Page 46 of Carnival Shadows

His grip catches my wrist before I can move away, yanking me hard against his chest. The blood on his shirt transfers to my skin, and my breath catches.

“You like this, don’t you?” His voice drops low. “The blood. The violence.” His fingers dig into my flesh. “You spent years interviewing killers, studying psychopaths, and now you’re here with one.”

The academic distance I’ve maintained through countless prison interviews evaporates. This isn’t theoretical anymore—this is real and pressing against me.

“Tell me, Eden.” He twists my arm behind my back, forcing me closer. “Does it excite you? Knowing what I am? What I’ve done?”

“Yes,” I gasp, the confession tearing from my throat. Years of professional detachment vanish as I arch into him. The evidence of violence coating his skin only heightens my arousal. “I need help, but yes.”

“Such a twisted little thing.” His bloody fingers trace my jaw. “All those interviews and research, you weren’t trying to understand them. You were looking for someone like me.”

I pull away from him, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s not true.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I’m a professional. My research is academic.”

“Is that why you broke into my trailer? For academic research?” His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

I shut my eyes, shame burning through me. I can’t let him see how right he is, how perfectly he’s pegged my darkest desires. Years of maintaining a professional facade crumble under his knowing stare.

“Your listeners are getting worried,” he suddenly says, releasing my chin. “There’s chatter online about you falling prey to one of the killers you hunt. Ironic, isn’t it?”

My eyes snap open. “What?”

“Your social media’s gone dark. People notice when their favorite true crime podcaster disappears.” He pulls out his phone, showing me Reddit threads speculating about my whereabouts. “You need to maintain appearances.”

“How exactly should I do that locked in your trailer?” The words come out sharper than intended.

His thumb traces my lower lip. “If you promise to behave, to stay put and not try anything stupid, I’ll let you have some freedom around the carnival. You can record your podcast and take photos for social media.”

“You’d trust me with that?”

“Trust?” He laughs. “No, but I’ll be watching every move you make. One step out of line, and you’ll never leave this trailer again.” His grip tightens on my jaw. “Do we understand each other?”

I nod, relief flooding me at the prospect of autonomy, even if it’s an illusion. “I understand.”

His fingers tighten around my throat, cutting off my air. The pressure sends sparks through my body, a mix of fear and something darker. My pulse thunders against his palm.

“One wrong move,” he growls, “and this will be tighter next time. Understand?”

I slightly nod, stars dancing at the edges of my vision. Just as the room blurs, his grip shifts, and his mouth crashes into mine. The kiss is brutal and possessive.

And I melt.

My body betrays every pretense of resistance, molding against him as his fingers maintain their warning grip on my throat. The rational part of my brain that spent years studying criminal psychology screams that this is textbook Stockholm Syndrome. Captive bonding with captor. Classic trauma response.

That explanation rings hollow. My obsession with Remy predated my capture. I stalked him, broke into his trailer, and collected his belongings. I chose this path long before he took control.

This leaves only one terrifying conclusion in my mind as his kiss brands me: I’m falling for him. Not the sanitized version I imagined while watching from afar, but the real, dangerous man who holds my life in his hands.

The realization should horrify me.

I kiss him back with a desperate hunger, my hands clutching at his blood-stained shirt. The unmistakable taste of blood lingers on his lips, and I chase it with my tongue, wanting to taste every part of him. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as I press my body against his.

Gone is any pretense of professional distance. This is pure need. I pour years of suppressed craving into the kiss, letting him feel how much I want him.

His grip on my throat tightens in response, and I moan into his mouth. The sound seems to trigger something in him. His other hand grabs my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The pain only heightens my arousal.

My hands slide under his shirt, feeling the warm skin beneath. I trace every scar, every mark that tells the story of his violent nature. Each one makes me burn hotter.

The kiss grows more demanding, his teeth catching my lower lip. I taste my own blood this time and whimper. He swallows the sound, consuming my submission like it feeds something inside him.

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