Page 19 of Knife Thrower

The Big Top shakes with the noise from tonight’s audience. The crowd’s roar bleeds through the canvas, a siren’s song to every performer worth a damn.

I stand in the wings, rolling a throwing knife over my knuckles, but I can’t stop looking at her.

Anne Marie delivered on her promise. Boy, did she. Sloane wears black leather and dark, shimmering velvet, cut sharp and tight to match my own vest. The material hugs her waist, flares subtly at the hips, and leaves her arms bare. No fabric to catch a blade. No armor. Just pale skin.

Well, except for that scar on her palm. I know knives and I know the kind of wounds they inflict—I’ve tortured enough Prophets to be an expert in the matter. That scar isn’t from a knife throw gone wrong. It’s something else entirely, and from the way she looks at it when she doesn’t think I’m looking, I suspect the wound did more than physical damage.

Elias opens the show. His voice curls over the bleachers, a smooth sermon about sin and salvation, about truth and lies, about performance and reality. After that, the lineup moves like clockwork. Silas twists light and shadow, then Rowe brings out Caesar, the lion’s roar vibrating in my teeth. Jonah bends steel, and Logan swallows fire. Marek chills the room into absolute silence. He’s very good at that.

Then, the lights drop. Matt hits the cue, and a single white spotlight carves a circle into the dirt. Elias saved us for last tonight, the grand finale of the show.

Sloane and I step out of the shadows and into that spotlight.

The act runs like a well-oiled machine. We move together like we’ve shared this ring for a decade. I throw. She stands still. The blades carve through the air, humming a violent song, and every time her hand snaps up to pluck steel from the sky, my blood surges south.

Her blue eyes lock on mine. The blade rests two inches from her cheek. She doesn’t blink.

I get hard.

It’s not a casual twitch. A heavy, throbbing, blood-gorged ache strains against the tight material of my performance pants. The zipper digs into my flesh. Every time I cock my arm back, my hips shift, and the friction sends a shockwave straight to my groin. I’m so fucked.

She catches another knife. Our eyes meet again. I swallow a groan. Precum leaks from the tip of my cock, slicking my underwear, turning the front of my pants damp and uncomfortable. The percussion of the drum echoes the hard thumps of my heart.

By the time she catches the last blade and I stride across the ring to take her hand for the bow, my pulse hammers in my ears. Her fingers interlock with mine. The crowd screams. I barely hear them over the rush of my own blood.

The air in the dressing trailer smells like hairspray and sweat. Marek stands in the corner. He pulls a gray Henley over his head, smoothing the fabric down his lean frame. Then he picks up his tarot deck, taps the edges against the vanity, and turns his pale gray eyes on me.

He doesn’t look at my face. He looks at my crotch. The tight material leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Marek hums and brushes past us. “Good show.”

He slips out, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence left in his wake is deafening. My chest rises and falls. Sloane stands near the sink. She stares at a plastic pack of makeup remover wipes. Then, she looks at my reflection in the mirror.

Her eyes drag down my chest, over my belt, and snag on the bulge jutting out in the front of my pants.

Her throat bobs.

“I… I need to get back to my trailer.”

She turns, a jerky, uncoordinated movement. Nothing like the smooth elegance she displays when catching knives.

I reach out, and my fingers catch hers. “Sloane, wait, I…”

Skin meets skin, and it feels electric. The pad of my thumb drags across the raised ridge of the scar on her palm.

Sloane freezes. A sharp, ragged gasp tears through her lips, and her muscles lock down tight.

The line of her spine screams panic, so I drop her hand and take a step back. Not wasting another moment, not even looking at me, Sloane slips out, the door closing behind her.

Alone. With a cock as hard as steel for a woman who lets my knives come closer than any other part of me.

I brace one hand flat against the edge of the vanity. My other hand goes to my belt. I flick the buckle open, drag the zipper down with a harsh rasp, and free myself. My dick springs out, thick and rigid, weeping clear fluid down the tip.

I wrap my fist around the base and stroke up. The friction drags a low growl out of my throat. I stare at my own flushed face in the mirror, but I don’t see myself.

I see Sloane. Beautiful, perfect Sloane.