When I turned my head toward the mingling hum of guests and performers, I couldn’t help but wonder why the hell my parents ever came here—let alone invested thousands of dollars into this circus. Dollars that, sure as hell, weren’t going to the performers. Even without sight, I could hear the truth in the air—the way some of the performers spoke softly, hesitantly, as if afraid of being overheard; the tired strain in their laughter between acts.

From what I’d gathered during the show, the money was all about presentation—the bright lights, the lavish costumes, the fake gold-painted wagons—but not the people. When they led me through the grounds earlier, the sweet scent of spun sugar and sawdust had given way to something much darker: rust, rot, and the sharp tang of iron. I’d caught a faint glimpse through the open flaps of a tent—the so-called freaks’ habitats. Even from that momentary view, I’d seen enough to know they weren’t living in the best of conditions.

After my parents died, I’d taken my father’s seat—his money, his title, his connections—but I quickly realized I knew nothing about the man himself. Sitting now in the private tent, waiting with an elder and my best friend, Athris, I couldn’t help thinking that my father’s legacy was one long, ugly shadow I was still trying to walk through.

The ringmaster had promised to bring the “investment” my parents had left behind—a freak, he’d called them, as though the word didn’t taste foul in his mouth. But my mind wasn’t on that. It was still stuck on the woman from earlier—the one who’d seemed to soar through the air as if gravity itself bent for her. Something about her lingered in me, pulling like a memory I couldn’t quite reach.

And then, as if my thoughts had conjured her, the flap of the tent opened. The air shifted—perfume and dust swirling together as the ringmaster led her inside.

Up close, I realized how wrong my first impression had been. Her sun-kissed skin didn’t get kissed by the sun at all—it shimmered faintly, like polished bronze, or maybe something more infernal. Demon skin. Her hair spilled down in a tumble of charcoal black, the kind of darkness that devoured the light. She kept her head bowed, but I knew—somehow—that if she lifted it, I’d see eyes that matched my own: dark green and far too aware.

Athris stiffened beside me, his entire body going taut, every muscle alert. I could almost hear the way his breath shortened as he leaned closer, voice low and controlled.

“I need you and the elder to leave.”

I frowned, brow lifting slightly. “Am I allowed to ask why?”

“No.”

I exhaled through my nose, reading the air instead of faces—the whisper of fabric, the pulse of tension running between them. Finally, I nodded. “Alright. I’ll trust you. For now.”

I gestured toward the ringmaster. He was at my side in an instant, too eager, his expensive cologne nearly choking me. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke.

“Why don’t we go somewhere else?” I said smoothly. “My friend would like to be alone with your freak.”

“Of course,” he replied quickly, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his throat. “Nix will do anything he asks.”

******

I couldn’t get Nix out of my head—or the way she’d spoken to Rin earlier. Her words had burned through me, soft but sharp, and for the first time, I felt ashamed of every cruel thought and careless comment I’d ever made about her.

That’s why, when I saw the ringmaster leading her away, I nudged my brother.

“Let’s follow them, Phys.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wait, weren’t you just saying we should let her x drop earlier?”

“Let’s just follow them.” I snapped, already moving.

His laugh—low and teasing—trailed behind me as I slipped through the crowd, keeping my steps silent, my movements quick. The ringmaster led her toward the investor tents—the expensive ones reserved for when the rich came to gawk at their investments.

Phys and I circled around, slipping into the shadows until we found a slit in the canvas wide enough to peer through. Inside, Nix stood with one man. She was across the tent, bending down to grab a pitcher, her movements careful, graceful even in the smallest motion. But before she could reach it, the man’s hand came down over hers.

“Nixera?”

She froze—completely still for a heartbeat—before shaking her head slowly. “No. My parents would never bring you here. You’d tell everyone what they did.”

“I’m real, Nixera. Just turn and look at me.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m blind.”

He turned her gently, his hand sliding up to cup her chin, forcing her to face him. I could feel the air thicken, the weight of his silence pressing down on the space between them.

