Page 14 of Knife Thrower

I keep my eyes strictly on the gravel ahead. “I don’t have to have an opinion on him.”

“No?”

“No. He’s a knife thrower, I’m a knife catcher. The only thing I care about is how he handles his knives. His personality doesn’t factor into the equation.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable answer. It’s factual.

But my brain betrays me. A memory flashes behind my eyes—nearly black eyes staring me down from across the sawdust. That sharp, infuriating grin. The dimples carved into his cheekbones. The dangerous, hyper-focused energy humming under his skin, disguised as complete recklessness.

Jules makes a low, vibrating hum in the back of her throat. It’s thick with amusement, and it damn near makes my face do something it hasn’t done in years. I bite the inside of my cheek hard to kill the blush before it surfaces.

“Right,” Jules drawls, dragging the word out. “Just the job.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you can test your equation over breakfast.”

She leads me around the corner, and the quiet morning shatters.

We step right into the open space of the cantina. The long tables are packed. A massive guy with dark skin and shoulders like a mountain is arguing good-naturedly with a guy spinning a lighter between his fingers. Silverware clinks, someone laughs loudly, and the smell of bacon hangs thick in the air.

My boots stop, and my muscles lock up, bracing against the sheer volume of people, the noise, the casual intimacy of these people that has nothing to do with me. The instinct to retreat is a physical pull in my gut. I can turn around. I can walk back to my trailer and lock the door.

I shift my weight backward.

Jules doesn’t miss a beat. She hooks her arm casually through mine, anchoring me in place. She doesn’t push, but she doesn’t let go either.

“Deke made waffles,” she murmurs, steering me forward into the crossfire before I can dig my heels in. “And if you try to run, Cole will just make a scene. It’s easier to just feed them.”

My boots unroot from the gravel, and I let Jules steer me into the cantina and claim the very end of the nearest picnic table. I slide onto the bench, making sure no one is at my back. Old habits.

The noise washes over me in a chaotic wave. Jules sits beside me, claiming the space like a shield, and starts pointing people out.

The introductions come fast. Jonah is the big man, and he offers a smile so gentle it looks out of place on a man his size. Beside him, Logan flicks a silver lighter open and shut, his fire-scarred hands moving in a restless blur as he nods at me. Silas gives me a clipped greeting over the top of a sleek laptop, his blue eyes sharp and calculating. Elias sits at the head of the table, his top hat resting on the wood, tracking the flow of the room with the quiet authority of a king observing his court.

Then, a woman leans around Silas to wave. Wild, deep auburn hair spills over her shoulders, framing a face scattered with freckles.

“I’m Nova,” she offers.

She shifts, and her pregnant belly bumps against the edge of the picnic table.

The air in my lungs turns to ash. My chest seizes, a tight, physical grip around my heart. I force my gaze up, locking onto her striking green eyes, refusing to look lower. The phantom weight of a newborn presses against my own ribs. A laugh in the rain. A yellow boot. The memories scrape across my insides, way too raw. I can’t look at her for more than a second without the hollow space inside me aching, so I drag my attention down to the grain of the wood table.

A warm plate slaps down in front of me.

“Eat it before it turns to rubber,” a gruff voice orders.

I look up at a man built like a battered refrigerator. He wears a stained apron and a scowl that looks carved into his face.

“Deke,” Jules supplies, taking a bite of her own food. “He complains, but he likes feeding people.”

“I like quiet,” Deke grumbles, stomping back toward the grills.

I pick up a fork. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I cut into the waffles anyway.

“He means well.”

The voice comes from across the table. I look up and meet a pair of warm brown eyes. The woman has dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her face devoid of the sharp edges the rest of this crew carries.