Chapter 41 Nitro
NITRO
{Two days later}
I ran the tip of the blade across my skin, tracing the old scars. The itch was brewing—to carve a new mark.
Shaking off the urge, I focused on the target ahead.
The knife embedded itself with a satisfying thunk, dead center of the target, joining five others in a perfect vertical line. Technically flawless. Literally boring as fuck.
Sullenly, I walked over and yanked each blade free with more force than necessary.
I slipped all but one into the thigh holster.
Changing position, I lined up in front of a second target.
Flicking my wrist, I tossed the knife into the air.
It rotated, blade over hilt, four times before the handle connected with my waiting palm.
As I curved my fingers around the knife, spun in a circle, and threw.
The tip punctured the first blood bag, spraying the white vinyl.
Lightning fast, I threw three more. The target became a sea of crimson.
There was nothing wrong with the targets and my performance.
And yet something was missing—a spark, some danger, the wild energy that defined DemonX.
I needed something more for Cirque du Sang.
I needed something alive. Fallon was on my case too.
Cirque big wigs wanted something so intense it might make audiences sick.
Short of maiming a living human being, I was coming up empty. What were we supposed to do?
A cadaver might do it. The idea came out of the blue.
A couple years back, the State of Illusions Museum hosted this grotesque gallery of real, preserved bodies.
Some were skinned alive, showcased in various athletic positions.
Other displays were just body parts—the intestinal track of a middle-aged man, the lungs of a smoker, the central nervous system of an elderly woman.
Closing my eyes for a heartbeat, I envisioned the stage. Preserved bodies, posed as mimes, dancers, acrobats. Targets disguised at various points, blood bags ready to burst. When I parted my lashes, the idea had taken root, though I had no idea how to execute it yet.
Retrieving the knives again, I paced the length of the concrete floor, blades fanned between my fingers like claws.
Rehearsals started soon, like in a damn week, and we needed our acts locked down.
At five hundred dollars a ticket, this wasn’t the small time.
We couldn’t afford to be boring and forgettable.
All I had was precision right now, and that wouldn’t thrill even an audience of children.
"Fuck," I muttered, whipping another knife toward a fresh target. It sliced through the air and buried itself exactly where I aimed—through the painted outline of an eye. Perfect. Boring.
The run-through schedule for day one was taped to the wall: Seven a.m. arrival, all acts, no exceptions.
Seven to ten a.m., all acts, preliminary safety checks (illusionist duo included).
Ten to eleven a.m., big top stages B and C reserved for blocking.
The damn schedule was so long, they’d printed it in size six font.
And this was just the main operational schedule.
DemonX had an individualized schedule too, nearly as long.
The rehearsals and prep went on for weeks.
Just thinking about it made me second guess the whole damn thing.
DemonX was the headlining guest for this Cirque du Sang tour, our motorcycle stunts and death-defying tricks a big draw for the gothic circus.
The idea of having our name emblazoned on some of the biggest amphitheater venues in the country was an intense high.
But if our stunts were a fucking bore, we could kiss signing onto the Cirque’s international tour goodbye.
Hell, we could kiss our entire careers goodbye.
Screwing up with the Cirque was like digging your own grave.
Even if they didn’t badmouth a talent, that talent got nearly always blacklisted in the entertainment community.
One by one, I put the blades away. Without them, my hands felt empty. But it wasn’t just my hands. My entire body felt wrong lately, like my skin was too tight. Or, maybe, it wasn’t my skin at all. I wasn’t Nitro, and that was why Lucy was affecting me so damn much.
The air in the warehouse suddenly seemed stifling, despite the high ceiling and open bay doors.
I passed my motorcycle on my way out of the warehouse.
It gleamed, freshly polished, waiting to carry me through a series of increasingly difficult blade throws.
I felt like if I couldn’t think of something revolutionary, I’d disappoint even the shiny bike.
The ramps were set. The targets were placed.
