Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T hat night I dream about Logan, but even though he’s freed in real life, he’s still in jail in my dreams. I see him behind bars. They’re getting stronger, even as the world encased in them falls apart. Logan looks rough.

In the dream, Logan’s cell morphs into a twisted mockery of reality.

The once-simple iron bars have transformed into thick, corroded prison gates covered with ivy. They’re slick with mildew, giving off a sickening stench. Logan’s face is gaunt, hollowed out by shadows that cling to his sharp cheekbones. His eyes are sunken, dark circles framing the haunted look that’s settled there. He looks like a ghost of himself, trapped in a nightmare that refuses to end.

I watch in horror as the guards drag him from the cell, their grips cruel and unyielding. They shove him into an old-fashioned electric chair, its leather straps cracked and frayed with age. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. Logan’s muscular frame looks out of place, almost too large for the ancient contraption meant to deliver death.

“Logan!” I scream.

My voice sounds muted, like I’m shouting through water. He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on some distant point, as if he’s already accepted his fate.

The room around us flickers and warps. Shadows elongate and twist into mocking figures of circus clowns with cruel grins plastered on their faces. Among them stands the specter of his father, tattooed skin stretching grotesquely over muscle and bone. The crowd jeers and laughs, just like they did when his father was paraded as a freak show attraction.

Logan’s face contorts in pain—not from the straps digging into his flesh—but from the weight of this twisted legacy bearing down on him. The switch is thrown by one of the clowns, electricity crackling ominously in the air. Logan’s body jolts violently as the current courses through him, but it’s not just physical agony I see; it’s the torment of being unable to escape his past.

His father’s face leers at him from the crowd, a vile reminder of everything Logan fears becoming. The mocking laughter crescendos around us, drowning out my desperate cries.

Logan’s eyes lock on to mine for a brief moment—filled with sorrow and resignation—before they roll back under his lids. The smell of burned flesh mingles with the mildew, creating a nauseating cocktail that fills my lungs and makes me want to retch.

The dream swirls into chaos as I reach out toward him, my fingers barely brushing against his before he fades away completely, leaving me alone in this hellish circus of nightmares.

My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Sweat clings to my skin, the sheets damp and suffocating. It was a dream. It had to be a dream.

But the bed beside me is empty.

For a split second, panic floods my veins. My mind races back to the jail, the rusty bars, the electric chair. What if it wasn’t just a nightmare? What if he’s still there, still trapped in that hell? My fingers dig into the mattress, searching for any trace of him, any warmth left behind.

Nothing.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor with a muted thud. The room is dimly lit by the first light of dawn seeping through the curtains. I’m caught in some cruel limbo between dream and reality.

“Logan?” My voice comes out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. I listen for any sound that might indicate he’s here, that he’s safe. The house remains silent.

My chest tightens as I remember his hollow eyes, his gaunt face from my dream. The fear that maybe he’s still behind bars grips me with icy fingers. Could it all have been a cruel trick of my mind? Him being released, our night together—it felt so real.

My heart still races from the nightmare. The room is dark, shadows stretching long and eerie in the pale moonlight. As I blink away the remnants of sleep, I realize I’m not alone.

Logan sits in the corner, his silhouette rigid and unmoving. Relief washes over me, a tidal wave that crashes hard and fast. He’s safe. Not the tortured version from my dream. But something’s off. Heavy air suffocates me.

“Logan?” My voice is a whisper, barely cutting through the thick silence.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just stares at the floor. Even in the dim light, I can see he’s fully dressed. My eyes adjust further, and that’s when I see it—a shadow beside him.

A suitcase.

My breath catches in my throat. It can’t be. But there it is, unmistakable and cruelly definitive. Panic flares in my chest, mingling with disbelief.

“You’re leaving?” The words spill out before I can stop them.

Logan finally looks up, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a sadness there, a resignation that mirrors what I’d seen in my nightmare. He doesn’t need to say it; I already know what it means.

He’s leaving me.

“No,” I choke out, shaking my head as if that could change reality. “You can’t.”

He runs a hand through his tousled hair, and for a moment, he looks as weary as he did in my dream—trapped by invisible bars only he can see.

“Sienna,” he starts, his voice rough and laden with emotion.

Tears well up. I force them back down. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

“Why?” My voice cracks on the single word.

He sighs deeply, shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “It’s for the best,” he says quietly, but there’s no conviction in his tone—just an echo of defeat.

I scramble out of bed, crossing the room to stand before him. My hands shake as they reach out to touch his face, to make sure he’s real and not another figment of my dreams.

