She shouldn't be here. It was too soon. Her body may be healed, but was her mind? Did being in this tent make her anxious?
The image of her pale body pinned beneath canvas and metal still haunted my dreams, her silver hair matted with blood, those gold-flecked green eyes wide with shock. That slim, long flagpole protruding from her abdomen. I pressed the knife harder against my palm, using physical discomfort to chase away the mental anguish. Now, blood did well up. I blinked down, watching the crimson taint the silver blade.
I couldn’t have stopped her even if I tried. She'd promised to come anyway, despite my objections. Stubborn, infuriating woman. Beautiful, necessary-for-my-continued-existence Omega. I knew she was out there, even if I hadn’t looked yet.
I hadn’t looked, not just because I hated the idea of her being in this tent, but because I wasn’t sure how she’d react to the unique stage… décor.
"It’s time, Mr. Nitro." The stagehand didn't wait for acknowledgment, already scurrying off to their next task.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar tension bunch and release. The collection of throwing knives lay before me ona black velvet cloth atop a silver rolling cart. Each blade was balanced perfectly, each one capable of piercing flesh and bone with minimal effort. I'd spent years perfecting my aim, turning a childhood hobby into an art form that now held crowds spellbound. A long time ago, knives were my escape. From an abusive home life, a druggy mom, and then bad-fit foster homes leading to the orphanage. The orphanage I couldn’t hate, because that’s where I’d met my brothers.
I’d turned that escape into a livelihood. I’d made it my identity. I’d thought, for a long fucking time, that it was all I could be. Now, I knew differently. I could also be a protector, a mate, a real partner, a husband, maybe a father someday to a pack of snotty, adorable pups.
I moved towards the curtain, ready to hit the stage. They’d made some improvements on the tent now. I didn’t have to venture out into the open arena, past the nearly perfect circle of stadium seating. Instead, I walked right onto the performance area. No build-up, just a fast start. That’s how I liked it.
My stage manager pushed inward to the back area before I could exit, catching my gaze. "The target wheel's been secured," he informed, checking items off a clipboard. "Musa’s on her mark. The safety protocols have all been verified."
I nodded, barely listening. The tent curtains were fluttering behind him, not settled down yet. The crowd was vast, a sea of faces I didn't care about except for one. I spotted her easily. Already there. Already looking like a damn angel that had chosen to walk back into her personal hell, a place she’d nearly died.
What had she said the other night to me?
I’ve died before, Nitro. It’s never stopped me.
As if trying to prove her bravery—or drive me fucking nuts—Lucy was positioned front and center, her pale hair glowing around her sweet face. She took my damn breath away, but mystomach knotted.She was too close. If something went wrong… if my knife slipped…
I forced the thoughts away as the curtains finally went motionless. Nothing would go wrong. I didn't make mistakes, not with my blades.
But then I was parting the curtain once more, just a few inches, so I could study Lucy’s expression. I wanted to see if there was anything in it that smacked of disgust, but she just looked excited and interested. That was good. When I’d dreamed up this disturbing stage design, I hadn’t been thinking about an Omega I loved watching the grotesqueness.
After the announcer called my name, I stepped through the curtain onto the stage, weaving around and past the preserved corpses. It was exactly how I’d envisioned it. One skinned body, its network of muscles on display, was poised to toss a juggling pin into the air. Another body seemed frozen at the exact moment it had been executing a pirouette, the exposed inner workings partly concealed by a black leotard and tutu. Overhead, one stunning corpse hung from a trapeze, its legs bent over the bar, its arms reaching towards the stage. Several targets were similarly themed. One large board boasted a heart with arterial veins stretching outward, a second showcased a set of lungs; both organs were attached to a pumping system to make them contract and expand once I hit the right mark. There were a few less macabre targets too, but those were just fillers for the routine.
The spotlight hit me as I stepped around the only body I found disturbing—broad shoulders, bulging muscle network, little visceral fat…sitting on a gleaming motorcycle. It reminded me too much of my pack brothers.
The crowd's applause washed over me like a wave, meaningless noise. I scanned the seats until I found her again. Our eyes locked, Lucy offering me a smile brighter than sunlightbreaking through storm clouds. She raised both hands, giving me an enthusiastic double thumbs up.
The gesture was so unexpected and innocently encouraging, that something in my chest constricted painfully. No one had ever cheered me on like that—like they genuinely believed in me and took pride in my skills without expecting anything in return. The realization sent a jolt through me. Lucy stared at me with such open admiration, and I was a lucky bastard. This must be what it feels like to have supportive parents, not that I’d know. Would I have felt this way if just one damn teacher gave a shit enough to say I had potential? Hell, one of my short-lived foster parents could have given me a, “Thatta boy, Nitro!” and I might know this feeling already.
Who would I be today if I hadn’t found comfort in my first pocketknife? Who would I be if I hadn’t made that first small cut across my inner forearm?
I wouldn’t be Nitro. But maybe I couldn’t let myself regret, because Nitro was part of DemonX and DemonX had become part of Lucy. And she was worth the fucked-up childhood and scars.
My gaze was still locked on her. I turned away before she could see how deeply her simple gesture of support had affected me. I needed to get in the right mindset, or I would make a mistake during the performance, and that wasn’t acceptable.
The music shifted to a pulsing, rhythmic beat as my assistant Musa stepped into the spotlight opposite me. She wore a glittering one-piece costume that caught and reflected the light, making her appear to be covered in diamond dust. The audience applauded as she twirled, flourishing one arm in the air above her head at the end of the rotation and giving the crowd a black-lipped smile. She walked toward me, standing next to the first target, waving her hand in front of its dark surface andhighlighting the attached pouches—all filled with blood, though the audience didn’t know yet.
I began my routine, the first few throws simple but precise—knives embedding themselves into the blood-filled bags with satisfying thuds. The crowd gasped and applauded as each blade hit its mark, causing a spray of crimson violent enough to splatter me and the front row. I didn’t look to see how much had hit Lucy. I didn’t want to know if it was too disturbing for her.
I moved to the next target—this time methodically flicking my wrist over and over, the repetition almost boring—sending the knives where I wanted, forming patterns on the boards. A star. A spiral. An eye. Child's play, but effective for building tension.
The anatomical heart was next. I snapped my blades at it quickly, the last knife sinking into a trigger that made the heart pump. As it throbbed, clear tubes that were once nearly invisible above the target began to fill with pig’s blood. Higher and higher, the viscous red traveled. It eventually arched over the crowd, spreading out across a network of slim pipes. And then inside the tent, it rained blood.
Screams of both terror and exhilaration rang out. Now, I did look at Lucy. She stared at me, gaze unwavering, as blood dripped slowly down her face. It was in her hair too. Jarring red highlights staining the pure silver. She looked hauntingly beautiful. I could watch her forever, as the bloody rain transformed her pureness, but the show was far from finished.
My assistant Musa moved to the large circular target wheel. It was the one from the compound. The one where I'd strapped Lucy, terrified and defiant, as part of my sick attempt to scare her away from DemonX. Before I understood what she would come to mean to us.To me.
Assistants secured Musa's wrists and ankles to the wheel with padded cuffs. She gave me a confident nod, professional to the core.
But in my mind's eye, it wasn't Musa on that wheel.
