Chapter 4
Four
“Your palm,” I say, nodding toward my outstretched hand. My purse is hooked over one shoulder—half security blanket, half escape plan. I’m still ready to bolt the second he stops being amenable and falls back into acting like a fuckboy.
His gaze drops, and he stares at my fingers like they’re a test he didn’t study for. “My palm?” he echoes.
“How else am I supposed to tell you your destiny?”
He studies me for a beat, unreadable emotions flickering behind his eyes. The tension between us is veering dangerously close to real vulnerability, and my pulse is doing things I do not trust. I need a minute to recalibrate, so I lean into the one thing that feels safe—performance.
The lines around his eyes feather with a smile, but he doesn’t move right away. “I got the sense you were witchy, but I didn’t think you…”
I cock my hip. “Didn’t think I what?”
Declan lifts one broad shoulder. “Practiced. If that’s the right word.”
“It is, and I am well-versed in many forms of witchcraft. Including palmistry. So, come on.” I wiggle my fingers. “We had a deal.”
Declan’s skeptical expression doesn’t shift, but he extends his hand, palm up between us. His fingers curl into a loose fist, then unfurl again. There’s a mountain range of calluses along the insides of his fingers, and a thin, pale scar traces the curve of his thumb.
“Rock climbing.”
The words barely register. I’m too busy staring at his hand—long fingers, rough palm, a knuckle that looks like it’s been broken and reset.
“I’m a rock climber. Used to be…” There’s hesitation in the way he says it. A fracture, almost. Like something about it still stings. “I used to be a rock climber.”
“What happened?”
His fingers twitch. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me my future?”
“Okay, secrets.”
“Some things are better learned slowly.” His voice is low. Not a warning, exactly. But not an invitation either.
My heart gives an unhelpful little stutter. “I think that qualifies as a cryptic one-liner.”
He exhales softly, nearly a laugh, and his smile this time is real. It changes his whole face. Makes him look almost reachable.
I cup his hand, warm and heavy in mine. His skin carries its own current, lightning pacing beneath the surface, looking for somewhere to land.
My skin tingles. My pulse spikes again. A spark of heat moves up my arm.
Declan inhales sharply, his gaze snapping to mine.
My smile wobbles. I am not going to make this into a thing.
That jolt? That magnetic pull that just shot up my arm?
That’s just me being touch-starved and too hopped up on nerves and alcohol to think straight.
He’s not staring because he felt it too.
He’s only staring because I’m practically drooling into his hand.
Focus, Amanda.
I hover over the curve of his heart line with my index finger. “Whoa, this is rare.”
Declan doesn’t blink. “What?”
“You have a double heart line.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re generous, sensitive. You’re passionate. Well, you will be when you find the right person.” I hum under my breath. “You’re going to fall hard, Mr. Thorne, and when you do it’ll be full-on emotional combustion.”
His nostrils flare.
A beat of silence stretches between us.
He’s staring at me like I just said something loaded.
Shit. No. Abort.
I sputter on an exhale, suddenly unable to breathe.
He probably thinks I’m projecting, outlining our possible future. I don’t want him thinking I’m building some whirlwind romance starring the two of us in my head. Or that I’m not capable of keeping this light, surface-level, safe.
I know this is a flirty little game.
And I am not fantasizing about how Declan Thorne might love. If he’s truly like me and put up a strong, confident front online and is really just squishy scared bits on the inside. I’m not imagining what it would feel like to be chosen by a man like him.
Definitely not.
“What else do you see?” he asks, voice rougher now.
I could lie. Could say something cheeky. But his hand is still in mine, warm and open, and for a split second, the air between us feels like the quiet before a storm.
Work. I need to switch to work. Work is safe. Work is boring. Work is not located anywhere near my vagina.
I clear my throat again, but my gaze snags on the lines of his palm I’m trying to ignore. Before I can stop myself, my fingers hover back over them, tracing the air above the creases.
Declan’s voice drops, soft and smoky. “Well?”
He’s watching me like he wants to be read like a smutty little book, and I do that shit for a living.
Another pulse of heat rolls through me, blooming beneath my skin.
I pull back, adjust, pretend to examine a different part of his palm. “Actually, this area has a lot to say.” I swallow, aware that my voice is an octave too high. “Your career line. Very robust. Very…virile.”
Dear God. Virile?
I want to climb into my purse and zip myself inside.
I bite my lip, cheeks flushing, and risk a glance up at him.
Declan’s looking at me, one brow raised, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and heat. “You were telling me about my heart lines.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “There’s a lot going on here.”
The weight of his gaze presses against me as I stare back down at his palm and gesture vaguely.
“This line here is your creativity,” I ramble.
“It curves upward, which usually means you have a great imagination, which, same. I used to steal my mom’s bodice rippers and rewrite the endings so the heroine saved herself and the storyline with the hero was just frosting.
Then I’d hide them under my bed. My mom thought I was writing erotic fan fiction. ”
I blink up at him and then over his shoulder, suddenly unsure where to look.
“So you’re a writer.”
“I’m a wannabe editor.” I shrug. “I also make witchy content, sell moon-charged things, give workshops no one signs up for.”
“You read palms in fancy lounges.”
Smiling, I glance at him. “What about you, former rock climber turned venture capitalist?”
He pauses, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “There’s no money in rock climbing,” he says finally. “No prestige. At least, not the kind you can put on a résumé or talk about over Sunday-night family dinners.”
My brows lift. “You have dinner with your family every Sunday? I can’t remember the last time my mom even wanted to hang out with me.”
