Page 45 of Illusionist
His laugh rumbles through his chest, and I feel his lips press against the top of my head. “Deal.”
We lie there for a while longer, wrapped in each other. Eventually, though, the sounds of the carnival waking up filter through the walls—distant voices, the rumble of equipment being moved, the eternal rhythm of circus life.
“We should probably get up,” I say reluctantly. “Face the day.”
Before I know it, Silas is—unfortunately—dressed, moving around the small kitchen with ease, his hair still mussed from sleep. The domesticity of it hits me sideways—watching him crack eggs into a pan, the way he hums absently under his breath.
When did I start wanting this? This ordinary magic of shared mornings with a man who doesn't hurt me for sport?
“Hungry?” He glances over his shoulder, catching me watching him.
“Starving.” And not just for food, though the plate he sets in front of me makes my mouth water. Perfectly scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and toast that's golden brown. “You're going to spoil me.”
“That's the plan.” His smile is soft, but I catch the gleam in his eyes.
We eat in comfortable silence. When I reach for the coffee, our fingers brush, and the simple contact sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“There's something else we need to discuss,” Silas says eventually, setting down his fork. His expression grows serious. “My brothers. They should know you're with me now. That you know about the Sanctum and what we're doing here.”
My pulse quickens. We spent the night talking about our pasts, but what he’s proposing… Suddenly I feel like I’m auditioning to join a family.
“All of them?”
“They're my brothers, Nova. We were born in the same hell. If you're part of my life, you're part of theirs.” He reaches across the small table, fingers intertwining with mine. “They'll accept you because I say they should. That's how it works with us.”
The certainty in his voice both comforts and terrifies me.
“What if they don't approve?” I ask, voicing my fears.
“They will.” His thumb traces circles on my knuckles. “Trust me.”
Twenty minutes later, we're walking across the carnival grounds toward the meeting trailer. My stomach churns with nerves, but Silas's steady presence beside me keeps me grounded.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, sensing my tension.
“I am breathing.”
“You're hyperventilating.”
He's right. I force myself to slow down, to match his unhurried pace. Whatever happens, I've survived worse. Much worse.
In the trailer, Elias sits behind his makeshift desk, Jules perched on the arm of his chair with coffee cradled in her hands. The others occupy various positions around the cramped space—Logan sprawled in a chair by the window, Rowe leaning against the wall, Jonah's massive frame somehow folded into a corner. Marek hovers near the counter with his tarot cards, and Cole cleans his knives while whistling under his breath.
All conversation stops when we enter.
“Morning,” Silas says, his hand finding the small of my back. “We need to talk.”
Elias's pale gray eyes assess us both as if he's taking in our proximity, the way Silas touches me, the tension radiating from my shoulders. “I see.”
“Nova's with me now,” Silas continues, his voice carrying that quiet authority I've come to recognize. “She knows about the Sanctum. About what we're doing. About why we're here.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken questions. I force myself to meet their gazes one by one, refusing to show weakness even as my heart hammers against my ribs.
Jules breaks the tension first, a slow smile spreading across her face. “About fucking time I get a woman to talk to about all of this.”
“A stranger,” Logan comments.
“She's one of us,” Silas says simply. “A survivor. Someone who understands what it means to run from monsters.”
