Chapter 1
AERI
Roses are red, my standards are low, and tonight I’m willingly climbing into a jeweled thong that looks like it was designed by a horny magpie with a blood kink.
So, you know. Healthy choices all around.
“Police are still searching for the suspect the media has nicknamed ‘Cupid,’” the reporter drones from my TV, voice way too calm for someone standing next to a body bag. “Authorities say the killer carves Valentine-style messages into the victims’ flesh—”
I turn the volume up.
The screen cuts to a blurry shot of flashing caution tape and a white sheet on a gurney. Underneath the banner it says LIVE / DOWNTOWN ALLEY HOMICIDE. A red ticker at the bottom screams: CUPID STRIKES AGAIN?
I tug the red jeweled bra higher on my chest and watch the light throw scarlet flecks across my bedroom walls.
The cups are shaped like they’re dripping, ruby stones falling in tiny beaded teardrops over my ribs.
It looks like someone crystallized blood mid-drip and decided that was a normal thing to wear out of the house.
I fucking love it.
“This is your fault, Mark,” I tell my reflection, tilting my head. “Look what you did. You turned me into the kind of hot that ruins men on sight.”
My reflection stares back at me—long, thick dark brown hair streaked with deep red, pulled into those stupid-cute twisted buns on top while the rest falls heavy over my shoulders.
My blue eyes look too bright, rimmed in smudged black and dripping in ruby gems that catch the light like I cried glitter instead of tears.
My lips are painted a bruised red, glossy and dangerous.
I look exhausted, and a little pissed off… like a girl who’s been breaking quietly all week and decided to tape herself back together with rhinestones and bad decisions.
Which, honestly is kinda fitting.
There’s a soft buzz from my phone on the vanity. A small grey bubble that says, Heartless Bitches lighting up again.
Luna:
BITCH ARE U DONE YET WE’RE ALMOST THERE
Luna:
i swear if u bail AGAIN, im keying his car myself
Harper:
you definitely can’t bail tonight Aeri! I already pre-gamed in the Uber and I’m two shots away from texting my therapist “u up”
Luna:
Get ur ass ready, Cupid's Killhouse is already fucking pumping and I don’t want to miss Noir’s set
I type with one hand while I hook the matching jeweled bottoms up over my hips.
Me:
Relax. I’m not bailing. Perfection just can’t be rushed! I swear, Mark is going to DIE when he sees how good I look in this outfit. I am literally art
Luna:
Ohhh he’s gonna die alright, either by how hot my bestie is, or by my hand, has yet to be determined. HOWEVER…Show. Us. The. Fit.
Harper:
What she said, drop the outfit, bitch.
I snap a mirror selfie. Blood-red crystal lingerie clinging to me like it was poured on, every drip sparkling like a warning.
The red-strung straps bite into my waist in the hottest possible way.
My legs look a mile long in the matching thigh-high platform boots, the same red crystals climbing up them like they’re trying to devour me.
I look smug, unhinged, goddamn feral, and maybe a little illegal.
I hit send before I can second-guess anything.
Immediately:
Luna:
OHHHHH BABE SHE’S A FINAL GIRL.
Harper:
girl… MARK is gonna CHOKE. like literally drop dead before I even get the satisfaction of carving his cheating ass open.
Luna:
honestly? good for him. he deserves the embarrassment. watching you look THAT good is punishment enough.
Harper:
I guess so, but an outfit like that shouldn’t be wasted. You know what they say, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone.. And looking like that….
Me:
trust me, he’s gonna regret every trashy decision he ever made. man couldn’t keep his micro-peen in his pants, now he gets front-row seats to my villain era.
On the TV, the reporter keeps talking, voice rising with fake concern.
“Authorities are urging residents to avoid large gatherings tonight as they believe the killer may escalate around the Valentine’s holiday—”
“Blah blah blah,” I mutter, tossing my phone back on the vanity before adjusting the red crystal straps digging into my hips. “Let the heartbroken girlies rave half-naked in peace.”
Cupid has what, three bodies? Four? In a city this size that barely qualifies as a side-hustle. And carving Valentine messages into skin? Honestly feels like the marketing team for Hallmark hired him.
