But maybe I’ve been reading into things. Xander’s pretty flirty with everyone. But this is the first time I haven’t gone running when a boy looked twice at me.

I let my eyes drift out of focus until Aristelle and Xander are nothing but blurs of heat and green moving around the stage in a fluid dance.

“Ava.” Roman’s deep voice pulls me from the dark, unseeing place I’ve drifted to. “We’re up.”

I didn’t even notice him take Xander’s place beside me, but he appears to be evaluating my every movement. I wipe my hands on the thighs of my leather pants. It only makes them sweatier.

I shake myself loose just as Aristelle and Xander come off the stage. Sweat gleams on their faces—probably from both the heat and the movement of their bodies.

Xander grins at me like he’s just experienced the best performance of his life.

His sticky hand catches my arm as I move by him. “Good luck.”

I just nod, sidestepping him to follow Roman out in front of an audience still buzzing from the heat they just witnessed.

Roman clasps my hand in his as we make our way to the center and give a brief, solemn bow to the audience. Their tittering dies down as they anticipate what we will give them—our silence leaves them wondering, builds the tension so the reveal will spring them into early applause. Willow and Reina wheel out a large, cloth-covered object. Roman leads me toward it, holding my hand in his raised one as if he were a courtly gentleman escorting a lady to a dance. A small part of me wishes we were doing something sexier with our knives. My face heats at the thought, and I jerk my hand away from his.

Roman gives me an odd look, like he can sense my wayward thoughts, before he pulls back the cloth, revealing a circular board with six golden stars painted around the rim. The crowd cheers, applauding for a classic trick they know and love. Everyone loves a classic as long as a hint of danger lurks on the edge—something could still go wrong even if the trick has been performed a thousand times before.

Roman takes my hand again and helps me step onto a small platform, my shoulders fitting just under the curved, padded bars that they adjusted to my height earlier. My hands grip the handles, and I lock my muscles into place before Roman spins me.

Then movement makes it impossible to focus or anticipate the throw of the knives. Only the vibration and the tearing of metal through wood lets me know a hit’s been made. Each time, I’m mildly surprised to still be physically whole.