The technique was perfected. But it needed that extra dose of intensity. Yet, I had no idea what the fuck to do.
Emptiness gnawed at me, a hollow feeling that had been growing since—
Since she arrived.
In the bright light of day, my mind suddenly cleared. Lucy’s scent had been clouding my thoughts since she'd stumbled into our lives playing deep space explore, life supporting suit and all. Every time those gold-flecked green eyes challenged me, I felt myself ready to bend for her.
Like when we’d told her she could earn her keep as our maid.
She’d tilted her chin defiantly and didn’t complain.
We were purposefully making messes. Pissing on the floor, spilling shit in the pantry, leaving our dirty clothes all over.
And she just kept cleaning, like she was trying to wear us down instead of the other way around.
Lucy drove my nuts. She was the antithesis of what DemonX wanted in an Omega. Yet…
I need her.
That realization sliced through my mind as sharply as any blade. It cut skin, carved flesh, hit bone.
The house was quiet when I entered, though signs of the others were everywhere.
A half-finished glass of bourbon—Xander’s, definitely.
An abandoned notebook, pages filled with meticulous calculations—Fallon running safety checks.
A roaring fire in the hearth—I was surprised Asher wasn’t sitting right in front of it, shoving his hands in and out of the flames.
And Kane was in various places—an oily filter left on a paper plate for some unknown reason, shoes tossed against one wall, wrinkled socks nearby, and a few empty energy drink cans littering the coffee table.
I followed the soft sound of her coughing and the scent of cleaning chemicals toward the guest bathroom, my boots echoing against the hardwood. My dusty boots were making fresh work for her, dirtying what she’d scrubbed only yesterday.
She didn’t hear me coming, so I got to admire the view.
Lucy was on her hands and knees, attacking the tile floor with a brush.
Her pert ass was pushed into the air, wiggling back and forth as she scoured grout.
The sight ignited something primal in me, a dark heat spreading through my chest. It was lust, longing, and maybe the barest taint of guilt.
Her silver-white hair was piled messily atop her head, exposing the delicate nape of her neck.
The oversized t-shirt she wore—one of mine, I realized with a jolt—slipped off one shoulder, revealing pale skin mapped with violet veins beneath.
As I watched, she coughed hard, muffling the sound with one hand.
Fuck, why did that bother me so much?
The Eros people who brought her said there was an inhaler or something in the medical bag. We hadn’t cleaned the extinguishing foam from it yet or opened it to see if the contents were ruined. Should we replace those things? Would Lucy get sick if we didn’t?
I gave myself a mental shake. We wanted her miserable and sick. We wanted her to leave and never come back.
"You missed a spot," I taunted, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m not finished yet,” she snapped, not turning around.
I chuckled, crossing my arms over my chest as I leaned into the doorframe.
She had no idea that there was a direct correlation between her trying to be fierce and me pushing her buttons.
It was fun to have someone new to mess with; my brothers had long ago wised-up.
I was only ever able to get one of them riled up if they were already looking for a fight.
That was why I had to take it to extremes sometimes—like puncturing Xander’s bike tire.
Lucy was still scrubbing, worrying one section of tile to the point I thought she might erase it completely.
"You’ll never finish that way,” I said casually. She pointedly ignored me. Time for a little button pushing. “By all means though, take all day. The view’s giving me a hard-on.”
She froze, body tensing, but she still didn’t look at me—which was a shame, because I would’ve loved to see the fury blaze in those green eyes of hers.
“Maybe I can help,” I offered, taking two heavy steps, boots thudding against the floor.
Now she did spin around, shoulder nearly slamming into the toilet. “Leave me alone, Nitro. I’m playing housemaid, just like you guys wanted.”
“Afraid I can’t leave you alone, Lucy-Loo, because—” I squatted, gaze locking with hers. Not breaking eye contact, I pulled one of my throwing blades free from its holster sheath. “I need an assistant,” I continued, twirling the knife.
