Page 50 of Jayson (Gatti Enforcers #3)

KEIRA

I didn’t mean to stop and stare.

But the moment she stepped onto that wire—barefoot, weightless, spine straight as a prayer—I forgot how to breathe.

Lula is a beautiful dancer.

She moves like smoke. Like silk caught in the wind. Like the laws of physics are more of a suggestion than a rule for her. The rope trembles beneath her, a thread pulled tight across the endless dark, and still she walks it like it’s solid ground.

Arms extended. Toes pointed. Chin lifted.

Every movement is poetry. Every pause, deliberate. She places her foot just so, the ball of it kissing the wire before her heel dares to follow. And I swear—time holds its breath. The world outside, the chaos of noise and crowd and lights—it all fades into something hushed. Reverent. Holy.

I feel it in my chest. That tight pull just behind my ribs. Awe, yes. But also something deeper. Something harder to name.

She’s not just walking a wire. She’s dancing with gravity. Flirting with death.

And winning .

My eyes follow her like they’re in love.

The lighting in this room gilds her skin in gold, outlines her silhouette in something unearthly.

Her hair whips around her face, but her eyes—God, her eyes—they don’t waver.

She’s looking forward. Always forward. Like whatever waits on the other side is worth every risk she’s ever taken.

And I? I feel like I’m floating just watching her.

There’s no seat beneath me, no floor beneath my shoes. Just air. And awe. And the gnawing pull of weightlessness in my stomach. Like if I blink, I’ll miss the moment she becomes something more than human. Something divine.

The fear is there. I can see it. The slight tremble in her arms when the rope gives a little too much. The flex of her jaw. But she hides it like a magician hides her tricks—so well, you’d believe this is easy for her.

But I know better.

She’s not fearless. She’s just alive.

Maybe that’s what’s so devastating about watching her—knowing that every step she takes is defiance in motion.

Against fear. Against chaos. Against everything trying to pull her down.

And for a moment—for just a second—I let myself believe in the impossible.

Because up there, suspended in light and silence, Lula isn’t just surviving. She’s free.

She doesn’t look surprised when she sees me waiting for her by the door, near the base of the tightrope rig. She’s still glowing—cheeks flushed, hair wild, sweat glistening at her temples like the stars crowned her for surviving.

She climbs down the ladder slowly, her limbs loose but graceful, the aftermath of adrenaline still humming through her body. When her bare feet finally touch the ground, she doesn’t wobble. She lands like she’s weightless.

“I’m in awe that you can do that,” I say quietly .

She offers a tired smile. “Everyone usually is. For about five seconds, before the novelty wears off.”

I know she’s probably just being modest, humble. Luna walking a tightrope is the most beautiful, most freeing thing I’ve ever seen.

“How could anyone not be mesmerized by such a performance?”

She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. “Come on. You need tea.”

Inside the whisper quiet kitchen devoid of life, she moves like someone who’s made peace with chaos. Smooth, deliberate, calm. The kettle whistles low. She pours two mugs—honey in one, lemon in the other—and hands me the sweeter one without asking.

“Not sleeping?” she asks gently.

I shake my head.

She doesn’t press. Just opens the back door and gestures for me to follow her out onto the porch. We sit on an old wooden swing, tucked under a thick blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon and sawdust. The mug is warm between my hands. The morning wraps around us like a secret.

For a long time, neither of us speaks.

The swing creaks beneath us, slow and tired, like even the wood is worn out from pretending everything’s fine. Birds chirp in nearby trees, and for a second, I let myself believe this day might be gentle.

“Mornings are best for my routine,” Lula says eventually. Her voice is calm. Practiced. “It’s a good workout. And a reminder that I’m still alive.”

I stare at the smooth rim of my mug.

“What if sometimes… you wish you weren’t?”

She jerks her head toward me. She stares at me like I’ve just slapped her .

“Wish I wasn’t alive?” she echoes, and there’s no room in her voice for misunderstanding.

“No. I’ve wished a thousand things, Keira.

That I’d fought harder. That I’d screamed louder.

That someone—anyone—would’ve come sooner.

