8. Colt

8

COLT

F lora returns, her shoulders tense but her eyes determined. Something about her vulnerability, maybe it’s her inner strength trying to break free that sets my pulse racing.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” I tell her, keeping my voice gentle, knowing Nash has already propositioned her to spend the night with us. “No pressure.”

Nash stands beside me. Flora’s gaze flicks between us, considering.

“I’m open to seeing where the night takes us,” she says, determination blazing in her eyes as the alcohol loosens her up.

The clock on the wall reads eight.

Nash steps forward. “Why don’t we head to the training tent? See what you can do with the equipment?” His suggestion breaks the tension, giving us all something concrete to focus on.

Flora’s eyes brighten. “That’s actually a great idea.” Her relief is obvious since training would be familiar to her. “I even put my leotard on beneath my dress, just in case.”

I chuckle. “Eager, aren’t you, angel?”

She nods in reply, her cheeks turning an endearing pink.

“Come on, let’s go,” Nash says, nodding at the exit to the tent.

We lead her through the carnival grounds to the training tent, our private space away from prying eyes. The trapeze hangs center stage, ropes and silks draped artfully around it. Practice mats cover the ground, and other equipment lines the walls—everything we need to train safely.

I notice how Flora’s eyes light up at the sight of it all, her earlier nervousness melting away as she takes in the professional setup. Nash and I spend most of our time here, perfecting our craft. Now, we’ll get to see what our angel can do.

I lean against one of the support poles, arms crossed, as Nash approaches Flora.

“Show us what you remember from your gymnastics days,” he tells her. “Basic floor work first. Tumbling, handstands, whatever comes naturally.”

Flora nods, rolling her shoulders back despite not being dressed for the occasion, but it doesn’t dissuade her. She stands at one end of the mat, bouncing slightly on her toes. Then she’s moving, and damn if she isn’t impressive. A series of perfect cartwheels flows into a round-off back handspring. Her control is obvious in every movement, each landing precise.

Nash catches my eye, one eyebrow raised. We’ve seen plenty of newcomers claim skills they don’t have. Flora isn’t one of them.

She transitions into a split and presses up into a handstand. Her lines are clean, her core steady—no wobbling. When she finally comes down, there’s a slight flush to her cheeks, but her breathing is controlled.

“That’s just a warm-up,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Color me impressed,” I say. Natural talent is rare enough, but this level of technical skill? Even better.

Nash steps closer, circling slowly. I recognize his analytical gaze—he’s already choreographing in his head, envisioning how we could incorporate her into our routines.

“Your form is excellent,” he says. His praise makes her stand a little straighter, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.

“We should see what she can do in the air,” Nash suggests. “Take her up, Colt.”

I shake my head, pushing off from the pole. “Not if she’s never been on a trapeze before. Floor work is one thing, but?—”

“I have, actually,” Flora interrupts. “Not professionally, but we had one at my high school gym. Coach let me practice after hours sometimes.”

That catches my attention. I study this girl’s face for any sign of false bravado or lies but find only earnest determination. Still, there’s a difference between playing around after school and what we do.

“How long ago?” I ask.

“About eight months.” She meets my gaze steadily. “I know it’s not the same as what you guys do, but I understand the basics. The grip, the swing, the timing.”

Nash moves closer to me. “Perfect time to assess her technique then. You can spot from above; I’ll watch from below.”

He’s right, damn him. It’s the safest way to gauge her abilities. I run a hand through my hair, considering the risks.

“Alright,” I concede. “But we do this my way. Safety harness first, and we start with basic holds.”

Flora nods eagerly, already moving toward the equipment rack where we keep the harnesses. I catch her arm gently.

“Listen carefully, angel. Up there, you do exactly what I say, when I say it. No improvising, no showing off. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Her voice is steady.

I help her into the harness, checking each buckle twice. Nash watches from below, his presence reassuring, as always. Once satisfied with her gear, I secure my harness and start up the ladder.

“Remember,” I call to her, “this isn’t about impressing us. It’s about showing us where you’re starting from so we can train you properly.”

From my position on the platform, I watch Flora climb with natural grace. Her movements are precise, with each grip and step calculated.

“We’ll start with a simple catch,” I tell her, securing my lines. “When I say go, swing out and release on my count.”

She nods, adjusting her grip on the bar. Her form is textbook perfect.

The first attempt is shaky—her timing’s off, and she releases too early. The harness catches her safely, but I see the frustration flash across her face.

“Again,” I call out. “This time, wait for my signal.”

Three more tries, and suddenly, everything clicks. Her body arcs through the air, and our hands connect with a satisfying smack. The electricity of skin-on-skin contact shoots through me.

“Beautiful!” Nash shouts from below.

We move through increasingly complex sequences. Each time I touch, guide, and position her body in the air, my pulse quickens. Her natural athleticism shows in every movement. She recovers gracefully when she misses a catch or fumbles a transition.

“Ready to try something more advanced?” I ask after a particularly smooth sequence.

“Yes,” she breathes.

I guide her through a split catch, my hands firm on her waist as she extends into perfect form. Her body responds to my touch like she was made for this—for us.

“Look at those lines!” Nash calls appreciatively. “Try it again but add the half-twist on release this time.”

Flora nails it on the second attempt, her body spinning through the air before landing securely in my grip. The trust she’s showing, the way she surrenders to my lead while maintaining perfect control of her movements—it’s intoxicating.

We’re moving together like we’ve done this for years, not minutes. Each catch, release, and touch becomes more natural; intimate even.