“It’s really not as great as it sounds. It’s less being a family and more like a weekly performance review.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “That’s bleak.”
“That’s being a Thorne,” he says, and I catch something in his expression that feels honest.
It makes me hesitate. Makes me want to stay for longer than just tonight. For a second, I even consider setting my purse down—physically and metaphorically.
Then he nods toward his palm. “What else do you see?”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “So this little break in your head line usually means a shift in perspective. Like you’re changing how you think about your life. Or your future. Or your whole identity.”
“You think people can change like that? Shift perspective or make a choice and become a different person.”
I meet his eyes, and for once, I don’t dodge. The weight of his gaze is steady, searching, like he’s not truly asking about people—he’s asking about himself. “When I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”
He watches me for a beat too long, mouth parting like he’s about to speak. Then he shuts it again. With a slow shake of his head, he shifts his attention back down at his hand.
“And this…” I follow the slashes etched into his palm, my fingertip hovering just above his skin. “Well, it’s clear you don’t let people in easily, but when you do—”
My voice falters. A blush creeps up my neck as I clamp my mouth shut, teeth sinking into the inside of my cheek.
Stop talking, Amanda.
He leans in, closing the small space between us. I catch the smoky edge of liquor on his lips, the faint spice of his cologne threading through it, and it’s suddenly hard to remember how to breathe.
“But when I do?”
The crackle of his words against my temple sends heat flaring through me.
My pulse pounds in my fingertips, in my throat, in places I’d rather not think about right now.
The steady pulse of music from the dance floor fades to a muffled hum, every nerve tuned only to him—how close he is, how easily he could close the distance.
“They don’t forget it.”
I can’t resist. I press the tip of my finger to the curve of his love line.
He jumps at my touch. The spark is immediate.
A searing surge of heat races up my arm.
My breath escapes in a rough exhale. Touching him feels like touching a live wire.
Something inside me is waking up, one nerve ending at a time.
I pull back, but I don’t have space to process it. My side is hot. Like, really hot.
Declan’s gaze flicks down.
“Your purse,” he says slowly. “It’s…smoking.”
Hazy orange light hisses out from between the teeth of the zipper, curling toward the ceiling.
“I don’t have anything flammable,” I mutter, half in denial, half trying to logic my way through something that I can’t actually explain.
I fumble the zipper open, fingers flying past lip gloss, a half-melted honey throat lozenge, my phone, to my Break Glass in Case of Emotional Instability kit.
Heart thudding, I grab it and my phone before the heat can warp the case. The kit’s button is hot under my thumb as I unfasten it. The satin edges of my tarot pouch glow like lit coals.
Heat sears my palm as I reach for it. I yelp and jerk it free, pinching it between two fingers and holding it at arm’s length like it might explode. Gray tendrils curl off the singed corners like breath from a dragon. The fabric is scorched, radiating waves of heat that prickle against my skin.
Inside, my tarot deck sparks, tiny arcs of light zapping in and out like fireflies.
Declan’s hand hovers near my arm, ready to snatch me back. “What the hell is that?”
I throw it onto the table like it’s cursed. It detonates in a flash of heat and light. A pop echoes off the booth as the pouch bursts open, and a gust of hot air hits my face. Cards whip upward in a spinning cyclone, their gilded edges slicing through the low light like shrapnel.
They twist and cartwheel above us, flashes of color and arcane symbols blurring into one impossible kaleidoscope before the whirlwind collapses. The deck rains down, cards slapping against leather seats, skidding across the table, tumbling to the floor.
One lands at our feet.
The Wheel of Fortune.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My heart hammers so hard it hurts. The smell of burnt fabric and ozone fills the air, and I can’t tell if I’m seconds from fainting or laughing.
“This isn’t happening,” I whisper. My voice sounds too small, too human for the moment. I squeeze my hands into fists, nails biting my palms, and try to take deep breaths so I can think straight. “Static electricity. That’s all. And faulty craftsmanship.”
Declan steps closer, jaw pulsing at the temples.
I force out a shaky laugh even as I follow his gaze down to the tarot card and the images that are…moving?
The gilded wheel at the center spins. Its middle glows white-hot, light pulsing outward in steady, golden rings, radiating like a star on the edge of collapse.
Framing the wheel, the angel, eagle, bull, and the lion chase each other in a game of otherworldly tag.
The background shimmers with inky starlight.
It glows, deep and vast and impossible. I hold my breath and squat down to pick it up.
Crack!
A jagged bolt of lightning rips across the top of the card, splitting the wheel clean in two.
The shock hits me. It races up through the soles of my feet, seizing my calves, crawling higher until it’s in my chest, my throat, my teeth. Light shines from the card and pulses in time with my heartbeat, each thud sending another burst of electricity through my veins.
A rumble swells from deep beneath my feet, the earth clearing its throat. The floor shudders. The room trembles. Behind the bar, bottles crash against one another as bulbs strobe violently, throwing out craggy, stuttering shadows. Heat surges up from the floor, prickling every inch of exposed skin.
The door slams open with a gunshot-loud bang, and a blast of dry, searing air tears through the lounge, carrying the sting of sand. It whips my hair across my face and steals my breath.
Declan surges toward me, hand outstretched. “Amanda—”
He doesn’t get the chance to finish.
The wind roars, swallowing sound. The lights flare, then shatter, bulbs bursting in fireworks of glass and sparks.
A shockwave of hot air ripples out, and the room detonates around us in a blaze of fire. For a single, suspended heartbeat, everything is light and heat and the sensation of falling.
Then we’re gone.