry about Roman, baby,” he says, his voice carrying dark promise. “I'm already making plans for his unfortunate demise.”
The casual way he discusses murder should horrify me. Should trigger every law enforcement instinct I possess. Instead, I find myself thinking that Roman Miller deserves whatever these people have planned for him. Still…
“You can't just—” I start, but Silas cuts me off with a laugh.
“Can't just what, Agent Coleman? Plan to eliminate a threat to the woman I care about? Can't discuss it in front of a federal agent?”
He moves closer, and I catch his scent—that dark, masculine cologne that makes my mouth water despite everything.
His blue eyes glitter with dangerous amusement. “But you're not planning to report any of this, are you?”
The question is suffocating. Because we all know the answer, don't we? I came here to investigate these people, and instead, they stripped me naked in more ways than one.
I'm not walking away from this trailer the same man who entered it. I'm not sure I'm walking away at all.
“You can't discuss murdering someone in front of a federal agent,” I say weakly, “unless that agent is never leaving this carnival.”
Silas's grin is absolutely feral. “Now you're catching on.”