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SOFIA

A fter calling the feds that night, I sit in the front row, watching Tyson command the circus ring with his usual charisma. My heart pounds as I observe his every move, knowing this is one of the last shows in Dawsbury before we move on.

Tomorrow everything changes—my life, family, everything I’ve ever known.

Tension radiates from his shoulders as he guides the performers through their acts. Even beneath his showman’s smile, I can see the worry in his eyes when they meet mine. He’s been protective today, keeping me close or having Nash or Colt nearby whenever he can’t be with me.

The crowd gasps and cheers at Nash’s and Colt’s death-defying feats as they perform on the trapeze, but my focus remains on Ty. His voice booms through the tent, directing attention to each spectacular moment. I marvel at how he maintains such control despite everything weighing on his mind .

As the final act concludes and the audience exits the cool night air, I remain seated. The emptying tent feels vast and quiet, with only the soft creak of ropes and canvas above. Cleanup crews move efficiently around the edges but fade into the background.

Ty approaches, his ringmaster’s coat catching the gleams of the spotlight. His expression softens as he reaches for my hand. Standing before me in the dimming tent, authority still radiating from his presence, he says, “Step right up, baby girl, into the arms of your master.”

I do as he says and stand, stepping into his arms and inhaling his masculine scent. The familiar mix of leather, musk, and something distinctly Tyson fills my senses. His strong arms envelop me, and I press my face against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath his ringmaster’s coat.

“You were amazing out there,” I murmur, tightening my grip around his waist. Despite what happens tomorrow looming over us, this moment feels safe.

His hand slides up my back, fingers tangling in my red hair as he tilts my face to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes that first caught my attention at the carnival entrance now look at me with such intensity it steals my breath.

“My beautiful girl,” he breathes, thumb brushing my cheek. The calluses on his hands graze my skin. “So perfect in my arms.”

I rise on my tiptoes, pressing closer. His coat buttons dig into my chest through my thin dress, but I don’t care. All that matters is being held by him, breathing him in .

His fingers trace patterns on my back as we stand in the dimming tent. The silence stretches between us, comfortable yet weighted with unspoken thoughts.

“Tell me about your mother,” Tyson says against my hair. “You never mention her.”

My body tenses. The memories I try so hard to keep locked away come rushing back. “She couldn’t handle this life,” I whisper, my voice catching. “The constant pressure, the expectations...”

“What happened?”

“She was like me—young, swept into this world by her father’s position. And the deeper she got, the more trapped she felt.” I pull back, meeting his gaze. “The arranged marriage, the rules, the constant surveillance broke her. She left a note, and I found her on the master bath floor. Pill bottles scattered across the marble countertops.”

Ty’s arms tighten around me. “How old were you?”

“Twelve. I watched her spiral for years before that. She’d cry in her room when she thought no one could hear her. Sometimes, she’d look at me with such sadness, like she knew I’d end up like her.” My fingers grip his coat harder.

“Baby girl...” Ty cups my face in his hands. “You’re stronger than that. You fought back.”

“Because of you.” I lean into his touch. “You showed me there was another way. Mom never had that chance.”

His lips capture mine in a tender kiss, cradling my face with his hands. The gentle pressure speaks volumes, so different from his usual domineering touch. When we part, I rest my forehead against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“What about your family?” I ask. “You know everything about my family, but you never talk about yours.”

His fingers pause their gentle strokes through my hair. “Not much to tell. Dad was a con man who dragged us from town to town, always one step ahead of the law.”

“And your mother?” I press.

“Left when I was eleven. Dad’s schemes broke her.” His voice carries a bitter edge. “The last thing I remember is her kneeling down, promising to return for me. She never did.”

I squeeze him tighter. “That must have been awful.”

“Dad raised me the only way he knew—teaching me every trick in the book. How to read people, how to gain their trust, how to spot an easy mark.” Ty’s laugh holds no humor. “By twelve, I could run a better con than most adults.”

“What happened to him?”

“Love killed him.” Tyson’s words come out harsh. “After Mom left, Dad fell apart,” he says, his voice rough with old pain. “Started drinking heavily. He could barely function most days, so I had to step up and run the cons myself.”

My heart aches to imagine a young Ty, eleven years old, shouldering such responsibility. “That’s too much for a child to handle.”

“Someone had to keep us afloat.” His fingers absently stroke my hair. “I got pretty good at it, too. People trust kids more, you know? Makes them lower their guard.”

“And your father?”

“The bottle became his only companion. He’d ramble about Mom coming back, how he couldn’t live without her.” His chest rises with a deep breath. “Found him one morning, just a week before my sixteenth birthday. He’d drank himself to death.”

I tighten my grip around his waist. “What did you do?”

“Ran. There was no way I was letting them put me into foster care. Ended up here at the carnival. The old ringmaster, Gary, took me under his wing and taught me everything about running this place—both the legitimate side and...” He trails off, but I understand what he means. “He handed me the reins when he was ready to retire.”

The pain in his voice matches the ache I feel for my mother. We’re both products of parents who couldn’t handle their worlds—his father destroyed by love, my mother crushed by duty. Yet here we stand, choosing to fight instead of surrender.