Page 5

5

REMY

I lean against the wall of Tyson’s office the day after my run in with Eden Love, arms crossed as Lars paces the cramped space.

“We can’t have this bitch sniffing around,” Lars says, running a hand through his dark hair. “Taking photos, asking questions.”

“Eden Love.” Phoenix’s voice crackles through the laptop speakers. He prefers not to leave his den unless forced, more so since he met Tilly, preferring to join meetings virtually. “Her podcast Shadow Stories has a pretty big following. She’s good at connecting patterns.”

“The forum’s gone now,” Phoenix continues. “I wiped it clean. But she’d already found the connection between our routes and the missing people cases.”

Tyson drums his fingers on his desk. “She won’t stop asking for an interview with the crew for her podcast. Says she’s doing a feature on carnival life.”

“Deny it,” Lars snaps. “We can’t risk?—”

“No.” I push off from the wall. “Let her interview. We feed her what we want her to hear and keep her close where we can watch her.”

“Remy’s right,” Tyson says. “Better to guide the narrative than have her digging on her own. Phoenix, dive deeper into Eden. I want to know everything about Ms. Love.”

“Already on it.” Phoenix’s typing echoes through the speakers. “Her podcast focuses on criminal psychology. She’s got credentials—a degree in forensic psychology, consulting work with law enforcement. Still, there’s something off about some of her correspondence with inmates.”

I smile. Of course, there is. I saw it in her eyes that day—she’s not just studying the darkness. She’s drawn to it. Wants to touch it. Taste it.

“I’ll handle her interview,” I tell Tyson.

The others might see a threat to eliminate. I see potential.

“Why you?” Tyson’s eyes narrow, studying my face. “You never volunteer for this kind of shit.”

I push away from the wall, stretching my shoulders. “Because I know her type. The ones who get too close to the edge, desperate to understand the monsters they study. She’s not here for a story about carnival life.”

“No?” Lars crosses his arms.

“She wants to understand the darkness.” I tap my temple. “But what she really wants is to feel it. To know what it’s like to be the predator instead of analyzing it from a safe distance.”

Tyson leans back in his chair. “You sound pretty confident about that assessment.”

“The way she watched me working. Clinical at first, then...” I remember the shift in her eyes when our gazes met across the fairground. “Something changed, like a mask slipping.”

“Speaking of our curious reporter,” Phoenix’s voice crackles through the speaker. “I can see from the security feed that she’s in the main tent right now, hoping for that interview.”

A smile tugs at my lips. Perfect. “Then we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

“Remy.” Tyson’s voice stops me at the door. “Don’t play with this one too long. We need her managed, not entertained.”

I meet his gaze. “Trust me. I know exactly how to handle Eden Love.” I stride out, boots crunching on the gravel. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the grounds as I approach the massive red and gold striped tent.

She’s alone inside, adjusting her recording equipment on a small folding table. The tent feels charged, like the air before a storm, as I deliberately let my boots echo on the wooden platform. Her head snaps up, and her green eyes widen as she takes me in.

“Mr...?” Her professional mask slips for a moment as she struggles to maintain composure.

“Remy. Just Remy.” I settle into the chair across from her, stretching my legs out. “You have questions about carnival life?”

“Yes.” She fumbles with her recorder. “Though I admit I’m particularly interested in the darker aspects. The isolation, the transient nature that might appeal to certain personalities.”

Her voice catches on that last word, eyes flickering to my hands before darting away.

“You mean fugitives.” I keep my tone neutral, watching how she leans forward at the word.

“Among others. Have you ever noticed anyone exhibiting concerning behaviors?”

The irony of her question almost makes me smile. Instead, I study how her pupils have dilated at the word “fugitive” and how her fingers absently caress the recorder.

“We’re a family here,” I say carefully. “We look out for our own. Notice when things aren’t right.” I let that hang between us, watching her process the double meaning.

I study Eden as she fidgets with her recorder, her polished exterior cracking under my gaze. A light blush creeps up her neck when our eyes meet. She’s stunning up close—those green eyes hold depths I want to explore, and her dark auburn hair catches the filtered sunlight streaming through the tent.

“Do you mind if I...” She gestures vaguely at her camera. “For the podcast website?”

“Go ahead.” I lean back.

“Perfect,” she breathes, lowering the camera but not before I catch her eyes lingering on the screen, staring at my image.

“You seem very... invested in your research, Ms. Love.” I shift forward. “Most reporters keep a more professional distance.”

“Eden,” she corrects, then looks down at her notes. “And yes, I like to understand my subjects completely.”