She shakes her head. Tension tightens her jaw.

“I don’t want to know where I’d be if I wasn’t alive.

But I’ve never wished for death, because that’s the coward’s way out. ”

I swallow hard. My fingers are clenched too tight around the mug. “My life is complicated.”

“So is surviving,” she says, eyes locked on mine. “But here we are.”

Silence again. Heavier now. Then she exhales through her nose, something gentler pulling at her features.

“You know… you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”

I look at her curiously.

“The girl I used to be. She didn’t smile much either,” Lula says quietly. “Didn’t trust the world. Didn’t think she was allowed to take up space. She was always waiting for someone to hurt her. Most days, they did.”

My throat burns.

“I didn’t like her very much,” she adds. “But I forgave her. Eventually.”

The sun pushes over the edge of the trees. It touches her face, spills gold down her collarbone like warmth is finally brave enough to reach her.

And all I can think is—I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.

Not for what I’ve done. Not for what I let happen.

And not for still being here. But maybe…

maybe I can learn to sit still on a swing beside someone who survived too.

Maybe I can let the silence hold me instead of destroy me. Just for a day.

“I was sixteen when my father tried to sell me,” she says, voice even, like she’s reciting someone else’s story. “He owed money to a dangerous man, and I was the best form of currency.”

My stomach twists. I don’t speak.

Lula sips her tea, eyes locked on something far beyond the porch rail.

The forest stretches around the house like a secret too old to tell—dark, endless, humming with wind.

Branches sway and whisper, and for a moment, her expression shifts—soft, faraway, like she’s standing somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere she lost something. Or left it behind.

“I used to walk the tightrope for a traveling circus. People thought I was brave walking that tightrope.” Her smile turns bitter. “But up there? It was the only place I didn’t feel cornered. Up there, no one could reach me. No one could grab me or pull me into a car or sell me to monsters.”

I swallow hard. My mug trembles just slightly in my grip.

“I kept running. Town to town. Rope to rope. Never letting my feet touch the ground long enough for anyone to cage me again.” She exhales slowly, the sound tired and real. “I think that’s why I survived. Because I kept moving. And I had my dancing.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. There’s a lump in my throat the size of a fist. The tea has gone cold, but my heart hasn’t.

“You ever feel like the past is always right behind you?” I ask quietly. “Like it’s just… waiting for you to let your guard down?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just reaches over and slips her hand over mine. Her palm is warm. Steady. Grounding.

“All the time,” she says. “But I’m not running anymore.”

I look at her, confused. “How?”

Her expression softens in that way people do when they talk about someone who saved their soul.

“Kanyan,” she says simply. Her husband.

The name settles between us like thunder in the distance.

“I met him here in this very city, while I was trying to disappear again. I didn’t even know his name, but he beat down my demons and he refused to let me run anymore.

He fought for me. Not just with fists, but with fury.

Like I was something sacred. He doesn’t always say the right things.

He’s rough. Quiet. Half the time I think he’s made of stone.

But he’d burn the world down if it meant I’d sleep through the night. ”

Tears fill my eyes before I realize it.

“He doesn’t let anyone near me unless I say they can be near me. He watches me walk the rope like it’s the most terrifying thing in the world, and he never once tells me to stop. He just… waits. With his arms open. In case I fall.”

I press a hand to my chest. My heart is aching in a way I didn’t expect.

“Keira,” Lula says softly, turning to me fully, “you need to allow yourself to have that, too. Soft things. Safe things. Hands that don’t hurt. A voice that asks, not demands. Someone who sees the cracks and doesn’t try to fill them—just holds them gently.”

I shake my head, blinking hard. “I don’t know how to live like that.”

“You don’t have to know,” she says. “You just have to let it happen.”

She sets her mug down, then opens her arms without a word. I don’t even hesitate—I lean into her, and she wraps herself around me like a shield made of grace.

We sit like that for a long time. Wrapped in silence. Wrapped in truth.

And as the sky cracks open with more light, as the birds continue their soft chorus, I realize something terrifying and beautiful.

I want what she has. I want to believe I can have it. Not just survival. But peace.