*
Adam Michaels stared at the young woman who—other than the occasional movement—slept soundly in Alana Gupta’s bunk. Alana, whose stage name was Isis, rarely slept in her trailer, so she grudgingly agreed to let them keep the young woman there. The strange young lady hadn’t had any I.D. on her, so he didn’t know who she was, how old she was, or where she was from. She could have been a runaway, or a curious teenager, but Adam doubted it. He gauged her to be around twenty, maybe twenty-one. Too many years with the carnival, carding kids who tried to get into the after-show, and he’d gotten pretty good at guessing ages.
She’d had light blue eyes, the color of a clear sky—he’d felt almost mesmerized by them when she’d met his gaze. Now, as she slept, her light brown hair was dark around her forehead where perspiration saturated the color. Her cherub lips puckered and her small upturned nose wrinkled occasionally drawing a smile from Adam. He tried, without much success, to avoid staring at her luscious curves. Her rounded hips and full breasts could give any of the dancers in the carnival’s burlesque show a run for their money. She’d only been passed out for a couple of hours, but Adam worried she wouldn’t wake up.
He’d wanted to take her to the hospital. Cage wanted to dump her at the nearest gas station and let someone else deal with her, but Carl didn’t want the trouble that would come with explaining to the local authorities what they were doing with an unconscious girl. Cage used that as another reason they should dump her somewhere. His brother could be merciless at times. They’d compromised by taking the young woman to Alana. She was a trained nurse, and she also practiced holistic remedies—a real asset for the company.
She knew our names. He and Cage didn’t mix with the townies, so how it was possible? Had she overheard someone use their names? She’d acted surprised. The woman stirred Adam in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He thought she did the same for Cage, which was the exact reason his world-weary brother wanted to ditch her as quickly as possible. Cage had suffered a lot of pain in his short life. More than anyone should bear.
When they lost Clary, it took months for Adam to recover—he feared Cage never would. Clary had been the glue holding Cage together. He needed Adam and Clary to anchor him, to keep his rage at bay. Without Clary, Adam constantly worried that Cage might hurt one of town folk who frequented their show. Cage wouldn’t go to prison—he would kill himself, or find a way to get the cops to kill him, before going into another cage. When he was an infant, Cage had been sold into slavery to the Armando Bros. Circus. He’d spent fifteen years either on stage in or a small six-foot by three-foot enclosure. The older of the Armando brothers, Joe, named him Cage, since that’s where he spent ninety-eight percent of his time.
When Adam rescued him ten years ago, and it was a rescue, he gave his fellow lion shifter a chance to give himself a new name, but Cage had insisted he didn’t want to be called anything else. He wore his name like a badge of courage. Even though Cage was seven years his junior, his experiences had aged him. He’d never gotten to experience the joy of childhood. Loving Clary was the closest Cage had ever been to happy. As he stared at the young woman, he wondered…
Chapter 2
Maddie awoke in a cold sweat. Where was she? The motel? Her unfocused brain couldn’t think straight. She squinted at the wooden paneling on the wall, pulling up the blankets until they covered her ears. The bed—lumpy, but soft and warm—smelled like her parents’ Labrador retriever, not foul, but distinctively dog. She rolled to her back, taking in the colorful swathes of fabric dangling from the low ceiling. A clinking noise startled her and drew her attention.
A woman in a gold and blue silk robe arranged bottles on a shelf. She had sleek raven hair so long the ends reached her cinched waist. “You are in my quarters, child,” she said without looking at Maddie. Her voice held a foreign accent, but Maddie couldn’t derive the woman’s country of origin.
Slowly, the woman turned to face Maddie. Her skin, along with her beauty, was porcelain and flawless, while her eyes, darkened around the lids with a charcoal liner, were the color of fresh grass. Maddie had never seen anyone with that eye color before—so unnaturally green. When the woman moved closer, she dragged her gaze over Maddie from head to toe. “Can you speak?”
Her dry mouth made it hard to force the word, “Yes.”