There he was—the charming smile, the wink, the complete confidence, the way he brought everyone watching him into the story he told with his body. But, at the end of the night, he’d shut the door on all of them, inviting only her in to see the truth.
She wanted that. Couldn’t throw it away despite the dangers. She no longer wanted to be wicked. She wanted to be his wife.
The act ended in a flurry, and it seemed shorter than usual. Odd, but the girls’ excitement kept her from dwelling on it.
She barely watched the subsequent acts, her mind whizzing like a hummingbird, her chest blooming like a wildflower garden. She loved him. And just as she’d snuck backstage to ask him to kiss her, to love her body to exhaustion, she’d sneak backstage tonight to present another possibility. A more permanent one.
The band’s fanfare signaled the final act, and Grant’s last of the evening. Nora and her mare, the same one Freddy had stood on nights earlier, trotted into the arena. Freddy barely noticed the perfection of Nora’s aim. Nor the children dressed as malevolent forest fairies chasing after her.
But when Grant rode into the amphitheatre dressed in glittering gold to match his hair, chin tossed high, a gleam of joy in his eye, oh, she noticed that. With every sizzle and ache in her body, with every fingertip and toe. There he was—beautiful and talented.
And hers if he still wanted her. If she could survive this—the thrill and danger of his life. And she could. She would. Because loving him, and letting him love her, was worth the risk.
She barely noticed the large body bumping up against her shoulder. “Glad to see you here, Freddy.”
She turned. “Max. Are you almost on?”
He nodded, dressed in tattered finery as if he were a prince long held captive by some curse. A heavy, dark-brown wool cloak covered him head to toe.
“Gotta get over there, if you don’t mind.” He nodded toward the platform, the Beast’s Lair, patted Izzy on the head, and winked at Bridget, then began his growl-like grumbles, loud enough for all to hear. Curious gazes turned their way. He threw himself over the edge of the balcony, landed steady on the platform below, then threw off the hood of his cloak then the cloak itself. It fluttered to the ground below as Nora’s gaze, and Grant’s, fluttered up.
Max bellowed—a primal sound that signaled his possession of the woman down below. He leapt and landed on the dusty arena floor.
Grant’s body wavered with the shake of Max’s landing, and that waver turned into a wobble, and then, with all of London watching and Freddy’s heart turned stone, he listed to the side and fell through the air with awkward angles and wide eyes, a dance with one direction to the music of the audience’s cries.
And Freddy’s. Because Grant had fallen, and her nightmares, every jagged, raw, blood-stained vision, came screaming into life.
Fifteen
The crowd lurched to its feet.
Izzy screamed.
Bridget clutched her arms around Freddy’s waist. “What’s happened to him?”
And Freddy fell, too. Into a numbness.
No. Into a frenzy. She pulled Izzy into her arms and took Bridget’s hand.
“Is he dead?” Bridget asked.
“No. Come with me.” Freddy ran—down the steps, out the door and around the building. The iron gate leading into the back courtyard all but dissolved beneath her touch. As if it expected her, as if it knew her right to enter went deep and true. She stormed across the courtyard, threw open the door, and found herself backstage.
She’d expected chaos. She found quiet. Bodies whirred in every which direction, but they all seemed to know exactly what to do without a single word.
Nora appeared from the direction of the amphitheatre, and Freddy flew to her.
“Is he hurt?” Freddy demanded. The girls clung to her, and she clung to them.
Nora nodded. “His ankle.”
“Out of the way! Give us some space!” An older man with more whiskers than any other man she’d ever seen pushed everyone milling about back. “Get him to his dressing room.”
Max appeared from the same door, cradling Grant in his arms.
Grant appeared dazed—blinking, face pale as parchment, hands clawed and clutching toward his lower leg. Dazed but conscious. Alive.
And spitting angry. “Put me down,” he barked between gritted teeth.
