Page 3

3

EDEN

I clutch my phone, refreshing the search results for the hundredth time. Nothing. There is not a single trace of Remy online. I managed to get his name from a particularly chatty food stall worker. There is no social media, news articles, or speeding tickets. The digital void where his presence should be makes my skin crawl.

The afternoon sun beats down as I weave through the carnival crowds. I’ve been here since opening, watching, waiting… wanting. My camera is already full of new photos.

A group of teenagers blocks my view of the fenced area. I edge around them, my pulse quickening as I scan the workers’ faces—none of them his.

“Looking for someone?” A deep voice asks.

I spin around. The ringmaster stands there, studying me with knowing eyes.

“Just getting some photos for my story.” I hold up my press badge like a shield. “I’m Eden Love from the Shadow Stories podcast.”

“Tyson.” He nods his head. “Interesting choice, focusing on carnival culture.”

“People are fascinated by what goes on behind the scenes.” I try to peek past his shoulder. “One of your workers caught my attention yesterday—Remy? I’d love to interview him about the physical demands of the setup.”

“Remy keeps to himself.” Tyson’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not much for interviews.”

My fingers twitch, itching to dig deeper. How does someone exist without leaving digital breadcrumbs? Even prison inmates have online records. Remy’s absence feels deliberate.

“Maybe I could?—”

“Excuse me.” Tyson cuts me off as his phone buzzes. He steps away, leaving me alone with my frustration.

I retrieve my notebook from my bag, adding to my observations.

Strong physical presence. No social media. Avoids attention. Private nature noted by supervisor.

The profile forming in my mind only heightens my fascination.

What secrets is he hiding? What darkness lurks beneath that carefully maintained anonymity? I need to know. The obsession burns through my veins like poison.

I duck under the “Staff Only” rope, my heart thundering against my ribs. The afternoon crowds provide perfect cover as I slip between trailers, each step drawing me deeper into forbidden territory.

My mind races with possibilities about Remy. Maybe he’s on the run, reinventing himself, or working undercover. Each theory is more thrilling than the last. The complete absence of a digital footprint suggests he’s someone who knows how to disappear.

I pause beside a black trailer, running my fingers along the metal siding. Does he live here? I picture him inside— those powerful hands cleaning a weapon. The image sends heat coursing through me.

My fantasies have grown darker since first seeing him. I wake up gasping his name, sheets twisted around me. Even now, thinking about his intense glare when he was taking in his surroundings makes my skin flush. I’ve never felt such an overwhelming need as the one his presence provokes, an urge to be utterly consumed.

The crunch of gravel behind me freezes me in place.

“Lost?” His voice is deep and dangerous.

I turn slowly. Remy towers over me, blocking the path between the trailers. Up this close, he’s even more magnificent—corded muscle and barely contained power. My mouth goes dry.

“I-I was just...” The words die in my throat as he steps closer.

His shadow falls over me, and I struggle to maintain my composure. “I was looking for the restroom,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Must have taken a wrong turn.”

“Staff area.” Remy’s voice sends shivers down my spine. He takes another step forward, and I take steps back until the trailer’s cool metal presses against my shoulders. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m so sorry.” I clutch my press badge, using it as a barrier between us. “Eden Love, from Shadow Stories. I’m doing a piece on carnival culture and got turned around.”

His eyes scan my face, and I feel stripped bare under his gaze. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. He’s close enough that I catch his scent—metal and sweat.

“Bathrooms are by the food stands.” He doesn’t move back. “Long way from here.”

I wet my lips, watching his eyes track the movement. “Would you maybe... want to do an interview? About working here?”

“No interviews.” His hand plants against the trailer beside my head. “And if I catch you back here again...”

The threat hangs unfinished between us. Heat pools low in my belly at his proximity and the danger radiating from this powerful man in waves. Most normal people would be terrified. Clearly, I missed that day in Common Sense 101 because I’m fighting the urge to lean closer.

“What will you do?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His other hand grips my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Don’t test me.”

