Page 7 of Slay Me

I imagine those hands on me now, using that knowledge to empower me as I put on a display I would never consider in the big top. The sexual performance is for his eyes only. Not because he asked for it—though it would have been easier if he had—but because it’s what I want. The only time I’ve ever felt powerful in my entire life is when the Ringmaster is unable to tear his gaze away from me.

I hook both legs around the fabric holding my lyra in the air and flip up, straddling it as I arch up and grip the fabric above my head.

After a beat, I flip down, releasing it and landing on my feet just in front of the lyra. Just the fact that he watches me turns me on more than any man ever did before I came here. Not that there were many men…just Ernesto.

“Stop.”

The order is barked, so I freeze, one hand on the lyra, the other at my side. I breathe deeply, inhaling his heady scent as he moves closer. I can feel him, a push and pull that shoots straight through my body. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, alerting me to his presence.

“What did I do wrong?” Panic pushes my lust aside. I’ve seen this man kill with his bare hands. He torments, taking pleasure in watching his victim writhe beneath the pressure. This is why what I do here is so dangerous. Having the Ringmaster’s full attention on me is never a good thing. Even if it feels too fucking powerful for my own good.

“What were you thinking about?” he demands.

“My performance.”

“Lie,” he replies, whispering in my ear. A shiver runs down my spine. “Who were you thinking about? And don’t fucking lie to me. You know better than that.”

Fuck.“You.”

“Another fucking lie.” He rips the lyra from my grasp, and I spin, turning toward him. He looms over me, a wall of muscle that intimidates even as it fascinates. “What happened the last time you lied to me, Liv?” Eyes narrowed on my face, he stares down.

The cage comes into memory. Golden iron bars I spent a night trapped behind.

Lying is no use. I know better. And yet, here I am.

He reaches up, gloved hand wrapping around my throat. He squeezes, just enough to cause my heart to race, but not enough to cut off my oxygen. I reach up and grip his forearm through the sleeve of his shirt, trying to ignore the way this physical connection is making me feel.

I breathe him in, and heat pools in my belly. It’s so twisted to want someone who terrifies me, but there’s something about him that calls to me. Probably because all I’ve ever known are twisted, tainted men.

Apollo is normal. And he doesn’t elicit even the smallest spark of attraction. Which likely means my twisted fucking soul is blackened to the point any shred of light makes me shy away. Darkness is an addiction, and I’ve been living with it for so long it might as well be my oxygen.

“Ernesto crossed my mind.” The admission pains me because I know all too well what happens every time I’ve thought of him in the Ringmaster’s presence.

His eyes flash with anger, but he releases me and takes a step back. “What the fuck have I told you explicitlynotto do?”

Bowing my head, I’m the picture of submission. The only way I could be more so is if I dropped to my knees. Which is something I willneverdo for anyone. Ever again. “I apologize. It was brief.”

“And what were you thinking of in regard to that fucking worm?” How the bastard knows I’m lying, I cannot even begin to understand. But I’ve learned that the trick is to steer as close to the truth as possible.

So, taking a deep breath, I tip my face up toward him and reply, “I was thinking back on what led me here.”

The Ringmaster’s nostrils flare. His eyes turn molten as he glares down at me. “You know what happens when you think of that fucking cocksucker in my presence, don’t you?”

I swallow hard but don’t respond. He leans in, close enough his breath is hot against my cheek though our bodies remain separated.

“Do you know how I can tell?” he asks, lower now. “How I know when you’re lying to me?”

“How?”

“Your scent changes, pet.”

My scent?It’s the first clue he’s ever given me as to what type of supernatural he actually is. No one here seems to have a single clue. Only that he’s immensely powerful and equally savage. He is feared by nearly everyone here in No Man’s Land. A boogeyman lurking in the shadows, prepared to barter for your soul. But if he can pick up on my scent, that must mean shifter of some kind.

A bear, perhaps? Would certainly explain a few things.

“It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” he growls and releases me. “Ernesto has no place in your mind. He serves as a distraction, and distractions will get you killed.” He leaves me where I stand, moving to sit back behind his desk. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed once more.

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