But still, I walk out onto my mark. My flyer aerialists head to their positions as well.
The music surges throughout the theater. Adrenaline spikes in my blood. I let out one slow breath, and then it’s time. The curtain sweeps open, and the roar hits me. Sold-out house. Five thousand bodies pressed into velvet seats, every one of them craning for a glimpse of Saint Shade. My music surges—low, dangerous, with enough bass to rattle bones—and I stride forward like I own the world.
That’s the thing: on stage, Ido.
Cards flare between my fingers, then vanish in flame. A levitating sphere hovers over my palm, then explodes into silver glitter that rains down like starlight. Silks drop from the rafters, and I leap, catching one in each hand, twisting up, up, higher until the ground is just a black void. My crew lines the catwalks, ready to reel or catch me if something goes wrong. But nothing goes wrong.
Unless you count the raging erection I’m currently trying to do acrobatics with.
Dammit. I shift, trying to hide the bulge in my pants, but where is there to go? Every time the spotlight lands on me, which is all the fucking time, I feel myself dying a little with embarrassment.
Yet, every five seconds, my eyes flick back to Willow. Willow in that damn dress. In those damn shoes. Looking at me with those damn blue eyes.
I flip. I twist. I land in a split on the silks and spin down in a perfect corkscrew. The crowd screams, the lights flare, and all I can think is:does Willow like what she sees?
She’s looking at me like she does.
Oh, she’s trying to hide it. Arms folded, lips pursed, like she’s unimpressed. But her pupils are blown wide, and she keeps biting her lip, and holy hell, she’s killing me.
Focus, you thirsty bastard. You’re dangling upside down thirty feet above a very solid and hard surface. This is not the time for horny brain.
But Willow’s eyes are on me, and I justfeelthem. My pulse spikes. My brain goes static. My cock—traitorous bastard—won’t calm the hell down.
And my costume is not helping me out. It’s custom-made, form-fitting black slacks with just enough stretch to let me hang upside down from a silk ribbon. Which means there’snowhereto hide this.
I flip again, catch the rope, let momentum swing me in a wide arc.
And then it happens.
A slip. Tiny. Barely visible to anyone but the people running rigging. My hand doesn’t grip quite right because my palm is sweaty, because my brain is busy imagining what Willow would sound like if I pulled that lip out from between her teeth with my own.
The world tilts. My body swings wider than I meant. My crew gasps. My stomach lurches.
I catch myself—barely—sliding down the silk with enough force to burn a red line across my palm. The audience thinks it’s part of the act. They scream like I planned it. The spotlight follows me, glitter cannons fire, and I plaster on Saint Shade’s coy tilt of the mask.
Inside, I’m one bad grip away from death and/or public humiliation by boner.
My earpiece crackles, and Marco’s voice is there one second later. “Uh, boss? You… okay?”
I grit my teeth. “Define okay.”
There’s half a beat of awkward silence. “You’re, um, very…confidenttonight.”
Oh, fuck. So, everyone can indeed see my very enthusiastic sideshow tonight.
“Stage presence, Marco,” I cover.
“Uh huh.”
The show barrels forward. Fire eats cards and spits them into doves. Silks wrap my body in impossible knots, only for me to unravel in a single drop. I walk a tightrope across the stage blindfolded while knives spin around me. Every move is rehearsed to perfection. Every beat is designed to make the crowd lose their collective shit.
But tonight? Every move feels like it’s for her.
When I balance upside down on one hand, she leans forward like she’s hypnotized. When I disappear into smoke and reappear on the balcony, her mouth drops open, just slightly, like she forgot to breathe. And when I slide down the rope to land in a crouch, dead center stage, I feel her gaze like heat on my bare skin.
I’m performing for five thousand people. But I only want one of them to scream.
The finale comes. I climb the silks again, higher, higher, until the spotlights make me a ghost against the rafters. I invert, twist, and drop—fast, reckless, like gravity owes me a favor. At the last second, the silks catch, spiraling me to the ground in a cyclone of black fabric and smoke.