The camera zooms in on my favorite part: the close-up of the carved message. They blur the gore, but you can still see the shaky lettering beneath the censor box.
BE MINE.
I snort. “So original.”
The truth is, the whole thing thrills me more than it scares me.
Maybe that says something seriously unwell about my brain chemistry.
Whatever. My danger scale snapped months ago, right around the time some creep shoved me against a brick wall behind Harlow’s Market, pressed a gun to my temple, demanded my wallet…
and my body reacted like it was fucking foreplay.
I should’ve screamed. That's what a normal bitch would've done.
But not me. No, instead I walked home shaking and so turned on I spent an hour in the shower getting myself off while replaying the cold metal against my skin.
Mom would absolutely drop dead if she knew that story. She’d also drop dead twice if she knew where I was going tonight or what I was wearing. Or that I’m half planning to fuck a hot stranger just to prove my pulse still works.
I glance at my phone. Missed a call from her an hour ago.
Guilt pricks, sharp and quick, then dissolves under the rush of tonight.
I love my mom. I really do. She worked two jobs and still never missed a recital, never forgot a birthday, never let me see her cry when the rent was late. She’s the kind of woman who texts me inspirational quotes at seven a.m. and signs off with more heart emojis than should be legal.
She also still calls me “baby girl” and thinks “dab pen” is a kind of art supply.
There is no universe where she can hear the words Cupid’s Killhouse without spontaneously combusting.
So I do what any responsible adult daughter does—call her back while I put on eyeliner and lie through my teeth.
She picks up on the second ring. “Aeri?”
“Hey, Mom.” I hit speaker, prop the phone against the mirror, and lean close to paint another wing on my eye. “Sorry, was in the shower.”
“Long day at the bakery?” she asks. I can hear the TV murmuring in her background too, the same news broadcast, probably. “You sound tired.”
“Yeah, it was super busy! Valentine’s week, remember? People want cupcakes shaped like hearts so they don’t have to use their words.”
She laughs, that soft little sound that always makes my chest hurt in a good way. “So,” Mom says, that sly mom-tone instantly activated, “does Mark have big plans for you two tonight, baby girl?”
Guilt hits me right in the ribs—not hard, just a soft, irritating tap to remind me I haven’t told her. Haven’t told her we’re basically an expired carton of milk in the back of the fridge. Haven’t told her he’s gone.
But I’m not ready to open that door. Not tonight.
“Actually,” I say, breezy as hell, “Mark’s working. Late shift. So I’m just gonna stay in. Self-care night. Face mask, movies, maybe soak in the tub until I prune.”
She hums, amused. “Self-care, huh? That’s code for ‘I’m avoiding the world,’ but alright. You deserve a quiet night.”
“Totally,” I lie, adding an enthusiastic little nod even though she can’t see me. “Just me, my jammies, and a mountain of overpriced chocolate.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs warmly. “You don’t even like chocolate.”
I smile at my reflection—winged liner sharp enough to slice, glitter clinging to my collarbone, lips glossy and red like I just kissed a crime scene.
Right. Definitely not telling her.
“Yeah, well, sometimes I can make an exception,” I joke.
“Well,” she says, softer now, “make sure your doors are locked and secured. With that freak roaming around, killing people, you can’t be too safe.”
“I will,” I promise, ignoring the black faux-fur jacket on my bed and the neon flyer for Cupid’s Killhouse taped to my mirror. “Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
We hang up.
And the second the call ends, the guilt evaporates like it was never there, replaced by the electric thrill crawling under my skin.
I toss my phone aside, grab my jacket, and glance once at the TV where the newscaster’s voice reaches its peak.
“…another victim found along the coast…”
Perfect timing.
“—Police are urging everyone to avoid going out alone and to steer clear of anyone in costume tonight—”
“Yeah, that’s definitely gonna stop people where I’m going,” I tell the newscaster, sliding on my platform boots. “Also, if Cupid wants to carve something into me, who’s to say I wouldn’t be into it.”
