Page 29 of Carnival’s Playground

"Because you run the technical side of this show," I analyze darkly, staring at the sharp image, forcing myself to think past the fury. "Because hurting you paralyzes Dutch."

"Wyatt," she whispers breathlessly, her fingers digging through the leather of my sleeve until her nails bite into my skin, grounding herself.

"Look at me, Avery," I command fiercely, grabbing her by both shoulders and pulling her into my chest until her eyes lock on mine. I need her to hear it, believe it. "Nobody touches you. Nobody. I'll tear this motherfucker apart with my bare hands before I let him lay a single finger on you."

The terror in her green eyes flickers, battered down by the raw, feral certainty in my voice. She draws a sharp breath, her jaw tightening until the muscle jumps, and I watch her pull herself together piece by piece.

"We take this straight to Dutch," she states coldly, her spine straightening, finding her steel again.

"Damn right we do," I agree roughly, sliding the photo into my pocket, hating that I have to touch it at all.

We storm out of the shed and head across the midway to Dutch's office trailer, the chill of the morning forgotten beneath the roaring fire burning in my chest. Whoever Rourke is, he just crossed the line from circus rivalry to personal war, and I'm going to make sure he doesn't survive the crossing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AVERY

The hand-painted wooden sign above the main entrance archway gleams under the newly strung floodlights, proclaiming that Grimlight Reveals is open tonight. I stand beneath the arch with my tool belt heavy on my hips, watching the October twilight settle over the carnival grounds like a bruised purple shroud. My stomach has been in knots all day, and it is not getting any better now that the gates are about to open.

"You gonna stand there admiring the scenery all night, spitfire?" Carnival's deep voice rumbles right behind me, followed by the clink of steel carabiners as he loops a spare harness over his broad shoulder. "Or are you gonna help me check the main turnstiles before Dutch blows a gasket?"

"I'm mentally preparing myself to deal with six hundred screaming locals while a stalker lurks in the brush," I counter dryly, turning to look at him, trying to sound braver than I feel.

He steps up until our boots are nearly touching, the scent of leather, pine, and heavy engine oil wrapping around me like armor. His jaw is dark with stubble, his gray eyes hard as flint. "You stick to my side tonight. You don't wander off. Not for a fresh roll of tape, not for coffee, not for anything."

"Yes, sir, Captain Overbearing," I snap back sassily, though the tightness in my chest eases just from having him within arm's reach. I'm not used to needing someone this much, and it scares me almost as much as the photograph does.

Dutch's voice crackles violently through the radio clipped to my shoulder strap. "Turnstiles open in ten minutes. All units report positions. Nobody works solo. I catch anyone alone behind a tent, I'm firing you on the spot."

"Copy that, boss," Carnival smoothly replies into his mic, never taking his eyes off me. "Looks like you're glued to my hip."

"There are worse places to be," I admit quietly, bumping my shoulder against his chest before turning toward the midway, grateful for the contact even if I won't say it out loud.

The heavy iron front gates swing open with a metallic groan. Within minutes, the dry silence of the afternoon is shattered by the roar of the opening crowd. Families, teenagers in monster masks, and couples clutching bags of roasted pecans flood down the sawdust pathways. The air thickens with the intoxicating smell of fried dough, spun sugar, and sweet cinnamon, layered over the smoky haze of our haunt foggers.

Carnival and I patrol the central corridor, our eyes darting through the crowd, scanning faces, hands, and jacket pockets. Every man over six feet with a ball cap makes my heart leap into my throat—I hate how jumpy I am and how every shadow feels like a threat. But Carnival moves beside me with the relaxed, lethal gait and posture of a predator waiting for an idiot to make a false move, and that helps more than I want to admit.

"Crowd's thick tonight," I observe, watching a pack of teenagers scramble into the haunt maze queue with excited shrieks.

"Curiosity brings the crowds out," Carnival mutters, checking the heavy padlocks on the primary power distribution box. "Nothing sells tickets like rumors of a near-fatal accident."

"Morbid bastards," I grumble, crossing my arms.

"Human nature, spitfire," he replies, his knuckles grazing the small of my back as we weave through the crush. The touch is brief, grounding, and I lean into it without thinking.

At seven-thirty, the big top trumpets blast through the outdoor speakers, calling the crowd toward the main performance arena. We slip through the backstage velvet curtains just as Marcy steps onto the ladder platform, wrapped in a glittering crimson costume. Her arm is strapped in skin-toned athletic tape, but her head is high and her eyes are clear.

"She looks steady," I murmur softly, feeling a fierce surge of carny pride warm my blood, pushing back some of the fear.

"She's a professional," Carnival remarks quietly, leaning his tall frame against the wooden center support beam right behind me. "And she knows every bolt above her head was torqued by your hands."

"Our hands," I correct gently, turning my head to look at him, needing him to know I don't take credit for his work.

A slow, wicked grin curves his lips in the dim blue light backstage. "Careful, Avery. Keep talking like that and people might think you actually respect me."

"Don't flatter yourself, biker," I mock, though my pulse hammers hard against my ribs.

The crowd inside the tent roars as Marcy leaps from the high platform, catching the swinging trapeze with effortless precision. For ten glorious minutes, the circus magic takes over. The music soars, the applause rolls like thunder, and the suffocating dread of the last forty-eight hours almost fades away. Almost.