Page 2 of Taming the Lion
Our eyes meet again, and this time, I don’t look away. The connection between us is magnetic, and I can’t fight it—not fully. The crowd fades into the background, their cheers and gasps a distant echo as Alex’s gaze pins me in place.
It’s dangerous, this pull I feel. But instead of running, I hold my ground, meeting his stare with one of my own, challenging him in silence. His lips curl into a slight smirk, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as if he can sense the conflict raging inside me.
I hate that he sees me. Really sees me.
But I can’t deny it. There’s a flicker of something in me that I thought had been extinguished long ago, a spark that Alex has somehow reignited with nothing more than a glance. My breathcatches, and I remind myself who I am—who I need to be. Strong. Unyielding. Unaffected.
Yet, as Alex swallows another mouthful of fire, his eyes never leaving mine, I feel my resolve waver. Just for a moment, but it’s enough to shake me. I want to touch him. I want to feel the heat of his skin against mine, to know if the fire between us is real or just another illusion.
But I don’t move. I can’t. Not yet.
So I stand there, rooted to the spot, watching him like he’s the flame and I’m the moth, desperately trying to resist the light that could burn me alive.
Chapter Two
Alex
The backstage area is dim, the shadows long and flickering under the muted glow of hanging bulbs. The chaos of the circus feels distant here, a muffled hum beyond the thick curtains that separate the performance from the preparation. I breathe in the scent of fuel and sweat, the familiar tang that grounds me, centers me. It’s almost time.
I crouch, my fingers deftly checking the torches, ensuring the wicks are just right. One wrong move, one slip, and it could all go south. But I thrive on this—on the edge between control and chaos, between the thrill and the danger. The torches pass inspection, each one perfect, each one ready to become an extension of me.
My muscles hum with anticipation, the tension coiled tight beneath my skin. The past few weeks have been a blur of performances and watching, always watching. The Misfit Cabaret is a haven for those of us with something to hide, but I’m here for more than the spotlight. I have a job to do, one that doesn’t allow for distractions. And yet…
I sense her before I see her. Sophia.
Even through the dimness, her presence is electric, a charge that vibrates in the air between us. She thinks she’s keeping her distance, but I can feel her eyes on me, sharp, assessing. There’s a heat in her gaze that rivals the fire I wield, a challenge that stirs something deep in my gut.
I’ve seen her in the ring, commanding that lion like it’s an extension of her will. There’s a fierceness in her that mirrors the flames I breathe, and it draws me in despite every warning bell going off in my head. I shouldn’t care, shouldn’t let myself get distracted by the way she moves, the way she looks at me like she’s daring me to come closer. But I do care. More than I should.
The crowd’s roar pierces through the curtain, and I know it’s time. I grab the torches and rise, every muscle tensed and ready. As I step into the center ring, the energy shifts, the air thick with anticipation. The lights dim, and for a moment, everything is still. Then, with a crackle and a roar, the first torch flares to life.
The heat licks at my skin, but I welcome it, feed off it. The flames dance in my hands, wild and alive, but I control them, bend them to my will. The audience is nothing more than a blur of faces, their gasps and cheers a distant echo. It’s just me and the fire, and the thrill of knowing one wrong move could end it all.
But it’s not the flames that hold my focus. It’s her.
Sophia stands at the edge of the ring, watching me with an intensity that sends a jolt of heat through my veins. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else fades—the noise, the crowd, the fire itself. It’s just her and me, the tension between us taut and electric. She’s a challenge, a mystery, and I’ve always been drawn to both.
I push the fire harder, the torches spinning faster, the flames roaring higher. It’s a show of power, of control, but also of something more primal. I can feel the heat of her gaze, the way ittraces over me, and it fuels me, makes me want to push further, to see how far I can take this before one of us burns.
The moment stretches, a silent conversation carried in the space between our locked eyes. I see the hesitation in her, the wariness. She’s built walls, just like I have, and I know that letting anyone in is a risk neither of us is willing to take. But damn if I’m not tempted to try.
The final act comes, the flames flaring around me as I bring the torches together in a blazing finale. The crowd erupts, the noise washing over me, but I barely hear it. My eyes are on Sophia, waiting for her reaction, needing to know if she felt that connection too, or if it’s just another dangerous illusion I’ve created in my mind.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact, and for a second, I think I see something in her eyes—a flicker of something that mirrors what’s burning inside me. But then she turns, slipping back into the shadows, leaving me standing in the center of the ring, the flames dying out, the crowd’s cheers fading into the background.
I should let it go, focus on the mission, keep my distance. But I can’t. The pull between us is too strong, too real to ignore. And I have the distinct feeling that this is just the beginning of something that could either set us both ablaze or consume us entirely.
The adrenaline from the performance still courses through my veins as I make my way backstage. The crowd’s cheers echo faintly in the distance, their energy lingering in the air like an electric charge. I wipe the sweat from my brow, muscles still taut, the residual heat of the fire clinging to my skin. The rush is intoxicating, a reminder of why I do this—why I thrive on the edge of danger, where control is everything.
As I round the corner, I almost collide with her—Sophia.
She’s been waiting, though she wouldn’t admit it. There’s a deliberate set to her posture, arms crossed, chin lifted in that defiant way of hers. The space between us hums with tension, the air thick with something I can’t quite name but feel in every fiber of my being.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. We’re too close, close enough that I can see the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her chest rises and falls a little too quickly, betraying her composure. Her scent—something warm, like amber and smoke—wraps around me, making it impossible to think clearly.
“Impressive,” she finally says, her tone sharp, almost mocking. Testing me.
I meet her gaze, letting my eyes trace the curve of her lips, the fire in her eyes that rivals the flames I just commanded. “You too,” I reply, keeping my voice low, measured. There’s no point in playing coy—she knows she’s damn good, and I’m not here to flatter her. But there’s something more in the way I say it, a deeper meaning she catches onto. It’s not just her performance that impressed me. It’s her.
