Page 39 of Carnival’s Playground

Her breath hitches, a raw heat flaring in her eyes. "You better mean that, Wyatt. Because I won't settle for anything less."

"Look at me," I growl, pulling her close against my chest until our ribs press tight. "I don't make promises I can't bleed for."

"Good," she whispers, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me down into a hard, possessive kiss.

Her mouth is hot, fierce, and demanding, tasting like black coffee and pure fire. I lock my arm around her waist, hauling her up against me until her boots clear the floor, kissing her with everything raw and territorial building inside my chest. When she finally pulls back, chest heaving and lips bruised red, that sharp, dangerous grin is back on her face.

"Now let's go check those access roads," Avery orders, her voice rough and breathless.

"Lead the way, spitfire," I say, catching her hand and kicking the trailer door open into the cold morning air.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

AVERY

The gravel along the west gate access road crunches violently beneath our boots as the morning sun cuts through the gray Texas mist. The air smells of damp pine, dead leaves, and diesel exhaust. Wyatt keeps his fingers locked tightly through mine, his grip solid as iron, unyielding and completely unbothered by anyone watching.

"You're going to cut off my circulation, biker," I remark, glancing down at our joined hands.

"Get used to it," he smoothly replies without slackening his grip. "You're not wandering off."

"I’m not a child. You're being ridiculously bossy," I grumble, leaning my shoulder right into his bicep.

"Learned from the best," he retorts, a faint smirk touching his lips.

Dutch and Petey walk ten yards ahead of us, their heads bent close over a metal clipboard, arguing in low, angry tones about the vendor sign-in logs. Petey keeps stabbing his finger at a specific line on the paper while Dutch shakes his head with a dark scowl.

"You two back there need an escort or what?" Dutch loudly shouts over his shoulder.

"We're doing just fine, Dutch," I shout back. "Keep your eyes on the road."

"Focus on the damn paperwork, Dutch," Petey teases, glancing back with a wicked grin. "They're busy being sickeningly domestic."

"Keep running your mouth, Petey," Dutch darkly warns, "and I'll have you scrubbing the grease traps behind the funnel cake booth."

Petey quickly faces forward, shutting his mouth while Dutch stops dead in the middle of the dirt path, staring at the ground near the drainage ditch.

"Tire impressions," Dutch gruffly announces, dropping to one knee in the weeds. "Fresh ones. The mud in the center of the tread hasn't even dried yet."

Wyatt and I close the distance fast, dropping down beside the old man. The tire tracks are wide, deep, and aggressive, the heavy lug pattern biting inches into the soft red clay.

"Heavy-duty, all-terrain tires," Wyatt observes, running his bare thumb along the ridge of the track. "Matches the weight profile of an older three-quarter-ton truck. Same wheelbase Renn pulled off the perimeter cam."

"Where the hell does the trail go?" I ask, standing to scan the thick mesquite trees. My stomach twists with unease.

"Only one way to find out," Dutch grunts, pushing himself up from the dirt. He winces slightly, favoring his left knee.

We follow the crushed brush and tire ruts as they veer off the main access gravel, cutting deep into an overgrown path that snakes along the edge of an old concrete drainage culvert. The deeper we push into the woods, the thicker the shadows become, the dead silence of the brush swallowing the distant sounds of the carnival lot.

"This feels like the opening scene of a bad slasher movie," Petey nervously mutters, clutching his heavy flashlight like a club.

"You built half the haunted animatronics in the back maze, Petey," I point out. "You should feel right at home."

"Building rubber monsters is one thing," Petey anxiously grumbles. "Hunting a psycho in the woods is totally different."

"Hold up," Wyatt commands, his deep voice cutting through the brush like a knife.

He freezes near a dense thicket of blackberry brambles, his gray eyes narrowing at the base of a hollowed-out post oak tree. He steps off the path, kicking aside a pile of rotting branches with his heavy boot.