Page 4 of Carnival Shadows

His hand slides from my chin to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A warning. A promise. My pulse races against his palm.

“Get. Out.” Each word comes out clipped and controlled. “Before I have security come over here and drag you out.”

“You won’t.” I’m practically vibrating with excitement. “You don’t want attention any more than I do.”

His fingers flex against my throat. For a moment, I think he might do it—squeeze until the edges of my vision go dark. The thought makes me wet.

“Last warning.” He releases me abruptly. “Next time, I won’t be so nice.”

I stay pressed against the trailer, catching my breath. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Out!” The word cracks like a whip.

I stumble away from the staff area on shaky legs, my throat tingling where Remy’s fingers pressed against my skin. The memory sends another wave of heat through my core. God, what’s wrong with me? I should be terrified, not aroused.

My cheeks burn as I weave through the carnival crowds. After that intense encounter, the cheerful music and children’s laughter feel surreal. I try to ignore the ache between my thighs.

The parking lot stretches ahead as I pass through the carnival gates. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the gravel, and I’m grateful for the cooling breeze against my flushed skin.

I can’t stop replaying every second of our encounter. The way he towered over me, his scent overwhelming my senses. The dangerous glint in his eyes when I pushed back. That controlled power in his grip.

My motel is only a few blocks walk, but each step is torture. My underwear is soaked, and my skin feels too tight. I’ve interviewed serial killers before and stared into the eyes of genuine monsters. Still, none of them made me feel like this – like prey, like a moth drawn to a deadly flame.

I should focus on the investigation and the missing persons cases that led me here. Instead, all I can think about is Remy.

Shame burns almost as hot as arousal. I’m supposed to be better than this—clinical, detached, professional. I’m not some obsessed groupie getting wet over a potential killer.

Maybe that’s exactly what I am. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself all along about my true nature.

I fumble with my key card as I enter my motel room. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, chest heaving. My skin feels electric, and every nerve ending feels alive.

I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a trail to the bathroom. The cool air hits my overheated skin, making my nipples tighten. In the mirror, I see the faint red mark on my throat where his fingers pressed. A moan escapes my lips as I trace them.

The shower starts cold, but I turn it scalding, letting the water cascade over my body. My hands slide down my curves, imagining they’re his. Rough, demanding, I close my eyes and picture Remy’s intense gaze.

“Oh God,” I gasp, fingers finding my clit. I’m already swollen and sensitive, so turned on, it almost hurts.

My other hand grips the shower wall as I move my fingers faster, replaying every second of our encounter. The way he towered over me. His scent. The dangerous edge in his voice when he said,“Don’t test me.”

The coil of pleasure builds low in my belly as I imagine those strong hands on me, pinning me down. Would he be gentle? No—he’d be like steel, unrelenting. The thought pushes me closer to the edge.

I slide two fingers inside myself, thumb circling my clit. My muscles clench around them as I picture his barely contained violence. What would it take to make him snap?

The orgasm hits me hard and fast. I cry out, legs trembling as waves of pleasure crash through me. The world whites out momentarily, and I brace myself against the shower wall to stay upright.

The scalding water pounds against my skin but can’t wash away my obsession. My mind circles back to Remy, like a compass needle finding true north.

I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water stream down my back. What is it about Remy? The calculated way he moves, like a predator? The complete absence of any digital footprint? Or maybe it’s the darkness I glimpse behind his eyes.

I should pack up and leave town, file my story about carnival culture, and move on to the next case. That’s what a sane person would do.

But I know I won’t. I’m already planning tomorrow’s surveillance, imagining new ways to cross his path. The obsession has sunk its hooks too deep.

4

REMY

Through gaps between the trailers, I watch the podcaster’s retreating form. Eden Love. Her name matches her polished exterior—all perfect curls and designer clothes that can’t quite hide the darkness lurking beneath. I noticed her the other day, pretending to browse while stealing glances my way. Amateur stalker moves.

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