Page 14 of Carnival Mayhem

Nash catches my eye, one eyebrow raised. We’ve seen plenty of newcomers claim skills they don’t have. Flora isn’t one of them.

She transitions into a split and presses up into a handstand. Her lines are clean, her core steady—no wobbling. When she finally comes down, there’s a slight flush to her cheeks, but her breathing is controlled.

“That’s just a warm-up,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Color me impressed,” I say. Natural talent is rare enough, but this level of technical skill? Even better.

Nash steps closer, circling slowly. I recognize his analytical gaze—he’s already choreographing in his head, envisioning how we could incorporate her into our routines.

“Your form is excellent,” he says. His praise makes her stand a little straighter, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.

“We should see what she can do in the air,” Nash suggests. “Take her up, Colt.”

I shake my head, pushing off from the pole. “Not if she’s never been on a trapeze before. Floor work is one thing, but?—”

“I have, actually,” Flora interrupts. “Not professionally, but we had one at my high school gym. Coach let me practice after hours sometimes.”

That catches my attention. I study this girl’s face for any sign of false bravado or lies but find only earnest determination. Still, there’s a difference between playing around after school and what we do.

“How long ago?” I ask.

“About eight months.” She meets my gaze steadily. “I know it’s not the same as what you guys do, but I understand the basics. The grip, the swing, the timing.”

Nash moves closer to me. “Perfect time to assess her technique then. You can spot from above; I’ll watch from below.”

He’s right, damn him. It’s the safest way to gauge her abilities. I run a hand through my hair, considering the risks.

“Alright,” I concede. “But we do this my way. Safety harness first, and we start with basic holds.”

Flora nods eagerly, already moving toward the equipment rack where we keep the harnesses. I catch her arm gently.

“Listen carefully, angel. Up there, you do exactly what I say, when I say it. No improvising, no showing off. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Her voice is steady.

I help her into the harness, checking each buckle twice. Nash watches from below, his presence reassuring, as always. Once satisfied with her gear, I secure my harness and start up the ladder.

“Remember,” I call to her, “this isn’t about impressing us. It’s about showing us where you’re starting from so we can train you properly.”

From my position on the platform, I watch Flora climb with natural grace. Her movements are precise, with each grip and step calculated.

“We’ll start with a simple catch,” I tell her, securing my lines. “When I say go, swing out and release on my count.”

She nods, adjusting her grip on the bar. Her form is textbook perfect.

The first attempt is shaky—her timing’s off, and she releases too early. The harness catches her safely, but I see the frustration flash across her face.

“Again,” I call out. “This time, wait for my signal.”

Three more tries, and suddenly, everything clicks. Her body arcs through the air, and our hands connect with a satisfying smack. The electricity of skin-on-skin contact shoots through me.

“Beautiful!” Nash shouts from below.

We move through increasingly complex sequences. Each time I touch, guide, and position her body in the air, my pulse quickens. Her natural athleticism shows in every movement. She recovers gracefully when she misses a catch or fumbles a transition.

“Ready to try something more advanced?” I ask after a particularly smooth sequence.

“Yes,” she breathes.

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