A softness flickers across his face. “Anytime, beautiful. Anytime at all.”
I slip out into the night, leaving him alone in the dressing room with the scattered evidence of what we've done. The cool air caresses my flushed skin, and I shiver—though whether from cold or the memory of his hands, I can't tell.
Back in my trailer, I collapse onto the narrow bed still fully clothed. My body aches in the best possible way, muscles loose and satisfied. For the first time in months—maybe years—my mind is quiet.
No thoughts of Roman, no panic about being caught, no fear of what tomorrow might bring.
Just the lingering taste of Silas's kiss and the echo of my name on his lips.
Maybe staying won't be so dangerous after all.
Even as the thought forms, I know it's a lie.
Silas Crowley is the most dangerous man I've ever met. Not because he might hurt me—though something tells me he's capable of violence when provoked.
He's dangerous because he makes me want things I can't have.
Like a future. Like safety. Like someone who'll catch me when I fall.
And that's a risk I can't afford to take.
But as I drift off to sleep, still wearing the scent of his skin, I let myself pretend—just for one night—that maybe I can.
8
TEDDY
Islip around the back of the Big Top, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The smart move would be heading to my car, driving back to the motel, writing up my observations while they're fresh. That'd be the professional move.
Instead, I'm creeping through shadows like some kind of pervert, chasing the ghost of auburn hair and green eyes.
Voices drift from a pop-up structure behind the Big Top—the dressing room, has to be. I edge closer, pressing myself against the fake wood. The window's cracked open, and I can see inside.
The performers sprawl around the cramped space, peeling off masks and costumes. The massive strongman unwraps chains from his torso. The knife thrower spins a blade between his fingers with casual ease.
And there she is.
The mask is gone. This is the face I spent the whole show trying to imagine, and she's better than whatever I pictured—of course she is. The escape artist stands at a vanity, organizing what looks like lock picks. Even in the harsh fluorescent light, she's stunning. That auburn hair's coming loose from its pins,freckles scattered across her nose like stars I want to map with my lips.
Christ. Get it together, Coleman.
The illusionist—Silas, I'm almost certain—strips off his shirt, and I catch the lean muscle underneath. Tattoos spiral across his chest and arms, intricate designs that probably tell stories I’ll never know.
But it's the way he watches her that makes my blood run hot. Like he's already planning exactly how he's going to take her apart.
The banter flows between them, casual and familiar. Then the door bangs open, and a woman with short blue hair explodes into the room like a hurricane. She launches herself at the ringmaster—Vale, definitely Vale—and they're devouring each other within seconds.
“Show got you worked up, Little Sapphire?” His voice carries clearly through the window, rough with desire.
The pet name is possessive and intimate. She grinds against him like she's starving for his touch, and he handles her like she belongs to him.
They disappear through the door, still wrapped around each other. The brothers disperse one by one until it's just the illusionist and the escape artist.
Just Silas andher.
The tension between them is thick enough to cut with one of the knife thrower's blades. They're talking, but I'm too far away to catch the words. What I can see is body language—the way she grips the vanity behind her, the way he cages her in with his arms.
When he kisses her, my cock goes painfully hard. Not that it fully deflated after their performance.
