Chapter 8

The fluorescent lights of the vintage photo booth flickered one last time, casting long, jagged shadows against the peeling wallpaper that depicted some idyllic, forgotten European village. I sat perched on the small, velvet-upholstered stool, my knees pressed together, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The curtain was drawn tight, a heavy red velvet barrier that separated us from the chaotic, shouting energy of the carnival outside. Inside this six-foot-by-six-foot box, the air was thick with the scent of old paper, cheap perfume, and the electric tang of our own sweat. He stood just inches away, his knee brushing against mine, a deliberate, grounding pressure that sent a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. I could feel the heat radiating from him, a solid, undeniable presence that dwarfed my own nervous energy. His hand rested on my shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to claim me, to mark me as his before we stepped back into the mundane world. "Look at me, baby girl," he commanded, his voice low and rough, vibrating in the small space. I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze in the small mirror in front of us. His eyes were dark,