Page 30 of Protect Me
Peeling off the oversized shirt, I let it fall to the floor near my feet. The fabric is too much against the gauzy material above me. I need bared skin for what I’m about to do.
The red silk dangles from an impossibly high ceiling, stopping just out of my reach. I stretch my fingers as high as they’ll go above my head, but even then, the tips only graze the fabric.
I lift onto my toes, and my hands find purchase.
From the speakers, the music changes. The song slows into a dark and sexy ballad. The bass is deep enough that I feel it in my chest. Perfect.
I shut my eyes, syncing myself to the song and blocking out everything else. Slipping into my own mind, I reach for that space where nothing else matters but the movement of my own body. It’s been way too long since I let myself go, but the moment I find myself here, it all just clicks.
Here we go.
With a deep breath, I grip the silks in both hands and swing my body upward.
The music drives my movements as I swing my legs up above my head, wrapping the silks around my ankles and wrists; once, twice, three times. Then I begin twisting and writhing my body so that the silk wraps around my torso too. After that, I swing hard, using my own momentum forward and back, forward and back, until I can wrap myself straight up into the air.
A cocoon.
Now, I’m the butterfly.
The song feels like a sexy dance with a lover. And my partner is the silk pressed against me.
Swinging, twisting, flying—it's freedom like I haven’t known in months.
Freedom like I might never know again if the Ringmaster doesn’t deem me worthy of his Big Top.
Too soon, I can feel my energy flagging.
I don’t push too hard because a mistake up here could mean an injury far worse than I just recovered from. My movements slow. I begin to unravel myself, heading for the ground beneath me.
The song ends.
Instead of another one starting, the speakers go silent.
All I can hear is my own heavy breathing.
When my feet point at the floor, the sound of applause jars me. I release my grip on the silks and fall the last two feet. My knees buckle, and I crumple to the floor. Mild pain lances through my ankle. I hiss through my teeth, and wisps of hair fall into my eyes as I lean over to cup my hands around my foot.
“Whoa, you okay?” Brad and Kleo are suddenly there, pulling me gently to my feet.
“I’m good,” I assure them quickly through labored breaths.
“Your ankle?”
“It’s fine. I landed wrong like an idiot,” I add sheepishly.
“It’s these assholes’ fault,” Kleo says, nodding at the small crowd of performers. Their applause dies off, and they begin to return, one at a time, to their own practices.
“They shouldn’t have startled you,” Brad agrees. “I’ll kick their asses for it.”
“No.” My response is too sharp, and Brad frowns. “I mean, don’t cause trouble on my behalf. Not the first impression I’m going for, you know?”
“Oh, honey,” Kleo says, “Your first impression was just made. And trouble is not the word they’re going to use to describe it either.”
Pain shoots through my leg as I straighten. Then my gaze lands on the furious pierced man moving into the ring. Killian is a sight to behold, but even as my insides warm at the sight of him and the memory of his lips on mine, fear ices straight through that attraction.
Because he is clearly gunning for the performers who applauded. His hands are fisted at his sides, and his mouth is set in a grim, determined line as he stalks toward the closest of the bystanders. It’s a posture I’ve seen before, except this time, it’s aimed at others instead of at me. Men and women completely unaware that they have a pissed-off lion shifter ready to make meals of them.
Chapter8