Page 15 of Knife Thrower

“Wren,” she introduces herself.

She has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen, paired with a soft smile. She sits next to a quiet man with elevated, shiny scars racing up his forearms—Rowe, I remember from Jules’s tour. Wren keeps her hands folded neatly in her lap, giving me space, radiating a calm energy that settles the erratic jump of my pulse. Unlike Nova, I find her incredibly easy to look at.

I take a bite of the waffles. The sugar helps calm my nerves.

My new knife thrower is further down the table. He sits diagonally from me, leaning his elbows on the wood as he steals a slice of bacon off the fire eater’s plate. He argues loudly with Jonah about some detail of the show, spinning a knife with a magician’s dexterity.

And the entire time, his gaze stays pinned on me.

Every time I let my eyes dart down the table, he’s already watching. His dark eyes track my movements, the gaze feeling heavy, the action deliberate. The focus feels like a physical touch dragging across my collarbone. It prickles the fine hairs on my arms, and I brace myself for the instinct to run, the usual defensive spike of irritation I get when a man stares too long.

It never comes.

The heat blooming under my skin isn’t unpleasant—it’s just intense. A steady, unblinking awareness tying us together through the noise of the cantina.

Plates eventually clear, and the crew begins to scatter, heading off to check rigs and feed animals. I stand up, ready to retreat to my trailer, but a body blocks my path.

Cole leans against the table edge, arms crossed over his chest.

“Did you survive?” he asks with a low purr.

I sniff. “I ate.”

“High praise.” He taps his long fingers against his bicep. “We need to talk about your wardrobe.”

I look down at my gray tank top and faded jeans. “What’s wrong with it?”

“For walking around? Nothing. For the Big Top? You look like you’re going to paint a fence.” He pushes off the table and steps closer, carrying that scent of leather and steel. “You need a costume. Something that catches the lights.”

“I have the vest I wore yesterday.”

“The fringe thing?” He tips his head. “Wasn’t that Brannigan’s?”

“It was.”

“Then it belongs in a box to keep it safe. Not in the ring where it’s going to get sweated in, nicked up, and ruined.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my tongue. He’s right. Walt’s vest is a keepsake. It’s the only piece of the old man I have left, and wearing it as a functional prop is a risk I don’t actually want to take.

“Fine,” I concede.

His mouth curves into that sharp, victorious grin. “Come on. The seamstress is expecting us.”

He leads me past the Big Top to a long white trailer smelling strongly of spray starch and cheap floral perfume. Inside, racks of sequined jackets, velvet coats, and brightly colored tulle crowd the narrow aisle.

A woman stands at a cutting table, a yellow measuring tape draped around her neck and three silver pins clamped between her lips. She has graying hair pinned up in a haphazard twist and eyes that strip a person down to their measurements in a single glance.

“Anne Marie,” Cole announces, dropping onto a nearby stool and spinning a pair of fabric scissors on his finger. “Meet the new target.”

Anne Marie takes the pins out of her mouth. She looks me up and down, her expression strictly business. “Skinny, but good shoulders. Posture’s excellent.”

“Make her match me, Annie,” Cole instructs, kicking his boots out and crossing his ankles. “Something dark. Something sharp.”

“I’ll make her whatever doesn’t get her killed,” Anne Marie counters, swatting at him with a bolt of velvet.

She steps up to me and loops the tape measure around my waist. She works fast, not bothering to take down measurements, her hands flying over my shoulders, hips, and inseam. Cole keeps a steady stream of terrible jokes flowing from the stool, earning cackles from Anne Marie. She clearly loves the attention, batting her eyelashes at him while yanking the tape tight across my back.

“Stand straight,” she commands.