“You’re twice his size,” I refute.
“It’s not like he was defenseless, Thora. He’s an athlete.”
And he assumed right. Again. Probably based on Shay’s height, frame, build—like he did me that first night in Vegas. “Can you at least pretend to be full of remorse and regret?” This would be so much easier.
“No. A devil protects his demon.”
I scowl.
His gaze flits all over me, branding me like the tip of a fire-poker. His sandalwood scent dizzies my head, and I try to stay resilient under his masculinity, the dominance that is nearly begging him to stand up, lay me back against his mattress and take control of me.
I can tell that he struggles to keep still on his knees. “Have you slept with him before?” There’s something in Nik’s eyes, something kept secret from me. I wonder if it’s jealousy. Or fear.
“No,” I say. “Shay set me up on a date with his teammate. He has no interest in me like that.” A chill runs up my spine, and a shiver snakes back down.
Nikolai rubs his hands along the tops of my thighs, the friction immediately warming the coldest parts of me.
I shut my eyes for a second, thinking. Trying to place why I feel so strange. And the thought clicks. I have to release this off my chest. When I open my eyes, his gray irises pierce me in questioning, a raging powerful storm.
With a sharp inhale, I’m swept in it.
“I didn’t choose you,” I tell him. The pain of the statement is a hot, metal knife, wedged between my ribs. “I chose the circus.” It barely alleviates the sting. Why does that hurt? If it was the truth, it shouldn’t hurt this badly. Right? It can’t be a lie. Because then Shay is right. Everything he said—
“I’m glad,” Nikolai says each word like they’re weighted with cement. His eyes redden the longer he holds my gaze, suppressing more emotion.
My chin quakes. He’s glad. I nod a couple times, letting this sink in.
And then he lifts me in his arms and tucks me to his chest, warmth blanketing me. We’re on his bed, beneath his comforter in seconds, and he just holds me, strong, muscular arms wrapped around my frame.
I press my forehead to his collar, trying not to shiver so much. He kisses my cheek and whispers soft Russian words that bathe my skin in heat. I turn them over in my mind, clinging onto what sounds like: Vot moe serce. And then others…that I can’t uncover.
I tilt my chin up, silently asking.
He repeats the Russian words, so deeply, but refuses to translate this time. It’s enough as it is. Whatever the meaning, it leaves me sweltering.
Act Twenty-Nine
“Are you still complicated, Thora?!” the hostess of The Red Death yells at me for the countless time. I now know her as Erin, twenty-four, aspiring model, friend of Camila’s.
I’ve been snatching the red “it’s complicated” necklace since Nikolai and I started dating, and likewise, I’ve never seen him without the red glowstick. So my choice is an easy one.
“Yeah!” I shout.
She passes me the red necklace, and I snap it on as I slip past the black curtain. I inhale hot, sticky air. The club is suffocating, the heat, the bodies—I immediately tie my dirty-blonde locks into a low pony, grateful for my white halter dress that lets my arms and legs breathe.
Camila presses a cold beer bottle to her forehead behind the bar. “The air conditioning is broken!” she shouts at me. She’s switched out her green “taken” necklace for a red crown. “We’re on a break!” She must notice me staring.
“Sorry!” I yell back.
She shrugs and slides me my usual drink: a tequila sunrise. “You look like you need this.”
I’d say it’s my RBF, but I’ve had a shit week. On top of the Shay and Nikolai fight, a guy grabbed my ass after my aerial hoop act—about an hour ago. And training has been difficult. I struggle to do these challenging drops on aerial silk. No matter how hard I try, I just freeze up.
The mental block keeps me from progressing. Being graceful and lithe is out of the question if I can’t perform the trick.
Self-doubt is a real killer.
“I did not sign up to drink in the pits of hell,” John grumbles as he plops on the barstool next to me. He wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm and wafts his black shirt away from his chest.
I raise my brows at him.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“You’re in a club called The Red Death. You don’t think what you just said was a little ironic?”
“Everything I say has a level of unamusing irony. It’s just the way it is. And unfortunately I have to live with myself longer than you do.” He motions to Camila.
“No,” Camila says, swatting his hand with a towel before she wipes the bar.
“At least quench my thirst while I’m dying here.” He huffs and I tug at the collar of my dress. “I say we leave in five minutes if they don’t fix the AC.”
Camila gapes. “What about me?”
“What about you? You’re being paid to suffocate. If I don’t get free booze, there’s no reason I should stay.”
I lift my drink. “Comradery.”
His eyes narrow at my tequila sunrise. “Is that free?” I see his eyes say: You call that comradery?
I suck the straw and bat my eyelashes innocently. “Bad day.”
John swivels back to his cousin. And very seriously says, “I’ve had the most tragic Saturday—”
“You consider every day a tragic one,” she cuts him off. “Nice try.”
He extends his arms and then touches his chest. “My life is excessively shitty. I should be given twenty shots for that.” He taps the bar aggressively.
Camila slaps his hand away again. “You cry wolf, there’s a difference.”
John rolls his eyes. “You’re delirious from the heat, Camila. Cry wolf…” He snorts. “I don’t cry wolf.” If he had a beer, he’d chug it right now.
I check the clock behind the bar. Nikolai should be here soon if Amour ended about an hour ago. As the thought exits my brain, a squish noise triggers all around the club.
Sprinklers lower from the rafted ceiling and spray the dancers, drinkers, and bartenders with ice-cold water. Splitting cheers of excitement and glee crack through the pop music, and my muscles even relax in the chilly sheets.
Camila mutters curses, her purple mascara running down her cheeks already. “A warning would’ve been nice!” she shouts at the backroom and removes her makeup with a towel. I didn’t put too much on tonight, so I think I’m safe on this front.
I turn to my left, to John. His dark brown hair dampens and sticks to his forehead. With his surly expression, you’d think a flock of birds just shit on his head.
I can’t help it—I laugh. Really hard. It’s honestly like a raincloud has sprung and decided to trickle on his head. Ironic, yes.
John latches his surly gaze on me and flashes an ill-humored smile. “What are you laughing about? I’m not the one wearing white.”
My face falls, jaw drops. No. I’m not wearing a bra.
No.
I’m cool. It’s not that wet…but even as I think it, my hair is soaked already. The sprinklers never dialing down. I slowly glance at my body…my nipples visible. The barbell piercing visible. My orange boy-short panties.
Visible.
What. Do I do?