I wanted to be their Omega.
Not their victim.
41
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 neededsomething 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 anindividualized 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.
