The crowd explodes.
And me? I’m drenched in sweat, chest heaving, every muscle trembling from exertion. The mask hides my grin, but inside I’m laughing like a lunatic. Because I just risked death, and all I can think about is how Willow Vale is looking at me like she wants to bite me in half.
Which, considering I saw her murder a man, might not be a metaphor.
But to polish the show off, because it’s how I end every show, I hook my thumb under the lower part of my mask and lift. The unhinged, feral, maybe slightly cocky smile on my lips has never been easier to conjure. I swipe my tongue across my teeth, the crowd losing their damn minds at the tease. And then the mask snaps back into place.
The curtain slams shut, the lights cut, and the roar of the crowd muffles like someone stuffed cotton in my ears. For a second, I just stand there, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my back, trying not to collapse like a puppet whose strings got cut.
Then the mask comes off.
My crew swarms around me—Jessie with a towel, Anton with a bottle of water, one of the riggers hollering, “Nice save up there, boss!” because apparently they all noticed how close I came to redecorating the stage with my skull.
“Just keeping things interesting,” I huff, out of breath, forcing Saint Shade’s smirk even though my ribs ache and my palm burns.
“Well, that was interesting…” Marco growls with slitted eyes.
I’m too fucking embarrassed to even respond right now.
I head straight back to my dressing room, and it feels wrong when I reach it. Too quiet, too dead, too alone. I close the door, though I don’t lock it, and suddenly, all the adrenaline and all the anticipation I’ve been feeling all night don’t know where to go or what to do.
I peel off my performance pants and pull on some gray sweatpants. I’d really love to take a quick shower, but with what I planned, there’s no time.
I’ve stripped my performance shirt off and am just about to pull a t-shirt on when the door swings open.
And in she walks.
Good fucking night.
That dress. Those damn heels. The hair, the painted lips. It’s like she was trying to torture me tonight, and maybe I deserve it after being so damn brash and arrogant to give her a ticket to my own show.
But I don’t miss it. Not a second of it. Willow walked in, and I don’t have a shirt on. She’s thirsted over my shirtless body dozens of times, no shame in her comments. But seeing it with my own eyes? The way she’s studying me like she’d like to lick every inch of my naked torso?
I just about bust in my pants.
What are you, thirteen?I internally chide.
But I’m not the only one affected. Willow blushes. Hard. All the way down to her chest.
I pull my shirt down over my head because something embarrassing is going to happen if I keep letting her watch me.
“Nice show,” she says, casual as hell. Like she didn’t just watch me nearly fall to my death because I was too busy staring at her legs.
I straighten my shirt and run a hand through my hair, buying a second to steady myself. “Glad you enjoyed the entertainment. You looked… invested.”
Her eyebrow arches. “You looked distracted.”
Touché.
For a beat, we just watch each other. The silence isn’t empty though—it’s full. Tense. I can almost hear both our hearts hammering.
Finally, she breaks the pregnant quiet. “You’re really not going to turn me in?” Her voice is soft and surprisingly wary.
Just like I was terrified that she’d expose me and blow up my whole life, she’s scared too. And it doesn’t fit. A lioness like Willow is a stranger to fear. “No,” I answer her simply.
“Just like that?”
“Not just like that.” I drop into the chair in the corner of the room, holding her gaze so she can see I mean it. “I looked into him. Travis Bell. That was his name, right? Partner at Harper, Bell & Klein, HR’s favorite predator factory?”
