Gwen lingered at the door.
They’d been in Rora’s room for hours, and stars, she didn’t want to leave. But it was late, and they both had responsibilities awaiting them in the morning.
When did I become so fucking sensible?
As she reached for the door handle, Rora spoke softly behind her.
“Don’t go.”
The words were barely a whisper.
Heart pounding, she turned back toward Rora, as restless as the swirling butterflies in her stomach. The gymnast stood before her, no longer in her performance gear, but wearing red lingerie.
Her eyes roamed hungrily over Rora, taking in her beautiful curves and dark skin. The lace cupped round breasts, dipping almost to her navel. Even from where she stood, Gwen could see Rora had shaved everything.
Holy shit. Gwen wanted to touch her right fucking now.
They were mere inches apart, but the space felt like a bottomless chasm.
They stared at each other for a long moment before their bodies crashed together.
Rora wrapped her hands on either side of Gwen’s face and pulled her down. Gwen came willingly, kissing Rora feverishly. They hadn’t gotten far from the door, and they were already gasping.
Their lips met in a frenzy, teeth pulling and tongues flicking. It wasn’t enough. Gwen grabbed Rora, pushing her against the door to her room, wood cracking. Her breasts heaved against Gwen’s ribs between breathless kisses.
Slowly, Gwen’s hands left Rora’s face and neck, sliding down until they were over her breasts. She hesitated, waiting for Rora to object. When she didn’t, moaning between kisses, leaning into the touch, Gwen gave in. She squeezed, slipping a hand beneath the thin fabric, feeling Rora’s nipple harden beneath her calloused palm. Gwen let out a moan of her own.
It was only then she noticed Rora’s finger trailing the length of her waist where Gwen’s belt held up her trousers. She leaned in, inviting Rora to do more. That was all the encouragement she needed because Rora’s hand slowly made its way to her belt, untying it with torturous slowness.
Stars, go faster, Gwen thought, squeezing Rora’s breasts as she pushed down the flimsy lace. The faint artificial light of a nearby gas lamp highlighted two dark breasts and darker, hard nipples.
Unfastening her pant button, Rora’s hand trailed down Gwen’s hip, to her leg, and down to—
Stars.
Her fingers slipped into Gwen easily.
For a moment, Gwen’s limbs stopped responding to conscious thought. All she could feel was one finger and then two.
Her entire body wracked with delicious, trembling pleasure.
When she came to herself again, Gwen kissed Rora harder, gasping. Unable to take more than a shallow breath as she felt Rora go deep inside her.
It wasn’t enough. She needed more.
A bang sounded on the door, and Gwen bolted upright in bed.
Looking around at her very own, very empty room, she groaned. It had all been a dream?
She turned over in bed, eager to return to what would have been the best part. “Fuck off.”
Just as she closed her eyes, the banging came again, louder this time. Still, she didn’t move. Peeling one eye open, she glanced at the pocket watch on her bedside table.
Shit. She’d overslept.
After skipping dinner and spending most of the night in Rora’s room, it was no wonder. They’d spent the entire time working on Rora’s hand. Nothing at all like Gwen’s dream.
When the banging became so loud, her whole room shook, she sighed, pushed the sheets back, and headed toward the door.
Hesitating, she grabbed the secret project she’d been working on that was in the middle of the floor and stashed it in her wardrobe. But she didn’t bother to don her trousers or put on undergarments. Instead, she walked straight toward the pounding door in nothing but a loose shirt.
When Gwen swung the door inward, she was met with the glaring face of Bastian Kabir. As ever, he wore an immaculate suit and top hat. His finger tapped on his cane in obvious irritation.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Rather than his usual smart remark, he stiffened as he took in her disheveled clothing and hair. His eyes skirted down to where the shirt’s neckline scooped low between her breasts.
“What’s the matter with you?” She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Never seen tits before?”
Blinking, his eyes returned above sea level. “That’s none of your business.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Prefer the company of men, then?”
“No.”
Sexual frustration poured through her, making her lightheaded. She wasn’t sure if it was entirely from the dream, but her thoughts strayed along with her gaze. As she studied Bastian’s pinstriped suit and the wiry body beneath it, she wondered just how good Bastian Kabir would be in bed.
It had been quite some time since a cock had filled her.
She didn’t move from where she blocked the doorway. “What do you want?”
As Bastian tapped his cane on the floor, she could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. “You’re aware you have a job to perform at this circus, correct?”
