Page 31 of Illusionist
I'm walking a line I've never walked before—between law and vengeance, duty and desire, the man I've always been and someone I'm only beginning to understand.
11
NOVA
Three days at the Seven Sins Carnival, and I'm starting to feel at home—a feeling I haven’t felt in years. The routine helps—morning practice sessions in the equipment trailer, afternoon prep for the evening shows, then the electric rush of performing in front of crowds who hang on every movement.
And Silas. Fuck, Silas helps too, in ways I'm not ready to examine.
I've been avoiding thinking too hard about what happened in the dressing room after our first show. The way he made me forget everything except the feel of his hands, the sound of my name on his lips. The way I let him see me completely undone, barriers stripped away along with my clothes.
Dangerous territory. The kind that leads to attachment, and attachment gets you caught.
But when I'm alone in the Big Top during the quiet afternoon hours, working through escape sequences while dust motes dance in the filtered sunlight, I can pretend it's all simple. That I'm just Nova Calder, escape artist, perfecting my craft without a care in the world.
I'm working my way out of a particularly complex rope configuration when footsteps echo across the empty space. My pulse quickens before I even turn around, my body recognizing the sound of his approach before my brain catches up.
Silas emerges from the shadows between the bleachers, moving with that feline grace that makes my mouth go dry. He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that showcases the lean muscle I've already mapped with my hands. His floppy hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the canvas walls.
“Don't let me interrupt,” he says, but he’s already locked onto my position—arms bound behind my back with silk rope, ankles secured to the support beam I'm using as an anchor point.
“Just working through some knots,” I reply, continuing the careful process of creating slack. “The rope work in our act could use some refinement.”
“Could it?” He circles around behind me, and I feel his gaze like a physical touch. “Looks pretty refined from where I'm standing.”
The rope gives way enough for me to slip one wrist free. “There's always room for improvement.”
“Speaking from experience?” His voice is closer now, just behind my left shoulder. Close enough that I catch his scent—that dark, woody cologne that makes me want to press my face against his throat.
“Always.” The second wrist comes free, but I don't immediately move to untie my ankles. Being partially bound in his presence sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Though some restraints are more... challenging than others.”
“Challenging how?”
Silas walks to stand before me, rope still wound around my ankles. “Some are designed to be escaped from. Others are designed to keep you exactly where someone wants you.”
His pupils dilate, and I watch his jaw clench. “And which kind do you prefer?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with subtext. I bend to untie my ankles, taking my time with the knots, aware of how the position means he can see right down my tank top.
“Depends on who's doing the tying.”
When I straighten, he's moved closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, close enough that the heat radiating from his body makes my skin prickle.
“What about chains?” His voice has dropped to that rough register that goes straight to my core. “You seemed to enjoy them the other night.”
My cheeks burn at the memory. The weight of metal against my skin, the click of locks, the way his hands lingered as he secured each restraint during our practice sessions.
“Chains have their appeal,” I manage.
“Do they?” He reaches past me to the equipment wall, fingers trailing along a set of heavy performance chains. “These particular chains?”
“Those are your chains.”
“Are they?” The metal links clink softly as he lifts them from their hook. “Funny, I was thinking they might look better on you.”
My pulse jumps. “We already worked out the choreography for our act.”
“This isn't about the act.” He steps closer, chains draped over his forearm. “This is about what happens when the audience goes home.”