A spark shot through me when her eyes darted down and then back up, fear washing over her face. My lips curled into a smirk, relishing the moment.
“I’m a maid,” she said in a low, raspy voice, “not an assistant.”
Resting my forearms against my thighs, I leaned closer. I held the blade loosely now, fingers barely curled around the hilt, the tip pointed in Lucy’s direction.
“Lucy,” I said her name slowly, infusing it with heat, “you’re whatever we say you are, whenever we say it.”
Standing to tower over her, I held out my free hand.
Her gaze once again flicked to the knife and then back up.
Her golden green smashed into my hazel and, together, I almost thought we could make an entire damn world.
Land. Water. Everything in between. What the fuck am I even thinking? I mentally snarled at myself.
“Take my hand, Lucy,” I commanded, my tone daring her to refuse.
The tension between us grew almost visibly thick.
I could see the thoughts flitting through her mind; they were plain as day on her face.
From the second I saw her, I knew Lucy wasn’t the kind of person who could hide her real feelings.
That kind of raw, unintentional honesty always did it for me.
People who couldn’t lie without looking away.
People who couldn’t cheat at cards because of their obvious tell.
People who were forced to live authentically, simply because they either never learned an alternative, or it wasn’t in their DNA.
In that second, standing over her, staring down at her pale face and purple-veined skin, I found myself caught somewhere between wanting to crush her spirit and dying to claim it. But I wouldn't let her see that. Not now, not fucking ever.
“Take my hand, Lucy,” I repeated, the words carrying a final warning.
She glared once more at the knife, then, as she tilted her head back up, she seemed to steal herself. “You think I’m afraid of you? Afraid of that knife?” Lucy spat each, acid-laced word out.
I watched every detail of her body as she reached up to grab the sink’s edge.
She used it to hoist herself up, then she stepped forward, lifting her hand and shoving a finger into my chest. In any other situation, I’d have thrown a punch.
Yet, right now, the thought didn’t even cross my mind.
Instead, I stared at the hard line of her mouth and the crinkle between her eyebrows as she scowled, and I realized—this woman is fucking gorgeous.
Lucy’s Omega scent heavily perfumed the air, the sunshine base notes marred with a spicy edge.
“Not long ago—” she lifted her finger, then poked it hard into my body again— “my life was needles and drugs and horrible side effects. Do you know how many doctors have sliced and diced me? Do you know how many times I’ve flatlined?
” Her cheeks had pinked, and her eyes were red-rimmed, making her green irises shift to shining emeralds. “I’ve actually died, Nitro. Died.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking rapidly as if to fight back tears. Again, she lifted and slammed down her fingertip. The same spot, perfect aim.
“So, you and your pack can keep treating me like shit. You can toss a knife at my head. You can burn me in my sleep again. But that’s not going to run me off. You can’t scare me enough with death. Death is easy. Living is what’s hard.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t often someone caught me off guard.
Clearing my throat, I reached down and took her hand. Turning, I pulled her behind me.
“Let’s see how you feel after a few blades hit the target,” I muttered under my breath, not caring if she heard me.
I dragged Lucy across the yard, her feet stumbling to keep up with my long strides. She didn’t complain. She just let me yank her further and further. When I realized I was gripping her small hand with full force, I loosened my fingers. Why though? Why did I care if I hurt her delicate body?
I could have used the heart necklace. I could have made this hurt more. What was wrong with me?
We pushed into the storage building, its dim lighting making me blink rapidly to adjust focus.
Pulling us to a stop, I breathed heavily, gathering myself.
I’d been giving my pack brothers shit the past couple days. They were all acting so fucking strange. Focused on the task of driving her out one second, then acting protective without warning. Not me though. I was consistent. I wanted her gone.
Lucy’s fingers fluttered in my grip.
That small touch sent electricity through me.
Not me.
I didn’t waver.
I wanted her gone… didn’t I?