Page 32 of Carnival’s Playground

He pulls me inside the narrow vestibule of my living trailer, shutting the heavy door behind us and cutting off the outside world. The only light inside comes from the pale moonlight filtering through the small window, casting long, intimate shadows across the cramped space. My heart's pounding, and I don't know if it's from the gate crisis or from being alone with him like this, or from the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing keeping him standing.

"What is it, Wyatt?" I quietly ask, leaning back against the small kitchen counter. My hands are still shaking, so I grip the edge of the counter to hide it.

He steps into my space until there's not an inch of air between us. He places his hands flat on the laminate counter on either side of my hips, trapping me against the wood, his face shadowed, fierce, and raw with an emotion that terrifies me more than the saboteur outside.

"Tonight scared the living shit out of me, Avery," he confesses, and I can hear the truth of it in every syllable, in the way his voice shakes just slightly at the end.

"The crowd was insane," I softly reply, my hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the wild slam of his heart. "If that gate hadn’t held⁠—"

"I'm not talking about the goddamn crowd," he fiercely interrupts, leaning down until his lips are a fraction of an inch from mine. "I'm talking about you. When Petey called that fence breach and I realized that bastard was watching you from the woods, my whole world went black. I've spent my entire adult life running from town to town, not giving a single damn about what I left behind in the rearview mirror. But the thought of you getting hurt makes me want to burn this entire state to the ground."

The breath completely catches in my throat. My hands tighten against his chest, and I don't know what to say, don't know how to handle the weight of what he's offering me. Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before, and I'm terrified of believing it.

"Wyatt," I breathlessly whisper, the name slipping out like a prayer, like a plea.

"I'm done playing games, spitfire," he passionately growls, his gray eyes burning through the dim light. "I'm done pretending this is just two carnies blowing off steam while we fix broken motors. You're mine. You got under my skin the second you cursed me out in that mud puddle four weeks ago, and I'm not walking away from this."

"You're a nomad biker, Wyatt," I rawly remind him, the old fear clawing at my throat even as my body leans helplessly into his heat. My voice shakes, and I hate it. "You roll in, you work a circuit, and you disappear down the highway when the season ends. I don't know how to survive you leaving."

"Look at me," he commands, his hand tangling firmly in my hair and tilting my face up. "I'm not leaving. When this show wraps up, wherever you go, I go. You want this circus life? We run it together. You want a house with a porch in the middle of nowhere? I'll build it with my bare hands. But I'm not riding away from you."

A sob of pure relief and fierce, terrifying joy catches in my chest. I want to believe him so badly it hurts, I want to trust that he means it, but I'm scared of what happens if I do and he changes his mind. "You're out of your mind, Carnival."

"Completely," he roughly agrees, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice, something tender beneath the intensity. "Now shut your smart mouth and kiss me."

I don't hesitate. I grab the lapels of his leather cut and pull him down with everything I have.

The kiss isn't gentle. It's a violent collision of teeth, tongues, and weeks of choked-down terror turning into raw, unbridled hunger. Wyatt lets out a dark, possessive groan against my lips, his heavy arms lifting me clean off the floor and setting me on the edge of the kitchen counter. He steps between my thighs, his broad hands sliding under my jacket, gripping my waist with a fierce claim that makes my entire body ignite. But there's something else there too, something desperate and vulnerable in the way he holds me, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.

I wrap my legs around his waist, my fingers tangling in the short, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper, demanding everything he has to give. His mouth is hot, demanding, and thorough, claiming every inch of my lips, but when we finally tear apart for air, our foreheads are pressed together, our ragged breaths mingling in the dark trailer. His thumb traces the swollen curve of my bottom lip, his gray eyes dark with desire but also something softer, something that looks like relief.

"You're mine, Avery," he fiercely whispers against my cheek. "Say it."

"I'm yours, Wyatt," I softly vow. My voice is steady, clear, and completely unbroken, even though my heart's racing and I'm still scared of what that means. "Always."

Outside, the sharp double-tap of a police siren echoes across the lot, followed by Dutch's heavy boots crunching on the gravel outside my trailer door.

"Wyatt! Avery!" Dutch's gravelly voice calls from the steps. "Sheriff Caffey needs our statements on the pipe and the tree line! Move your asses!"

Wyatt lets out a low, wicked chuckle against my neck, pressing one more slow, bruising kiss to the sensitive skin below my ear before sliding his hands down to help me off the counter. His hands linger at my waist, steadying me, and I realize mine are still shaking.

"Duty calls, spitfire," he dryly murmurs, smoothing down the collar of my jacket with a crooked, dangerous smirk.

"Let's go give the sheriff his statement," I boldly say, lacing my fingers through his large, calloused hand and squeezing tight, grounding myself in the contact. "And then we finish hunting the bastard who thought he could mess with our circus."

"Damn right," Wyatt roughly answers, kicking the trailer door open into the cold Texas night, our hands locked together as we step out to face the storm.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CARNIVAL

Dutch is crouched by the jammed exit gate, a heavy plastic milk crate set over the iron track to keep the scene from getting trampled to shit. He’s leaning over it with his cell phone out, snapping flash photos of the rusted pipe wedged deep into the gear teeth from three different angles. Every line in his weathered face is carved with pure, murderous tension. "About damn time," he grunts, not looking up as the flash strobes against the gravel. "Where the hell have you two been hiding?"

"Securing the perimeter and cooling down the crew," I growl, keeping my arm hooked firmly around Avery's waist as we walk up. I don't give a damn if Dutch sees me holding her. My blood is still running on high octane fury, and having my hand on her hip is the only thing keeping my knuckles from going through the nearest steel beam. "Some of us don't get to stand around playing photographer."

"Somebody's gotta log this mess before the county tries to write it off as carnival equipment failure," Dutch barks back, shoving his phone into his canvas vest as he stands. His jaw muscles jump. "I called dispatch the second we got the crowd moving. Spoke to Sheriff Caffey directly. He was tied up with a wreck out on the highway, but he ordered me to lock down the area, make damn sure nobody touched the gate, and have every witness ready for a formal statement. Responding deputy's en route right now."

"Any sign of who jammed it?" Avery asks, stepping beside the turnstile. I feel the rigid tension vibrating through her body, the stubborn grit holding her upright when her eyes are rimmed with exhaustion.