I grab my little red heart-shaped bag from the dresser. Inside is lip gloss, cash, ID, a tiny vial of body glitter, one emergency condom that’s mostly there for aesthetic, and a cute heart-shaped pill Luna swore was “mild and romantic.”
I still have no idea what “romantic” means in drug language.
But I guess I’m about to find out.
My apartment is small but cozy—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that’s basically a hallway with delusions of grandeur.
Fairy lights drip over the windows like melted stars.
There are Polaroids on every spare surface of me, Luna, Harper, my mom, blurry drag queens from Pride, and a shot of Mark I keep meaning to throw away but never do.
In that one, we’re at the summer fair, cotton candy stains on our mouths, and his arm wrapped around my waist. I look stupidly happy. He looks like he’s already halfway out the door. I guess he always was. I just never noticed.
The buzzer rings, signaling the girl's arrival.
“Showtime,” I tell myself.
I shrug into the fur jacket, grab my phone, and head for the door. The hallway outside smells like old carpet and someone else’s weed. I can hear my upstairs neighbor’s dog losing its mind at the sound of the buzzer, its claws scrabbling over cheap vinyl.
By the time I hit the front steps, Luna’s already outside the building, leaning against the rideshare like the cover of a chaotic girl band album.
Microbraids threaded with red tinsel, eyeliner sharp enough to stab, black vinyl skirt that squeaks when she moves.
Harper’s beside her in a pink mesh dress and a bomber jacket, cheeks already flushed like she pre-gamed with shame and tequila.
Luna sees me and lets out a banshee shriek. “OH MY GOD, YOU BLOODY VALENTINE.”
Harper’s jaw drops. “Fuck me. Why do I feel like by the end of the night we’re going to get arrested?”
“For once, I can promise it won’t be my fault,” I say, striking a stupid little pose on the steps. “I have plans tonight, and while I’m not completely against the idea of having my hands cuffed behind my back, none of them involve the back of a cruiser.”
“Turn around,” Luna orders, already circling me like a fashion shark. The jeweled pieces catch the streetlight when I move, dripping red over my thighs. She whistles low. “Jesus. If Cupid himself doesn’t hunt you first, I will.”
“Same,” Harper says. “I’m straight, but not that straight.”
I grin, the Cali air already warm and sticky against my skin. The city tastes like salt and exhaust. The sky’s that flat coastal gray that never commits to rain, just hangs there like it’s judging you.
The driver leans over the front seat to look at us through the open passenger window. “You ladies sure you wanna go out? After all the warnings about that Cupid guy. I heard on the news—”
“Yep,” Luna chirps, already climbing in. “And it’s gonna take more than a wannabe serial killer with a PR team to ruin my night.”
I slide into the backseat next to Harper, tugging my jacket over the most illegal parts of my outfit. My heart’s pounding—not from fear. From the fact that tonight could go absolutely sideways, and I’m kind of excited about it.
My friends and I are headed to a rave literally named after him, and just to really spice things up, my ex will be there too, somewhere in the crowd with his new girl, fully convinced I’m at home crying into overpriced ice cream.
He’s about to be so fucking wrong.
The car pulls away from the curb, the fairy lights in my windows shrinking in the rearview like I’m abandoning good decisions on purpose. The radio’s low, some host trying, and failing, to make the Valentine’s murders sound quirky. Like this is a themed segment instead of people getting carved up.
Everyone is so concerned that Cupid’s on the hunt.
Not me. If he exists, I hope he notices. I hope the heart-eyes track me through the crowd and land hard. Because honestly? What better way to get over a breakup than becoming someone else’s favorite problem.
I hope he sees me and thinks, shit… that one.
Mine.
Because if Cupid wants a target, he’d better pick someone who knows how to smile back.
I smile to myself, looking out at the city lights bleeding by.
“Tonight is going to be so fucking fun,” I say. “I want to forget his name before midnight.”
Luna whoops, Harper claps, and the driver mutters something about “kids these days” while turning the station and cranking the radio.
We speed toward the part of town where the warehouses live, where the bass never really stops, the streets get dirty, and the nights feel sharp around the edges.
Cupid's Killhouse waits somewhere ahead, pulsing red in the dark, and I’m already half in love with the idea of losing myself inside it.