“Tell me what happened, Nixe—”

“Nix,” she interrupted softly. “Just call me Nix. No one calls me Nixera anymore.” She turned back toward the pitcher, her voice dropping to something almost fragile. “And as for what happened—my parents didn’t want to have an abomination for a child anymore. So they sold me to the ringmaster. To be used as entertainment—both physically and sexually—while they come back once a year, bringing anyone they can trust so they can use me too.”

The words hit like broken glass. She lifted the pitcher, poured liquid into a cup, and handed it to him with quiet precision. “So what do you want me to do?”

Anger flickered across his features, sharp and fast. He caught her by the waist, pulling her closer before he realized what he’d done. “Don’t speak like that, Nix—”

She flinched at his touch, and he released her instantly, guilt heavy in his tone. “I’m sorry, Nixer—Nix. I didn’t mean to grip you so tightly.”

“No, it’s not you,” she said softly. “You just touched an old injury.”

“An old injury?” he echoed, voice tightening. “Shouldn’t you have healed after you ate?”

“I don’t get much to eat,” she admitted.

The air went still. His anger rolled through him, low and dangerous, a growl vibrating in his chest. “So they use you—both physically and sexually—and they starve you?”

“It’s fine,” she said simply. “I’m used to it now. As I asked before—what do you want me to do?”

His voice softened, rough with something like restraint. “Nothing. You don’t have to do anything. But I would like to heal you… may I undress you?”

She gave a quiet, hollow laugh. “I don’t see why not. Worse men have seen me naked.”

His jaw tightened at that, but he didn’t argue. He only looked at her for a long moment—like he was memorizing every mark on her skin, every place that still hurt—and then reached for her with slow, reverent hands. His fingers, warm from his inner fire, brushed against the thin fabric of her clothes before he slipped them off easily, peeling away the layers until she stood completely naked before him.

That revealed a lot more handprints than before, angry red imprints branded across her sun-kissed skin, including fresh ones gripping her full breasts and the soft curves of her thighs. Dark burn marks encircled her nipples, hardened from the chill in the air, drawing his gaze like magnets.

He leaned closer to her neck, his breath hot against her cool flesh, and blew a controlled burst of fire across her skin. The flames danced lightly, not scorching but warming, seeping into her pores like liquid sunlight. She gasped sharply, her body arching instinctively into him as the heat flowed over her, chasing away the lingering ache and making her shiver with a mix of relief and unexpected pleasure.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “Do you like the heat? You are too cold for a demon, Nix—your skin feels like winter against my fire.”

He pulled her closer, his muscular arms encircling her waist, and breathed another burst of fire directly onto the handprint marring her shoulder. The orange glow illuminated the dim tent, casting flickering shadows on the canvas walls. When the fire finally cleared, the burnt handprint on her skin was gone, replaced with her usual sun-kissed— or should I say fire-kissed—skin, smooth and glowing with a faint, healthy warmth.

“Athris, I have too many for you to breathe on,” she murmured, her voice breathy, “and if the ringmaster gets back before you finish, he’ll want to join in. His eyes on me... it would only make things worse.”

“I could go faster if I used my tongue,” he suggested, his storm-gray eyes darkening with hunger as he traced a finger along the edge of a burn on her collarbone.

Her cheeks turned bright red, flushing deeper than the marks on her body. “Some burns are in um... intimate places. Places no one but you should touch.”

“It’s up to you, Nix,” he replied softly, his voice laced with that demonic promise of pleasure intertwined with healing.

She huffed, a mix of exasperation and arousal, her blind eyes—wait, no, her sightless gaze turning inward as she weighed the vulnerability. “Alright, just make it quick. But don’t stop if it... feels good.”

His tongue traced the handprint on her breast first, warm and wet, circling the scorched edge with deliberate strokes that sent sparks of heat deeper into her core. I couldn’t help it—my body started to react, my cock straining hard against my pants, throbbing with the raw intensity of the scene.