Hearth led me to the rest of the freaks who needed help, guiding me with silent patience. One by one, I repeated the process—reaching out, drawing the pain from their bodies, and swallowing each marble of suffering like a secret meal.

By the time we finished, I was full—so full I felt lightheaded.

I hadn’t been this satisfied since the last time I’d risked helping them. It has been a while since I last dared to disobey the ringmaster’s unspoken rules.

It was dangerous.

Every time I do this, I know I’m gambling with something I can’t afford to lose.

If the ringmaster ever finds out I’ve been helping the freaks behind his back, I don’t know what he’ll do.

But I have a feeling it’ll be worse than all the other punishments he’s handed me.

Worse than the bruises hidden beneath my costume.

Worse than the nights I can’t sleep because I’m afraid he’ll call for me.

I tried to push those thoughts down as Hearth led me to my last… patients; I guess that’s what I should call them. It’s what they’ve started calling me—Mystery Doctor—so why not lean into it?

As usual, Hearth walked in first to prep the space, leaving me alone just outside the entrance. I stood still, fingers twitching slightly at my sides, listening for the usual shuffle of movement.

But this time, he didn’t come back right away.

Instead, I heard voices—low at first, then rising.

Arguing.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that not everyone is fine with Hearth concealing my identity.

Especially not the Phoenix twins.

Two identical nightmares with fire in their blood and an ego to match. They somehow managed to hate me both as the mystery doctor and as Nix—which took a special kind of effort.

From the sharp scent of ash hanging in the air and the dry heat brushing against my skin, I knew exactly where I was.

Their habitat.

The air practically crackled with hostility… and fire.

Great.

Exactly the kind of attitude I loved walking into blind.

The argument dragged on for what felt like forever—sharp voices, heated words, the occasional hiss of flames. At least three solid minutes of back-and-forth, and I was seriously debating whether I should just let the twins stew in their own damn pain.

Let them crackle and burn without me.

But just as I turned the thought over for real, Hearth finally emerged. I could hear the tension in his breath, the effort it took for him to keep his voice even.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “They’re… calming down. Sort of.”

I bit back the retort sitting on my tongue—something about how those assholes were always overflowing with fire and fury, angry at everyone and everything just for breathing near them.

But I stayed quiet.

I let Hearth guide me in, not bothering to flinch at the waves of heat rolling through the space. Fire can’t hurt me. I’m a demon. It’s practically a comfort.

The twins were still muttering under their breath as we approached, voices sharp with irritation and the occasional snap of flame behind the words.

They didn’t like this.

They never did.

They’re lucky Hearth asked me to help, or I would’ve turned on my heel and walked straight back out.

But instead, I let him guide my hand toward one of the twins’ injuries—probably a burn layered over a bruise, knowing them. I barely had time to prepare when one of them snatched my hand right out of Hearth’s.

Sparks raced across my skin the moment we touched—hot, biting.

I flinched, more from the sensation than the surprise.

Then he yanked me forward without warning, dragging me into the heat of his chest.

He leaned in, his breath searing against the shell of my ear as he whispered, low and venom-laced, “We know it’s you, Nix. Not sure what a slut like you thinks she’s doing helping us freaks—but it’s not appreciated.”

The word slut hit like a slap, but I didn’t react. That’s what he wanted.

Even so, despite all that venom, he pressed my hand against the heat of his injury. His body trembled—whether from pain or anger, I couldn’t tell—but the wound pulsed under my palm, and I could already feel it calling to me.

I repeated the same process I’d used on the others, letting the magic flow through my fingertips and into the wound. But with how close I was to him—his breath brushing my skin, the heat of his body pressing in—it felt different.

Still, I pushed through the discomfort and managed to pull the marble of pain free.

I pulled away from him as if I’d been burned when it solidified in my palm. Without a word, I shoved the marble into Hearth’s waiting hand.

I didn’t want to keep any part of the twins. Not even their pain.

Hearth helped me up, and without another word, we left together. Silence blanketed us as he guided me out of the dense, chaotic tent. I could feel the gentle tug of his arm and the steady thud of our steps on the canvas floor—a rhythm that had become all too familiar. At the very edge of the tent, where the air shifted from smoke and sweat to something cooler, Hearth finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry they acted like that, Nix—those assholes.”

His voice, softened by regret, vibrated just behind where my ears lay. I offered him a silent nod—no words needed.

He released me after that, and I slipped quietly out of the tent, keeping my steps soft on the worn path. My fingers brushed the edges of the canvas as I passed, using the texture and tension of the fabric to orient myself. I continued the slow trek back toward my trailer, guided more by habit and subtle changes in the air than sight.

Though I couldn’t see the sky, I could feel the shift. The air had cooled slightly, brushing against my bare arms with a gentler bite. It wasn’t cold, not yet, but it whispered of sunset—of shadows lengthening, of the tent lights warming the dusty world around me. A part of me always missed seeing that transition, but another part was glad I didn’t have to witness the way this place looked in fading light.

It was easier sometimes not to see what haunted me.

The sunset also reminded me that I had guests of the ringmaster to entertain.

With that thought souring my mood, I picked up my pace, counting each step until my hand found the door to my trailer. I slipped inside and shut the world out behind me. My fingers moved with purpose, brushing past the familiar textures of training gear and worn cotton until they landed on something cold and smooth—silk.

I tugged out one of the dresses I always shoved to the back, hidden away like a secret. Or a shame. Honestly, it was more of a suggestion of clothing than an actual dress.

But it was what he wanted me in. So it would have to do.

I tossed the tiny dress onto my bed and stepped into the shower, methodically scrubbing every inch of my skin. It was a ritual I couldn’t skip—before and after entertaining the ringmaster’s guests—though no amount of washing ever made me feel clean. The water ran warm against my skin, washing away the grime of the day but never the heaviness in my chest.

Once I’d scrubbed myself raw, I carefully pulled the flimsy dress over my skin. The fabric whispered against my body like a secret, clinging too tightly in all the places that mattered. I didn’t need a mirror to know how much it revealed. I could feel the chill kiss of air trace over my thighs, my stomach, the curve of my chest—sharp, invasive, like hands that hadn’t touched me yet but would soon.

I stood still in the center of my trailer, taking one slow breath. Just one. It was all I could afford.

Then I stepped out, shutting the door behind me. I locked it, not because I thought it would keep anyone out, but because it made me feel like I had control over something—even if it was just a doorknob.

The walk to the ringmaster’s trailer was quiet, but not peaceful. The worn path was familiar beneath my feet, but each step felt heavier than the last.

I couldn’t see what awaited me, but I didn’t have to.

I already knew—tonight would leave another scar.

Just one more I’d never have to look at to remember.