“I was sick,” she lied.
“You don’t look sick.”
“Why are you looking?”
His mouth drew into a thin line. “Don’t change the subject, Ms. Grimm. I’m here to escort you to your appointment with the Mistress.”
Fuck. She’d completely forgotten about her mandatory checkup. Not that she was excited to see Mistress Morbid.
Turning back into her room, she didn’t bother to close the door. She grabbed a pair of trousers from the floor, yanked them up, and pushed her feet into boots. Locating her pistol, holster, knives, and sheaths, she donned those.
Bastian stood, frozen in the middle of the doorway.
She glanced over her shoulder. “In or out.”
The door clicked shut as she pulled her sleeping shirt over her head, tossed it to the floor, and put on a shirt, vest, and her tinkerer’s belt.
“Have you no modesty?”
As Gwen turned back to him, he was intently studying the stone castle wall. By the look of him, there was nothing immodest taking place behind him. He was a man dressed for a dinner party and taking inventory of the room.
Never took him for a prude.
“When you live on a ship for months at a time, often without private sleeping quarters, you quickly realize how pointless modesty is.” She gestured to the door. “Lead the way.”
They left her room and strode down hallways she’d never gone down before, the now customary watchmen padding softly behind them. Eventually, they made it to the hallway for the show management team’s offices. Stopping in front of one of the doors, Bastian knocked softly.
“Enter,” a voice called from within.
With a nod to the watchmen, who took up stations farther down the hallway, the ringleader opened the door.
“Mr. Kabir. Ms. Grimm.” Celeste Beckett rose from her desk and gestured to two empty chairs at the desk across from her. “Welcome. Please have a seat.”
“If you require nothing further, Mistress, I will take my leave.” Interestingly, his posture was even stiffer than usual.
“Leaving so soon?” Celeste leaned forward, her manicured red nails pressing against the top of her wooden desk. “I must say, I miss the days when you were my pet. Although you make a fine ringleader, I sometimes wonder if your skills are better put to use elsewhere.”
If it was possible, Bastian stiffened further. Despite a thin stature, his grim expression indicated barely refrained violence. It was as though a beast lurked beneath his skin, waiting to get out. In any other person, that look alone would inspire terror. The faint-hearted might be tempted to shit themselves when the great Bastian Kabir leveled that gaze on them.
Gwen studied the way his suit hung loosely on him, and it was far looser than the day she’d met him on Anchorage. She couldn’t help but to wonder when he’d eaten last. Perhaps the infamous ringleader of the cyborg circus had seen more horrors in his lifetime than the first competition. Everyone had their way of coping, and restriction was a method she’d seen before. Did the poor bastard even realize what he was doing?
“Thank you for your kind words, Mistress,” Bastian said. “But I feel my calling is to be a ringleader to our performers.”
The Mistress merely nodded. “For now.”
Without another word, Bastian turned and closed the door behind him, leaving Gwen with Celeste Beckett. Mistress and murderer of this fine circus.
Trying to slow her breathing, Gwen slipped into a cool wooden chair. As always, her cyborg eye hummed as it darted back and forth, assessing the contents of the room alongside her human eye.
The most notable aspect of Celeste’s office was the rows of shelves lining every open wall space with trinkets like books, globes, and a typewriter, along with a series of small devices with screens and keyboards.
“I’d like to formally welcome you to Cirque du Borge.” Leaning back in her leather-padded chair, Celeste brushed her mane of red hair over a shoulder. “I can imagine this isn’t the easiest time to acclimate to our show, but I hope you know we are very happy to have you join us. Your skills are a valued asset to the circus.”
Gwen had to bite her tongue to avoid spewing a remark about the difficulty of being forced to butcher cyborgs to pieces and how, not long ago, Celeste had made it very fucking evident how Gwen’s skills were a mere convenience for the surgeon.
“Every year, you will have periodic check-ins with myself or another available staff member,” Celeste continued. “Today, we will make certain your body is tolerating your new implant and ensure your system is running properly.”
Unlike the cyborgs you forced to dunk under icy water. Their systems certainly aren’t running properly. I would fucking know.
Standing, Celeste gestured to a door to an adjoining room to her office. Gwen followed her, noting a patient table, not unlike Gwen’s, at the center of the room. Rather than tools, screws, plating, and wiring lining the shelves, as there were in Gwen’s office, Celeste’s office only held a cart on wheels. Atop that cart was a small machine Gwen had never seen before. The machine was small, no more than the width of her chest, with a small screen and what looked like a keyboard beneath it.
