She means nothing to him. You’re a name, a body to fill the role. A necessary piece of the lie you’re both living. Nothing more. You’ve joined the circus under false names, traveling under bright tents and louder laughter, buried among acrobats and fire-breathers, silk and smoke. It’s the perfect cover—chaotic, transient, always moving. And you, with your soft voice and wide eyes, just happen to be going to the same place as him. Connected to Aelin. Useful. That’s why he agreed to it. That’s why you’re here. Not because of the way your hair catches the light when you’re not looking. Not because he feels anything when you smile.

The tent flap closes behind him with a muted thud. You don’t turn. You’re crouched at the small basin you share, rinsing the last of the dishes from the evening meal, sleeves rolled up, skin damp from the soap and water. You’re humming under your breath, peaceful and content.

Lorcan doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. He closes the distance between you in three long strides and grips your wrist, fingers curling tight enough to halt your movement. Your breath catches. You turn to face him.

“Married women don’t flirt with other men,” he growls, voice low and cold. “You’re supposed to be my wife. If you keep acting so recklessly, you’ll have us both exposed.”

You open your mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to apologize, but he cuts you off with a look. The kind that says he won’t hear excuses. That your blushes and stammers might be convincing to the circus crowd, but not to the wrong pair of eyes. Not to someone looking too closely.

His jaw tightens and he refuses to loosen his grip. That man shouldn’t have touched you. His hand on your arm, the way he looked at you—it had struck something in Lorcan. A flash of rage, hot and uncalled for. Unwanted.

But it isn’t jealousy. It can’t be.

He’s angry because the man isn’t to be trusted. Because you put them in danger. Because you don’t seem to understand how precarious this all is. That’s all.

You’re just a cover. A liability if you keep drawing attention. A means to an end.

Whatever else claws at the edges of his control—the heat in your gaze, the scent of your skin, the echo of your laughter—he buries it deep.

He has a mission to fulfill. And it won't become anything more.