Page 45 of Carnival Mayhem

“Right. I’ll text you when I’ve got the surveillance running.” Phoenix pauses. “And Colt? Make them regret ever touching her.”

“Count on it,” I reply, ending the call.

I watch Nash stare at his phone, waiting for Phoenix’s updates. Something’s off about him—it has been since Flora told us about her past. The tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw keeps clenching.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “You’ve been quiet since last night.”

Nash’s fingers are still on his phone screen. He doesn’t look up, but I catch the slight tremor in his hand before he sets the device down.

“Just brings up old ghosts,” he says, his voice rough.

I freeze. In all our years together, Nash has never mentioned anything about his past. Not once. He’s always been a closed book, deflecting questions with practiced ease or changing the subject entirely.

“You want to talk about it?” I offer, careful to keep my tone neutral. One wrong move and he’ll shut down completely.

Nash runs a hand through his hair, still not meeting my eyes. “The foster system’s full of monsters.”

The implication hits me like a punch to the gut. My hands curl into fists at my sides, rage building for a new reason.

“Nash...” I start, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp. “It was a long time ago. I dealt with it.”

“Did you?”

Finally, he looks up at me, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. “Had to. Nobody else was going to.”

I want to reach for him and offer comfort, but I know he’s not ready. Instead, I lean against the counter, giving him space while letting him know I’m here.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I tell him quietly. “You know that, right?”

Nash stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The walls I’ve seen glimpses behind snap back into place, his expression hardening into that familiar mask of control.

“I need some air.” He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door, movements sharp and precise.

I know better than to push. In all our years together, I’ve learned when Nash needs space. The tightness around his eyes and the rigid set of his shoulders are warnings I’ve memorized.

“I’ll be here,” I say simply, giving him the out he needs.

He pauses at the door, one hand on the handle. For a moment, I think he might turn back, might let me in just a fraction more. But then his shoulders straighten, and without another word, he disappears.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone. I drag a hand down my face, fighting the urge to follow him. Nash will talk when he’s ready—if he’s ever ready. Pushing him now would only drive him further away.

Still, the glimpse of vulnerability I saw in his eyes haunts me. All these years, I never knew about his abuse. I knew he’d had a shitty childhood bouncing from foster home to foster home, but he never wanted to talk about it.

I sink onto the couch, staring at the door he just walked through. How many nights has he sat here, carrying these secrets alone?

21

NASH

The idea of leaving Flora alone doesn’t sit well with me. The memory of witnessing her terror after those pieces of shit made an appearance makes my jaw clench as I head toward Aurora’s trailer.

As I climb the metal steps, the morning sun beats down my neck. Before I can knock, the door swings open, and Aurora stands in workout clothes, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun.

“Hey Nash, what’s up?” She wipes sweat from her forehead with a small towel.

“Need a favor.” I shift my weight. “Colt and I have to help Ty with something today. Was hoping Flora could hang with you?”

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