Gwen’s eyes widened.
“You like it?” Celeste asked. “It’s one of the circus’s many treasures.”
Snapping her mouth shut, Gwen said, “I hear digital technology is expensive. Priceless, perhaps.”
As is human life.
Only the wealthiest in the Union could afford to own devices with access to digital technology. Fewer still had devices that actually worked. Most were faulty at best. Often, it wasn’t worth the hefty price tag to send a digital message when it wasn’t guaranteed to arrive. Paying a carrier to deliver a physical letter was cheaper and far more reliable.
What could the purpose of this little machine be? Not to send letters to family members across the Crescent Star System, certainly.
“It is,” Celeste replied.
Slowly, Gwen took a seat on the table. “What is it for?”
“To check that your implant is functioning.”
Studying her, Gwen tried to swallow back the fear in her gut as she wondered just what this woman might do to her if she did step out of line. Did she intend to make another show of force?
Moreover, did Gwen dare to ask about the Forgetting? Was there a way to slow the memory loss?
But Celeste willingly helping her—the very same woman running the competition—was about as likely as the emperor removing the Cyborg Prohibition Law. No matter what pretty words he wrote in his invitation.
“Today, I’ll need to open the port at the back of your neck and insert your chip into the machine,” Celeste continued. “The machine will show all recent communications between your brain and your implant, which are stored on the chip—as well as if there’s any disconnect. If there is, we can work to address them at that time.”
Exhaling, Gwen nodded.
Nothing like having an evil overlord poking around in your brain.
Slowly, Gwen lay down on her side. Celeste moved behind Gwen to the cart. There was a strange pressure on Gwen’s neck before she felt a click as her port opened.
Opening and closing her fists, she did her best to relax.
With the click and release of the chip in her port, the world stilled.
Blinking, she looked around. What had she been so worried about?
In fact, she had a hard time remembering anything at all. She looked around at the empty stone walls and immaculate floor and then to the cold, metal table she lay atop. Where was she?
The itch to know faded and was replaced by a single, overwhelming desire.
To return to the circus.
She didn’t know what it meant or where the circus was, only the tugging within her mind, urging her to her feet. The desire overwhelmed her senses until she couldn’t think of anything else, only the need to move. Before she could raise herself from the table, a hand pressed her back down, followed by a strap to secure her shoulders and legs.
Several minutes passed like this, and she could only wait.
There was another pressure at the back of her brain and a click.
Gasping, Gwen pulled roughly at the bonds strapping her down to the patient table.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded, reaching a hand down to the knife in the hidden sheath on her pants.
Celeste removed the straps, and Gwen lurched to a seated position, spinning around to face the Mistress of the circus and the Keeper of Beasts.
“I should have warned you,” Celeste said, smiling sympathetically. “It can be disorienting the first time your chip is removed.”
“That’s a nice way to put it,” Gwen bit back. “I didn’t know my own fucking name. Just…”
She thought of the drive that had consumed her only moments before. A drive to return to the circus. But wasn’t she already at the circus? What had that all been, anyway?
“As I said,” Celeste continued, “it can be disorienting to have your chip removed. Are you feeling more yourself now?”
Slowly, Gwen mentally checked her extremities and functions. Everything seemed so… normal. Her eye whirred happily, scanning the room. Celeste’s skeleton flashed before her eye, the bone a darker hue. Brighter was the table beneath her as well as the rolling cart and the digital machine with the hefty price tag—all of which were made of metal. It seemed her eye had a knack for locating the material.
To her surprise, Celeste’s red nails gleamed brightly as well. Did she have retractable claws?
“I’m fine.” Standing, Gwen gestured to the digital machine. “How was my implant? Any issues?”
Celeste shook her head. “It’s functioning at full capacity. You are free to go at your leisure.”
She didn’t need to be told twice.
All but running out of the room, she already dreaded her next checkup, which Celeste said would be when the entire cast and crew had their regular annual appointments.
As she hurried toward the theater, a thought occurred to her.
Why was the Mistress performing engineering checkups on cyborg implants?
The masked watchmen’s steps clicked closely behind her as she wondered just how she could get more answers—and protect herself and the cyborgs before she lost her memories entirely.