Page 7 of Carnival Shadows

I meet his gaze. “Trust me. I know exactly how to handle Eden Love.” I stride out, boots crunching on the gravel. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the grounds as I approach the massive red and gold striped tent.

She’s alone inside, adjusting her recording equipment on a small folding table. The tent feels charged, like the air before a storm, as I deliberately let my boots echo on the wooden platform. Her head snaps up, and her green eyes widen as she takes me in.

“Mr...?” Her professional mask slips for a moment as she struggles to maintain composure.

“Remy. Just Remy.” I settle into the chair across from her, stretching my legs out. “You have questions about carnival life?”

“Yes.” She fumbles with her recorder. “Though I admit I’m particularly interested in the darker aspects. The isolation, the transient nature that might appeal to certain personalities.”

Her voice catches on that last word, eyes flickering to my hands before darting away.

“You mean fugitives.” I keep my tone neutral, watching how she leans forward at the word.

“Among others. Have you ever noticed anyone exhibiting concerning behaviors?”

The irony of her question almost makes me smile. Instead, I study how her pupils have dilated at the word “fugitive” and how her fingers absently caress the recorder.

“We’re a family here,” I say carefully. “We look out for our own. Notice when things aren’t right.” I let that hang between us, watching her process the double meaning.

I study Eden as she fidgets with her recorder, her polished exterior cracking under my gaze. A light blush creeps up her neck when our eyes meet. She’s stunning up close—those greeneyes hold depths I want to explore, and her dark auburn hair catches the filtered sunlight streaming through the tent.

“Do you mind if I...” She gestures vaguely at her camera. “For the podcast website?”

“Go ahead.” I lean back.

“Perfect,” she breathes, lowering the camera but not before I catch her eyes lingering on the screen, staring at my image.

“You seem very... invested in your research, Ms. Love.” I shift forward. “Most reporters keep a more professional distance.”

“Eden,” she corrects, then looks down at her notes. “And yes, I like to understand my subjects completely.”

The way she says “completely” sends a shiver down my spine. Dangerous territory, this one, but the pull is undeniable. When she looks up again, her eyes are darker and hungry.

“Tell me, Eden...” I let her name roll off my tongue, watching her reaction. “What really brings you to our carnival?”

She wets her lips, pen frozen above her notepad. “The mystery. The freedom to be someone else.”

The confession slips out before she can stop it. Her eyes widen, realizing she’s revealed too much, but she holds my gaze instead of retreating.

I shouldn’t find her this appealing. She’s a liability, a threat to everything we’ve built here, but watching her try to maintain her professional facade while practically vibrating with suppressed need stirs something in me.

She straightens in her chair, smoothing her silk blouse. Professional mask back in place—almost.

“I’m fascinated by the nomadic lifestyle,” Eden says. “The freedom of constant movement, never putting down roots. Does it ever feel isolating?”

I stretch, noting how her eyes track the movement. “We’re never truly alone here. The carnival becomes your family.”

“Surely it impacts personal relationships?” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Romantic ones especially. It must be difficult maintaining connections when you’re always moving.”

A smirk tugs at my mouth. For someone trying to investigate murders, she’s awfully interested in my love life.

“Are you asking if I’m single?”

The blush spreading across her cheeks is delicious. “It’s relevant to understanding the carnival lifestyle. The psychological impact of nomadic life…”

“Ah, purely professional interest, then?” I lean forward, dropping my voice. “And here I thought you might be asking for personal reasons.”

She fumbles with her pen, catching it before it hits the floor. “Of course not. I maintain strict boundaries with my subjects.”

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