Page 13 of Carnival Mayhem

His hand tightens fractionally on my waist. “Sex builds trust. Bonds people. What better way for us to connect as a team?” His thumb traces small circles against my hip. “I’ve seen how you look at us both. The way your breath catches when Colt gets too close. How your pupils dilate when I touch you.”

Heat floods my face. He’s right. I do want them. The thought of being with them both makes my core clench with need. But memories of that horrible night flash through my mind—Tommy and Jake holding me down while their friends...

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the images. This is different. Nash and Colt aren’t them. Their touches are careful and controlled. When they look at me, I see desire mixed with something deeper—a need to protect rather than harm.

But still... “I don’t know,” I whisper.

I try to steady my breathing as Nash holds me close, the music swirling around us. His words echo in my head—the invitation to their trailer, the promise of something thrilling and terrifying. But he doesn’t know. None of them know what Tommy and Jake did to me.

I feel something different here, in Nash’s arms, with Colt’s burning gaze following our every move. Something that makes me want to forget, even for a moment.

“I need time,” I whisper. “This is all so new.”

Nash’s hand remains steady at my waist, neither pushing nor pulling away. “Time is something we have plenty of, little bird.” His voice carries no judgment.

The song ends, and I step back, needing space. Colt materializes beside us. His presence is both comforting and overwhelming. They flank me like dark guardians, and for a moment, I imagine telling them everything—about the nights I spent crying silently into my pillow, about the bruises I had to hide, about the way Tommy and Jake...

No. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

These men might seem different and might make me feel safe in a way I haven’t in years, but some secrets are too heavy to share. Some wounds are too deep to expose to the light.

“Thank you for the dance,” I manage. “I think I need some air.”

Nash lets me go, but I feel their eyes following me as I weave through the crowd. Neither knows the real reason behind my hesitation and for now, that’s how it needs to stay.

8

COLT

Flora returns, her shoulders tense but her eyes determined. Something about her vulnerability, maybe it’s her inner strength trying to break free that sets my pulse racing.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” I tell her, keeping my voice gentle, knowing Nash has already propositioned her to spend the night with us. “No pressure.”

Nash stands beside me. Flora’s gaze flicks between us, considering.

“I’m open to seeing where the night takes us,” she says, determination blazing in her eyes as the alcohol loosens her up.

The clock on the wall reads eight.

Nash steps forward. “Why don’t we head to the training tent? See what you can do with the equipment?” His suggestion breaks the tension, giving us all something concrete to focus on.

Flora’s eyes brighten. “That’s actually a great idea.” Her relief is obvious since training would be familiar to her. “I even put my leotard on beneath my dress, just in case.”

I chuckle. “Eager, aren’t you, angel?”

She nods in reply, her cheeks turning an endearing pink.

“Come on, let’s go,” Nash says, nodding at the exit to the tent.

We lead her through the carnival grounds to the training tent, our private space away from prying eyes. The trapeze hangs center stage, ropes and silks draped artfully around it. Practice mats cover the ground, and other equipment lines the walls—everything we need to train safely.

I notice how Flora’s eyes light up at the sight of it all, her earlier nervousness melting away as she takes in the professional setup. Nash and I spend most of our time here, perfecting our craft. Now, we’ll get to see what our angel can do.

I lean against one of the support poles, arms crossed, as Nash approaches Flora.

“Show us what you remember from your gymnastics days,” he tells her. “Basic floor work first. Tumbling, handstands, whatever comes naturally.”

Flora nods, rolling her shoulders back despite not being dressed for the occasion, but it doesn’t dissuade her. She stands at one end of the mat, bouncing slightly on her toes. Then she’s moving, and damn if she isn’t impressive. A series of perfect cartwheels flows into a round-off back handspring. Her control is obvious in every movement, each landing precise.

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