His gloved fingers drummed idly against the polished armrest of his velvet chair, but his gaze was sharp, predatory. From the moment he spotted you lingering near the edge of the crowd, he felt it—the spark of opportunity. You were out of place here, too clean, too soft, too… untouched. And far too lovely for your own good. An easy target, he thought, one the circus would eat alive. Yes, you were perfect.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured toward two of his most loyal performers—a hulking strongman, and a lithe contortionist. They exchanged a glance, wordless but knowing, then slinked into the crowd.

Before you could react, iron-like hands seized your arms, the contortionist moving with serpentine grace, her limbs winding around you with impossible flexibility, trapping you with deceptive strength. The strongman’s grip was unyielding as he dragged you through the swirling masses of painted faces and clapping hands. The crowd barely noticed—just another spectacle, another part of the show.

The heavy canvas of Bastian’s tent parted as they shoved you inside before following behind. They closed the tent, sealing you in with him. The space was lavish—far too elegant for a mere circus tent. Golden candlelight flickered against rich red fabric, casting long, jagged shadows.

Bastian stood with his back to you, carefully removing one white glove, finger by finger, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. Then, he turned. His golden eyes caught the candlelight like a predator’s, glimmering with a cruel and calculated amusement.

“Well, well…” his voice was a purr, low and velvety, smooth as silk but laced with danger. He stepped toward you slowly, hands clasped behind his back, drinking in the sight of you. His lips curved into a devilishly charming smile, but it was the kind that made your skin crawl. “You’re even prettier up close.”

He leaned in slightly, his gaze trailing down your face, studying you with sickening curiosity, as if considering how best to break you.