“Don’t do this,” I plead softly.

He closes his eyes briefly at my touch, as if savoring this last moment before pulling away entirely.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to meet mine once more.

His gaze holds a mixture of sorrow and resolve that cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

I kneel down in front of Logan, my knees pressing into the cold, hard floor. The moonlight casts an ethereal glow over us, turning the room into a world where shadows and light dance together in a macabre ballet. His eyes, those deep pools of torment, fixate on me with sorrow.

“I’ve become my father,” he whispers, his voice breaking the fragile silence.

My heart clenches at his words. “Logan, no—”

“I was always him. It’s the only explanation for why I joined the circus, why I got these tattoos.” His fingers trace the ink on his arms, each line a reminder of the life he’s led. “Part of me wanted to pretend, but he was always inside me.”

The weight of his self-loathing crashes over me like a tidal wave. I can see the conviction in his eyes, the belief that he’s nothing more than a reflection of his father’s failures. The assured, confident man who once protected me from bullies before he even knew my name is gone, replaced by this shadow of despair.

“You’re not your father,” I say firmly, my hands reaching up to cup his face.

He pulls away from my touch as if it burns him. “Don’t touch me,” he insists, voice thick with emotion. “I tried to escape it, Sienna. I thought my circus would be different—thought it could be something beautiful. But it’s just another prison.”

His words cut deep, each one a dagger to my heart. I want to shake him, to make him see that he’s more than this darkness that’s consuming him. But I know it’s useless. I can see it in his eyes. He’s unreachable.

Tears blur my vision as I search for something—anything—to hold him.

The Logan who saved me from my own hell is slipping away, has already gone, lost in a sea of self-doubt and regret. And no matter how much I want to save him now, I can’t fight the ghosts that haunt him.

“Please,” I whisper one last time, hoping against hope that something will reach him.

He shakes his head.

Then he’s standing, walking away, heading for the door. Leaving my life. My vision blurs with tears, each drop scalding my cheeks as it falls. Good, I don’t want to see this happen. I don’t want it to be real.

He pauses at the doorway, his back to me. The silence between us stretches, a chasm too wide to cross.

“If you’re your father,” I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Am I doomed to follow in my mother’s footsteps too?”

He turns slowly, his eyes meeting mine with a look that punches me in the gut. There’s no warmth there, just a resigned sadness. “Yes,” he says quietly, each word a nail in the coffin of my hope. “It’s your curse to love a man who will hurt you.”

The finality of his statement crushes me. My legs give out and I collapse to the floor, sobs shaking my body. Logan doesn’t offer any comfort or solace. He stands there for a moment longer before stepping through the doorway.

His footsteps echo down the hall, each one fainter than the last. They fade far too fast, leaving me alone with nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I curl into myself on the cold floor, tears streaming down my face. The emptiness he left behind threatens to swallow me whole. Despair wraps around me like a suffocating blanket, heavy and unyielding.

He’s gone. Truly gone.

I’m utterly alone.

The show is supposed to be tonight. Except the circus was his dream, his sanctuary. What does it even matter now? Part of me wants to give up, to let everything crumble.

A soft whimper breaks through my fog of misery.

Tricks, with his one ear up and one ear flopped down, trots over to me. His tiny tongue flicks out, licking the tears from my cheeks.

I push him away, not wanting any comfort. Not now.

But he’s persistent, his little paws scrabbling at my lap as he continues his gentle ministrations. Eventually, I relent. My arms wrap around his small frame and I pull him close, relishing the warmth of his body against mine.

His kisses are relentless and earnest, each one a small balm for my wounded soul. I bury my face in his fur, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing anchor me.

In that moment of raw vulnerability, a realization dawns on me. I’m not truly alone. My heart may be shattered into a million pieces, but I am still here—whole and capable of healing. And the circus wasn’t just Logan’s dream.

It became mine too. Every performer put their heart and soul into this show we’ve been preparing for. They deserve to see it come to life, regardless of what happens next.

I lift my head and wipe away the remaining tears with the back of my hand. Tricks looks up at me with those big, trusting eyes, and determination sparks inside me.

I stand up slowly, still clutching Tricks close to my chest. My steps are hesitant at first but grow steadier with each stride. There’s work to be done and people counting on me.

Logan may have left a void in my heart but that doesn’t mean I have to abandon everything we built together. The performers worked so freaking hard on the new show. For that matter, so did I. We deserve to have the debut, no matter what happens after.

After all, it’s the first rule of the circus…

The show must go on.