Page 1 of Slay Me

Chapter1

Liv

Abright spotlight shines down upon me, following my every step as I make my way into the center of the ring. The mat is soft beneath my bare feet, though the metal plates of my costume jingle as I move, a soft wind-chime-like noise that lulls the silent crowd filling the stands.

They’re here to watch us perform. To feel something. Which is ironic given that the majority of us here at No Man’s Circus no longer possess the emotional capacity required to feel anything more than hatred for the Ringmaster.

My gaze drifts across the space to a man wearing a red coat and black top hat. He stands at the edge of the ring, copper eyes on me. He’s always watching. Staring. The others believe he waits for us to make a mistake so he can punish us.

I think it’s more than that. What? I’m not sure. I’ve spent the last twelve years trying to figure it out because I’m certainly not stupid enough to ask. Not even when we’re alone. Knowing he’s an unnecessary distraction, I turn my attention back to my performance.

Screwing up is not an option at No Man’s Circus because our leader has killed for far less.

My hand closes on the steel ring suspended above me. I move in a circle, taking calculated steps as I await the music. One beat. Two. And then—the melody starts off like a lullaby, building just like a budding romance, so I slowly spin myself, taking the ring with me.

Still clinging to it, I’m lifted slowly until I’m suspended well above the ground. Up here, I lose myself in the sound, in the performance, because I can pretend that my world is far more than the gilded cage that is my reality.

I lift a leg and loop it through the lyra then pull myself up. With one leg dangling through the air, I continue to spin, arching my back to show off the skin revealed by a costume that portrays me as a goddess of war.

Of heartbreak.

Fitting, I suppose, given my past. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if the Ringmaster knows more about me than he lets on.

Magic sizzles along my skin, a dance of sparks thanks to the witch standing on a balcony hidden beneath the lights. Below, the crowd gasps and claps in delight while I continue to dance. They’re watching, but all I can feel arehiseyes on me.

Eyes that I long to look into even as self-preservation tells me it’s a horrible idea.

I drop down, letting one leg remain through the hoop, one hand on it. The lyra spins to the beat of the music, thanks to what little magic I do have. The breeze created by my power gently pushes strands of my near-white hair from my face.

As the tempo increases, so do my moves. Faster, faster, more erratic. If I had any feeling at all, I would ache for the woman in the song. A woman who lost everything because she chose to love the wrong man.

Right on cue, I release the ring.

And plummet.

The crowd gasps. Someone cries out below. But I’m not worried.

One more heartbeat and the firm body of my partner is beneath me. The gryffin’s feathers are soft beneath the flesh left exposed by my costume as I remain draped over his back, playing the part of a damsel. The crowd cheers as he brings me to the ground and lands before taking off again, disappearing into the shadows.

I wait, lying on the ground. My breathing is shallow, the entire ring suspended in complete silence as I lie. Even with my eyes closed, I can sense the Ringmaster. It makes no sense, of course. Although, seeing as how I have a penchant for attracting danger, I’ve come to consider it an additional sense. Some have great hearing, some sight. Iknowwhen someone possesses the ability to break me.

My heart pounds as a man kneels beside me. Even though I’m unable to see him, I know it’s my gryffin—now shifted into the handsome man he is—pulling my limp body into his arms.

The music continues to play, building a faster beat as he strokes the side of my face. I open my eyes and look up into his yellow gaze.

Our performance is one of love. Of passion. And it’s those emotions we try to elicit from our viewers. Something we’re damn good at even if the very idea of a man putting his hands on me is something I can only tolerate while in this ring.

Golden hair falls to Apollo’s broad shoulders. His muscled arms gather me closer, and he holds me against his strong chest for a brief moment. Then, the lyra is lowered again, and he reaches up to grab it. I wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me to my feet as the lyra is lifted.

He releases it, massive hands going to my hips as he presses my back to his front. I loop an arm around his neck, and we sway softly as the tempo slows once more.

The movements are all second nature to me now. But I still focus, unwilling to give a subpar performance because this is my freedom. Here, in this ring, I feel special in a world that has deemed me ordinary.

His hands drop, and I pull away, spinning around behind him until I’m right beside the lyra. I climb in, sitting on the steel like a swing, and my partner grips it with his hands as it flies into the air, disappearing from view.

The crowd’s cheers are almost deafening as the lyra is moved toward the balcony where the witch waits for us.

“Great show, guys,” Uma greets. Her black hair is in a braided crown above her head, the black cloak she wears adorned with shimmery stars and moons. She’s as kind as she is gorgeous and is one of the few people here I trust to not stab me in the back.

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