Page 6 of Slay Me

I trusted him with all I had. I’d given him my mind, soul, my body, and my heart. I shiver. Never again will I make the mistake of believing anyone besides myself has my best interests in mind.

With nerves in my belly and anger in my heart, I make my way out of the communal room and up the stairs of our grungy apartment building. The performance tent sits in the very center of the courtyard with the old buildings surrounding it. Granted, most of the structure is in ruins.

When Portland fell fifty years ago, most of the humans who’d lived here were killed. That or they abandoned the city for safer pastures. Most of the world has been divided between the Houses—governing bodies of supernaturals—but No Man’s Land remains neutral due to its close proximity to one of the portals linking it to the world of Arcadia.

Which is where Ishouldhave run. Despite the rumors that those who enter that particular portal never return.

The chipped paint of my red door bares some of the light wood beneath it, but I ignore it as I push the door open and shut it behind me. Then, I flip the lock and move inside. My space isn’t much: a bed just big enough for me, a single dresser, a small kitchenette with appliances that have long passed their working dates—but it’s home. And the only one I’ve really ever known.

I cross the room toward my dresser.

Stopping in front of the mirror, I run my fingers through my braided hair, releasing the pale strands so they’re loose around my face. Then, I check my armored bodysuit and remove the face mask dangling around my neck. His space is the only place I’m allowed to perform without it.

A dark part of me, a voice I choose to ignore, yearns to believe the nightly performance is far more personal.

More intimate. Which is what it feels like when I’m moving for him. I pout my lips and slide on bright red lipstick. Then, I add more mascara to my eyelashes. After that, I strip out of my bodysuit and hang it up before pulling out a brand-new outfit.

I stare down at the fabric, a smile playing at the ends of my lips. This is its debut. And even as I shouldn’t care, I cannot wait to see his face. I step into the red bodysuit and slide it up over my hips before slipping my arms into the thin straps. The deep V plunges all the way down to my belly button, revealing a hell of a lot more skin than I’m used to.

But this is what my nights have turned into, attempting to elicit any type of attention from a man who otherwise appears to only have one mood: pissed off.

Once I’m dressed, I study the outfit in the mirror. The crimson fabric is adorned with small golden ruffles over each of the leg holes and golden swirls that took for-fucking-ever to sew. It’s been a labor of obsession and one that took me far longer than I care to admit.

As soon as I’m sure I look like something straight out of a fantasy, I head out into the hall and make my way toward the stairs. The Ringmaster resides on the top floor—the penthouse as it’s called. His entire place is warded with powerful magic, making it impossible for anyone not approved to enter.

In fact, on the first of our performances, he’d sliced open the vein on my wrist and had a witch I’ve never seen again add my blood to the wards, making me one of three others allowed to venture inside his private space.

I raise my fist and knock twice then wait.

It’s less than two heartbeats before he’s pulling the door open. Dressed in his black pants, knee-high boots, and a white t-shirt, he’s ridiculously handsome. A man who is just as gorgeous as he is monstrous. A walking contradiction.

“Ringmaster,” I greet, bowing my head. Referring to him as such had once seemed so ridiculous. But now, twelve years later, it’s habit. Not a single soul in this circus knows what his true name is. Honestly, I’d be surprised if it were anything but what he demands we call him. His entire life, his persona, revolves around his role here.

“What the fuck is that?” he demands, gesturing to what I’m wearing.

“A new costume I made. What do you think?” I step into the room and turn to face him as he shuts the door.

His throat bobs as he swallows, letting his gaze drift down over my body. It lingers on the glitter-covered flesh between my breasts, which is now shimmering beneath the bright lights of his apartment. “That is not what you are supposed to wear in the ring.”

“We’re not in the ring,” I remind him.

He takes a step closer, staring down at me with emotion I cannot quite recognize. Anger? Lust? It’s clear he enjoys looking at me. Otherwise, why would I be here? “You think to argue with me?”

“It’s not an argument,” I reply. “Because it’s the truth.” I’m rarely this brazen, but the more time I spend in his presence, the more I long for some type of interaction that pushes past the anger he wears almost constantly. Surely there is more to him.

And even though I have no intention of sticking around, I want to know who the Ringmaster truly is. If only to know what to expect should I get the opportunity to escape.

I move out of the foyer and step into the first room, which consists of a plush couch, a wall of bookshelves boasting various titles, and a massive cherrywood desk in the far corner. That’s where he heads now, toward a record player in the corner.

Releasing it, I guide the hoop to the center of the ring and face him again. With his attention on the record player, I do what I always do and study his features. His dark hair is longer on top of his head, though he wears it slicked back. His jaw is sharp and clean-shaven, his copper gaze focused as he places the needle atop the disc.

When he turns to face me, my body reacts. Breath catching, our gazes hold for a few moments as the melody fills the room around us. It’s a haunting sound, a song about love and loss. Falling and heartbreak. Very similar to the one I perform to in the Big Top. This one, however, is darker.

More sinister.

The Ringmaster takes his seat and leans back, watching as I’m swept away to another time completely. And to a place where my nightmares aren’t hiding around every corner.

Slipping into the lyra, I lean back, arching so most of my body is on display. Keeping one hand on the metal ring, I grip my throat with the other and allow it to trail down my body, imagining hands I should never picture touching me.

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