The way she says “completely” sends a shiver down my spine. Dangerous territory, this one, but the pull is undeniable. When she looks up again, her eyes are darker and hungry.

“Tell me, Eden...” I let her name roll off my tongue, watching her reaction. “What really brings you to our carnival?”

She wets her lips, pen frozen above her notepad. “The mystery. The freedom to be someone else.”

The confession slips out before she can stop it. Her eyes widen, realizing she’s revealed too much, but she holds my gaze instead of retreating.

I shouldn’t find her this appealing. She’s a liability, a threat to everything we’ve built here, but watching her try to maintain her professional facade while practically vibrating with suppressed need stirs something in me.

She straightens in her chair, smoothing her silk blouse. Professional mask back in place—almost.

“I’m fascinated by the nomadic lifestyle,” Eden says. “The freedom of constant movement, never putting down roots. Does it ever feel isolating?”

I stretch, noting how her eyes track the movement. “We’re never truly alone here. The carnival becomes your family.”

“Surely it impacts personal relationships?” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Romantic ones especially. It must be difficult maintaining connections when you’re always moving.”

A smirk tugs at my mouth. For someone trying to investigate murders, she’s awfully interested in my love life.

“Are you asking if I’m single?”

The blush spreading across her cheeks is delicious. “It’s relevant to understanding the carnival lifestyle. The psychological impact of nomadic life…”

“Ah, purely professional interest, then?” I lean forward, dropping my voice. “And here I thought you might be asking for personal reasons.”

She fumbles with her pen, catching it before it hits the floor. “Of course not. I maintain strict boundaries with my subjects.”

“Subjects?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought I was just a carnival worker you’re interviewing about lifestyle choices, or am I something else in that fascinating mind of yours?”

She shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, telling me everything her words won’t.

“I simply mean my interviewees. For the podcast.”

“Right.” I draw the word out, enjoying how it makes her squirm. “Well, to satisfy your professional curiosity—I find relationships happen naturally when you meet the right person. Someone who understands the darker pleasures of life.”

Her breath catches at that, pupils dilating. Such obvious tells. She really needs to work on her poker face if she wants to play these games with me.

There’s a spark in her eyes—something I’ve seen in countless others, but the way it shines in hers, brighter and hotter, sends a flash of heat through me.

I let the silence stretch between us, a test to see if she’ll break. Her breath quickens, and the pulse at her throat flutters like a wild bird. Her eyes flick down to my mouth and back up.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Do you want to know how often I get my dick wet, Eden? Bet you wonder what kind of women I fuck. If I like to take control or let them lead.”

Her gaze flickers to my mouth again. “I—that’s not what I meant. I was referring to the impact of your lifestyle. The constant travel.”

Her eyes betray her. They can’t stop roaming my body, her breath coming faster and shallower. I know that look, that need, but it’s not me who’s drawn it out this time.

“No?” A smile tugs at my lips. “Tell me then, what do you think about while you’re touching yourself at night, thinking of the mysterious carnival worker? Do you think I’m gentle? Holding you soft while I kiss you, tasting every inch of your skin?”

She swallows. “No. I... I mean, maybe you’re into that, but that’s not?—”

“Not what you picture?” I interrupt. “Maybe I like it rough. Pinning you down, hearing you beg while I fuck you so hard the whole trailer shakes.”

“Oh, God.” The whisper escapes her before she can stop it, and I see the instant she wishes she could take it back.

I wait for her to break, to run from the tent, but she surprises me. Narrowing her eyes, she leans forward, chin raised defiantly.

“I know what you’re doing,” she says. “Trying to push my boundaries and see how far is too far for me.”

I cock my head, intrigued by the shift. “And how far is that, Eden? Just how twisted does that pretty little mind of yours get when no one’s watching?”

She goes very still, fingers tightening around her pen. Then, in a rush, she breaks eye contact, looking down at the half-filled page of notes. My eyes narrow. Did I misjudge this one?

“Eden?” My voice is gentle.

For a long moment, she doesn’t respond. Then, “I’m not here for that story, Remy.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I can’t let myself go there.”

With anyone else, I’d push. See if her control is as tight as she claims, but something about her steely tone tells me this isn’t a test. There’s a line I shouldn’t cross.

“All right.” I sit back, studying her. “Tell me then, Eden, what do you want to know about carnival life?”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, confusion and relief warring in their green depths. “The community within,” she says. “How do you form bonds when everyone is always moving?”

Her shift in demeanor is so slight that most wouldn’t notice, but I see the relaxation of her shoulders and the subtle flare of her nostrils as she inhales. She expects me to push the boundaries and see how far she’ll go.

