Carnival of Heat

Chapter 1: Midnight Sparks

The West Midlands summer clung to the skin like a lover’s desperate grip, damp and unrelenting. The fairground pulsed with life, a chaotic symphony of burnt sugar, stale beer, and the acrid bite of generator exhaust. Larissa stood at the edge of the thoroughfare, her boots planted in the trampled dirt, the weight of a massive plush penguin—Sir Reginald—tucked under her arm like a reluctant shield. Her tailored coat hung heavy on her shoulders, but she refused to shed it, even as sweat beaded at the nape of her neck.

Silas Nott emerged from the crowd like a storm breaking over the horizon. His white shirt, unbuttoned halfway, clung to the hard planes of his chest, damp with the night’s heat. Suspenders framed his broad shoulders, and his trousers sat low, hinting at the sharp cut of his hips. A cigarette ember glowed at the corner of his mouth, but it was the slow, ruinous smile that caught her—a rare crack in his armored smirk—that snared her breath.

“You’re usin’ a stuffed bird as a barricade, Lars,” he rasped, stepping into her space without hesitation. His voice, low and gravel-rough, sliced through the fair’s cacophony. A callused finger hooked the lapel of her coat, not pulling, just claiming. “Take it off. It’s boiling.”

“I run cold,” she shot back, her tone dry as bone, though her pulse betrayed her, hammering beneath her collarbone. She tightened her grip on Sir Reginald’s wing, refusing to flinch under the furnace of his proximity.

His dark eyes gleamed, cutting straight through her defenses. “You’re starin’,” he murmured, leaning in, his breath hot with peppermint against her ear as he slipped into Romani. “Find a threat yet?”

“I’ll let you know,” she replied, her voice steady despite the violent flutter in her chest. She didn’t step back. She wouldn’t.

A smirk cracked his composure, slow and devastating. “Do that,” he breathed, his thumb stroking the wool of her lapel. “Though I’m the only safe thing in this field, and we both know it.”

Before she could fire back, Angela’s voice sliced through the tension. “Right, that’s it. Waltzer. Now. I need centrifugal force to clear my head.” She pointed at the rusted, spinning monstrosity in the distance, already dragging Anya along.

Larissa shoved Sir Reginald into Adrian’s chest without a glance. “Hold this.”

“What the—I’m not a bloody babysitter, Shelby,” Adrian grunted, scrambling to catch the plush mass as the group moved toward the ride.

The Waltzer’s carriage was a tight fit, not built for a man like Silas with shoulders that could block out the sun. He slid in flush against her, his thigh pressing the length of hers, heat radiating through the fabric. The carny slammed the safety bar down, and the ride lurched forward, spinning violently. Neon lights blurred into streaks as Larissa was thrown sideways, colliding with Silas’s chest. His arm slid behind her neck, caging her, while his other hand dropped to her thigh, fingers gripping with intent. His thumb pressed into her muscle, a deliberate stroke that sent a jolt straight to her core.

“You’re shaking, Lars,” he whispered in Romani, his mouth brushing her ear, cutting under the mechanical roar.

“It’s the ride,” she bit out, her nails digging into the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the slick heat of his skin beneath.

A low, humming laugh vibrated against her collarbone. “Is it.”

“Watch your hand, Nott.”

“Make me,” he challenged, his gaze dropping to her lips, raw and unapologetic. The air between them pulled taut, fraying with every spin, every brush of his chest against hers. Her body responded despite herself, a traitorous heat pooling low, her breath coming short and sharp.

When the ride screeched to a halt, Larissa’s boots hit the dirt, her legs unsteady—not from the spinning, but from the fire he’d ignited. She could feel the dampness between her thighs, a secret she refused to acknowledge as she straightened her coat. Silas stepped out behind her, his presence a lingering heat at her back, his dark eyes still fixed on her with a hunger that promised more than just witty barbs.

Angela’s voice broke the haze, pointing toward a velvet-draped tent in the shadows. “Fortunes. Cards. Now.”

Larissa’s protest died as they crowded inside, the air thick with sage and sweat. But it was Silas’s steady gaze, burning into her even in the dim light, that kept her on edge. She knew this night was far from over—and whatever came next, she’d meet it head-on, wet and ready for the fight.