Roustabout
A Dark MM+ Circus Romance
Read Now on KindleTwo identical men. A circus that breathes.
A Ringmaster whose eyes change color
when he looks at you.
Identical twins. One talks too much. One doesn't talk enough. Between them, the correct amount of speech for one person. They share a bed, a debt, and a bond so complete it produces its own gravity. The world calls it monstrous. The circus calls it an act.
A traveling circus that appears in fields outside cities, stays for a fortnight, and vanishes. The tent breathes. The horses have too many teeth. The audience comes because they always come. And the Ringmaster—the Ringmaster has been waiting for something. For centuries.
His eyes change color with his mood. His portraits span centuries. He doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep. He watches you the way a collector watches a matched set of rare objects—with the calculating appreciation of someone who understands both the aesthetic and the market value.
Twenty-one. Six years in the Ringmaster's bed. His act is the circus's crown jewel—standing on a galloping stallion, spinning, leaping, never falling. The stallion's eyes glow amber. Kit's eyes are blue and terrified and the bravest things in the tent.
His tricks are real. Every one costs him something—a memory, a sensation, a year. He can't remember his own name. He can't remember the man he loved. The love persists anyway. The love is the one thing the magic can't take.
His body does things that spines shouldn't permit and eyes shouldn't witness. The red velvet table. The amber light. The audience that can't look away. The performer who can't stop performing, even when no one is watching.
The stake wouldn't bite.
I'd been hammering for ten minutes, driving a two-foot iron spike into ground that had frozen overnight and wasn't interested in thawing for my benefit. My hands were raw inside the gloves—the leather cracked weeks ago, stuffed with rags now, useless—and each blow jolted up through my wrists into my shoulders into my teeth.
"Left," Rook said.
I adjusted. The stake sank an inch. Another swing, another inch. Behind me, twelve more stakes waited in the mud, and beyond those, the center pole—sixty feet of timber thick as a man's waist, the spine of the whole operation.
Rook worked three stakes ahead of me. Same mallet, same mud, same frozen ground, but his strikes landed clean—one, two, done. He didn't waste motion. Never had. I swung a mallet like I was arguing with it. Rook swung like he was explaining something to it, patiently, and the ground listened to Rook the way it never listened to me.
The circus gives you the one thing the world doesn't: permission to be what you are. The cost is on the back of the menu, in type too small to read. By the time you've eaten, you've already paid.
A Dark MM+ Circus Romance
Read Now on KindleContent warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content between adult men, including twins. Dubious consent. Dark themes. Power dynamics. A Ringmaster who is not what he appears. If you need a safe word, this isn't the book for you.