Page 33 of Illusionist
His grin turns wicked. “Now we see how good you really are at escaping.”
“This is hardly a challenge.” I test the bonds, feeling for weak points. “Give me thirty seconds?—”
“Not so fast.” He produces a small padlock from his pocket, one I didn't see him attach. “I made a few modifications to your usual setup.”
My eyes narrow. “What kind of modifications?”
Instead of answering, he circles around me slowly, like a predator studying its prey. “You know, most escape artists rely on technique alone. Dislocating joints, manipulating locks, using flexibility to create slack.” His fingers trail along one of the chains, making me shiver. “But the really exceptional ones understand something else entirely.”
“Which is?”
“That the mind is the strongest cage of all.” He stops in front of me, eyes burning with intensity. “And the only way to truly escape is to surrender completely first.”
I scoff. “That's not how escape artistry works.”
“Isn't it?” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “Tell me, Nova—when you're performing, when you're working your way out of restraints in front of hundreds of people, what are you really escaping from?”
The question feels like a slap. Images flash through my mind—Roman's hands around my throat, the trailer that felt more like a prison than a home, years of looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Liar.” But there's no accusation in his voice, just understanding. “We're all running from something, beautiful. The difference is whether we run toward freedom or toward another kind of cage.”
His words strip me bare more effectively than any physical restraint. He understands too much about the woman I've spent years trying to hide.
“I should go.” I tug at the chains, but they hold fast. “People will wonder where we are.”
“Let them wonder.” His mouth finds my throat, pressing hot kisses along the column of my neck. “Right now, you're exactly where you belong.”
“Silas…” His name comes out like a plea.
“That's right.” His teeth scrape against my pulse point. “Say my name like you need me to save you from whatever's chasing you.”
“I don't need saving,” I protest.
“Don't you?” His hands slide down my sides, fingers tracing the path of the chains. “Then why are you here? Why did you run to us looking like the hounds of hell were on your trail?”
I can't answer because he's right. I did run to them—ran to him—seeking something I couldn't even name. Safety, maybe. Or just the chance to disappear into someone else's world for a while.
“I'm not good at this,” I whisper.
“At what?”
“Trusting people. Letting them close.” The admission tears from my throat before I can stop it. “Everyone who's supposed to protect me ends up being the thing I need protection from.”
There’s a shift in his expression—the hunger replaced by possessiveness. “Not me.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because,” he says, hands framing my face, “I've been exactly where you are. Running, hiding. And I know what it's like to find someone worth staying for.”
I want to believe him, want to trust the heat in his eyes and the careful way he touches me. But trust is a luxury I can't afford.
“I can't?—”
“You can.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “You're the bravest person I've ever met, Nova. You walked away from whatever was hurting you. You survived. You found us.” His mouth hovers inches from mine. “Now let me show you what it feels like to stop running.”
When he kisses me, it's not the desperate hunger from the dressing room. This is slower, deeper, a claim that goes beyond physical desire. He tastes like promises and dark possibilities, like everything I've been afraid to want.