Instead, I answer her questions about our family dynamic, feeding her bullshit she’ll easily verify with a few more interviews. She wants to understand the sense of community we foster, the deep bonds that keep us together despite the constant travel. Every so often, she sneaks a glance at my hands and my body as if studying me for future fantasies.

Eden keeps herself perfectly composed as we talk. Still, I see her eyes dropping regularly to my lips as I speak, and I notice the subtle clench of her thighs. My fingers flex instinctively, wanting to test how wet she is. Maybe later. I focus on our conversation, watching how she fidgets in her seat, her mouth twisting as she tries to maintain her professional facade. However, the heat between us is undeniable.

“Do you find it difficult to leave a place when you’ve made connections?” Her voice dips on the last word, probably without her realizing it.

“I always look forward, not back.” I keep my tone casual, but my gaze flicks to her mouth. “Besides, the road is in my blood now. The constant movement.”

She bites her lip at that, hard enough to turn the skin white. When she releases it, her tongue darts out to wet the mark my eyes are fixed on.

“Must get lonely sometimes,” she says softly.

“You know how it is,” I reply. “Some nights, you wish someone was there to hold you, but that’s the price we pay for our freedom.”

She swallows visibly. “I suppose it’s not for everyone.”

My smirk tells her I know what she’s really thinking. That she’s not just thinking about the lonely nights, but the lonely nights with me. I wonder if she’s imagining my body over hers, my hands holding her down, or if she’d prefer to take control, tasting and teasing every inch of my skin.

“Tell me, Eden,” I say softly, pushing the topic again, “how often do you think about me? Do you touch yourself while imagining all the things I could do to you?”

Her head snaps up, cheeks flushing. “I don’t?—”

“Don’t what?” My voice drops. “Don’t think about my hands on your thighs? My mouth between them? Bet your pretty little cunt gets so wet.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she snaps, cheeks even redder now.

She doesn’t deny it.

A laugh escapes me, breaking the heavy tension. “I’m saying what you’re too polite to.”

Her eyes narrow. “So you assume I’m imagining you between my thighs?”

“I’m not assuming.” I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “Because I know what that look in your eyes means. I’ve seen it before. You want it rough, don’t you, Eden? Want me to take control? Make you scream?”

This time, she doesn’t deny it. Just watches me with that dark, hungry gaze. After a moment, she clears her throat.

I sit back, placing my hands behind my head and stretching my legs. “Fuck, you’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks flame at that, the glint in her eyes telling me she knows exactly what I’m talking about. “You’re quite confident, aren’t you, Remy?”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “Not confident, Eden. Sure.” I lean forward again, enjoying the way her breath hitches. “Some things you just know.”

“Oh?” Her chin tilts up, daring me to continue.

“Mhm.” I nod, enjoying the game we’re playing, the undercurrent of sexual tension thrumming between us. “I can tell you’re the kind of woman who needs a firm hand, a hard fuck to remind you who’s in control. Someone who’ll make you come so hard you can’t walk straight for a week, but then you’ll be craving more.”

She wets her lips, gaze dropping to my mouth. Suddenly, she straightens, visibly composing herself.

“Well,” she says, voice steady, “I’m sure that’s true of many women. Perhaps your experience is limited, but?—”

“Limited experience? That’s cute. Want me to prove otherwise?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I think we’re done here.” She starts gathering her papers, movements jerky and rushed. “Thank you for your time.”

“Running away already?” I cock my head. “And here I thought you wanted to understand the carnival lifestyle completely.”

“I have enough for my story.” Eden shoves her recorder into her bag, avoiding my eyes.

“Do you?” I stretch, noting how her gaze snaps to the movement before darting away. “Seems like you’re missing the most interesting parts.”

She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the ground. “I maintain professional boundaries, Mr.—” She pauses, realizing I never gave her my last name.

I smirk. “Just Remy.”

Without another word, she turns and strides toward the tent exit, her dainty shoes clicking against the wooden platform.

“See you around, Eden,” I call after her. “I’m sure you’ll find your way back.”

She falters for just a moment, then disappears through the flap. The scent of her perfume lingers, mixing with the electricity crackling in the air she left behind.

My fingers drum against the arm of my chair. Eden Love is dangerous—smart enough to be a real threat, obsessed enough to keep digging. But watching her try to maintain that professional mask while practically vibrating with suppressed desire...

I shouldn’t want to see her again. Shouldn’t crave the way her eyes darkened when I pushed her buttons… But I do.