My breath catches as his fingers dig into my chin. The sensation only heightens my arousal. “What if I want to test you?”

His jaw clenches, a muscle visibly ticking beneath the surface. The power emanating from him makes me dizzy. I press my palms against the trailer behind me to avoid reaching for him.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with.” His voice drops into a lower, menacing tone.

“Don’t I?” I lean into his grip, letting him see the darkness in my eyes. “I study killers for a living. I know exactly what I’m looking at.”

His hand slides from my chin to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A warning. A promise. My pulse races against his palm.

“Get. Out.” Each word comes out clipped and controlled. “Before I have security come over here and drag you out.”

“You won’t.” I’m practically vibrating with excitement. “You don’t want attention any more than I do.”

His fingers flex against my throat. For a moment, I think he might do it—squeeze until the edges of my vision go dark. The thought makes me wet.

“Last warning.” He releases me abruptly. “Next time, I won’t be so nice.”

I stay pressed against the trailer, catching my breath. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Out!” The word cracks like a whip.

I stumble away from the staff area on shaky legs, my throat tingling where Remy’s fingers pressed against my skin. The memory sends another wave of heat through my core. God, what’s wrong with me? I should be terrified, not aroused.

My cheeks burn as I weave through the carnival crowds. After that intense encounter, the cheerful music and children’s laughter feel surreal. I try to ignore the ache between my thighs.

The parking lot stretches ahead as I pass through the carnival gates. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the gravel, and I’m grateful for the cooling breeze against my flushed skin.

I can’t stop replaying every second of our encounter. The way he towered over me, his scent overwhelming my senses. The dangerous glint in his eyes when I pushed back. That controlled power in his grip.

My motel is only a few blocks walk, but each step is torture. My underwear is soaked, and my skin feels too tight. I’ve interviewed serial killers before and stared into the eyes of genuine monsters. Still, none of them made me feel like this – like prey, like a moth drawn to a deadly flame.

I should focus on the investigation and the missing persons cases that led me here. Instead, all I can think about is Remy.

Shame burns almost as hot as arousal. I’m supposed to be better than this—clinical, detached, professional. I’m not some obsessed groupie getting wet over a potential killer.

Maybe that’s exactly what I am. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself all along about my true nature.

I fumble with my key card as I enter my motel room. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, chest heaving. My skin feels electric, and every nerve ending feels alive.

I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a trail to the bathroom. The cool air hits my overheated skin, making my nipples tighten. In the mirror, I see the faint red mark on my throat where his fingers pressed. A moan escapes my lips as I trace them.

The shower starts cold, but I turn it scalding, letting the water cascade over my body. My hands slide down my curves, imagining they’re his. Rough, demanding, I close my eyes and picture Remy’s intense gaze.

“Oh God,” I gasp, fingers finding my clit. I’m already swollen and sensitive, so turned on, it almost hurts.

My other hand grips the shower wall as I move my fingers faster, replaying every second of our encounter. The way he towered over me. His scent. The dangerous edge in his voice when he said, “Don’t test me.”

The coil of pleasure builds low in my belly as I imagine those strong hands on me, pinning me down. Would he be gentle? No—he’d be like steel, unrelenting. The thought pushes me closer to the edge.

I slide two fingers inside myself, thumb circling my clit. My muscles clench around them as I picture his barely contained violence. What would it take to make him snap?

The orgasm hits me hard and fast. I cry out, legs trembling as waves of pleasure crash through me. The world whites out momentarily, and I brace myself against the shower wall to stay upright.

The scalding water pounds against my skin but can’t wash away my obsession. My mind circles back to Remy, like a compass needle finding true north.

I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water stream down my back. What is it about Remy? The calculated way he moves, like a predator? The complete absence of any digital footprint? Or maybe it’s the darkness I glimpse behind his eyes.

I should pack up and leave town, file my story about carnival culture, and move on to the next case. That’s what a sane person would do.

But I know I won’t. I’m already planning tomorrow’s surveillance, imagining new ways to cross his path. The obsession has sunk its hooks too deep.