Page 45 of Carnival Shadows

“We agreed never to talk about Denver.”

He laughs, the sound echoing off the metal walls. “Good times, though, right?”

I shake my head but can’t quite hide my smirk. For all his chaos, Cade’s reliable in his own twisted way. He might be crazy, but he’s my kind of crazy.

I hear the crunch of boots on gravel before Colt’s massive frame appears around the corner of the container. His usual scowl is firmly in place as he approaches.

“Need an extra pair of hands?” he asks, already grabbing a crate.

“Thought you had a rehearsal with Nash,” I say, checking off another item.

Colt shrugs. “Finished early. Flora’s got him distracted anyway.”

“Speaking of distractions,” Cade pipes up with that shit-eating grin. “Our boy Remy here?—”

“Shut it,” I cut him off. “We need to focus on tonight’s exchange.”

“Right.” Colt’s expression darkens. “Ty said there might be trouble?”

“When isn’t there?” I hand him the manifest. “Ten crates, fifty thousand each. Buyers are getting antsy about the price hike.”

“Let them get antsy,” Cade says, cracking his knuckles. “More fun that way.”

Colt rolls his eyes. “Not everything needs to end in bloodshed.”

“You’re no fun anymore since Nash got his hooks in you,” Cade pouts.

“And you’re too eager to start shit,” Colt growls. “Remember Pittsburgh?”

“That wasn’t my fault! How was I supposed to know?—”

“Both of you, enough.” I snap. “Midnight. South entrance. We go in quiet, make the exchange, get out. No complications.”

“Yes, boss,” Cade mock salutes while Colt just nods.

After that, we fall into a rhythm, moving crates and checking inventory. The familiar work helps clear my head, pushing thoughts of Eden aside—for now, at least.

23

EDEN

Itoss and turn on the thin mattress in Remy’s trailer, unable to find rest. The digital clock blinks two-seventeen a.m. when the door finally creaks open. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of him—blood streaking his face and shirt, bruises blooming across his jaw.

“Oh God, are you okay?” I rush to him, hands outstretched as I reach for his face.

He grunts, brushing past me to grab a towel. “Fine.” His voice is rough and dismissive.

“Let me help,” I insist, taking the towel from his grip. He allows it, though his jaw remains tight. I dab at the blood on his face, realizing the cuts are superficial. Most of the crimson staining his clothes isn’t his.

My breath catches. The evidence of violence coating his skin sends a thrill through me. My fingers trace a bruise on his bicep, and heat pools in my core. The pungent scent of blood mingles with his natural musk, making my head spin.

“You’re not scared,” he observes.

“No,” I whisper, continuing to clean him. Each swipe of the towel reveals more of his unharmed skin beneath the blood. Theknowledge that he emerged victorious from whatever violent encounter left him in this state makes my pulse race.

My clinical interest in criminal psychology feels far away now. This is a visceral attraction to his obvious power and capacity for violence. As a researcher, I should be horrified. Instead, I’m fighting the urge to press myself against his blood-stained chest.

I set the bloodied towel aside, my gaze still on his body. “I’ll get some ice for those bruises.”

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