Chapter 2
The Bride
September
T he bass vibrates through the soles of my feet, traveling up my legs like an electric current as I twirl and move my hips in time with the music.
It’s almost midnight on a Thursday, and instead of being in bed like a good girl, I’m clubbing with Shelby. Instead of being dressed in something stitched together with control and restraint, I’m wearing a dress that reveals more than it conceals.
One thing I can say for certain is I don’t miss my old life. Not one bit.
I didn’t choose to leave my practice, the business I never picked for myself. But I had no other choice when my old landlord unexpectedly terminated my lease the first week of March.
The bastard didn’t give me any warning and didn’t even do it in person. I just received a cold, one-paragraph notice citing building restructuring.
After a week of trying to get his attention by call, email, and even one unsuccessful trip to his office, I gave up. Apparently, that’s what two ye ars of never causing problems and always paying my rent on time was worth.
I used to believe structure made things safe. That if you stayed inside the lines long enough, the chaos would pass you by. But chaos doesn’t knock. It slips under the door like smoke. It poisons the air you’ve convinced yourself is clean.
But even now, over six months later, I don’t know why I was evicted. Only that I suddenly had to pack up, cancel sessions, and tell my receptionist that we’d figure it out.
It took me over a month to realize the opportunity I had been given, that I didn’t have to go back to a life I didn’t want. Thanks to Shelby’s constant push, I finally turned my back on the profession I never chose.
The brilliant, ruthless, and overcontrolling Charles Mortis, aka Dad, forced me into the life I’ve now abandoned. A life I’m now free of.
Freedom tastes like the bitter sweetness of my third cocktail and the knowledge that no one here knows Dr. Eve Mortis, the composed psychiatrist who specialized in violent offenders.
They only see a woman on the edge of something dangerous, and I’m loving my newfound freedom.
“Fucking hell, Eve!” Shelby shouts over the pulsing music, her blue eyes bright with mischief. “That guy at the bar hasn’t taken his eyes off you for twenty minutes.”
I glance over my shoulder, catching the gaze of a dark-haired man in an expensive suit. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet, so I give him the smallest quirk of my lips, neither an invitation nor a dismissal, before turning back to Shelby.
“Let him look,” I laugh, pleased by the attention. It’s a novel feeling, being desired for nothing more than how I look.
It’s shallow, but after living a lifetime where my brain was all that mattered, it’s nice to be wanted by someone who might not care about my thoughts at all. Someone who looks like he could wreck me just because he feels like it.
Shelby cackles, grabbing my hand and pulling me deeper into the crowd. “Dance with me instead, then,” she demands, and I let her guide me.
We move together, our bodies close. Shelby throws her head back, light brown hair catching the strobing lights as she moves with abandon. I follow her lead, feeling something loosen in my chest—a tightness I’ve carried for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
When the song ends, Shelby and I retreat to our table in the VIP section. Two fresh cocktails await us—hers electric blue, mine a deep orange that matches the freshly dyed lower half of my hair.
“To freedom,” Shelby announces, clinking her glass against mine.
“To choosing our own chains,” I counter, and we both drink.
Shelby sets her glass down, studying me with the penetrating gaze that makes her such a formidable attorney. “Do you miss it? Being a psychiatrist?”
I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip, considering. “No,” I say finally, and I’m surprised by how true it is. “I don’t miss the weight of other people’s darkness.”
She nods. “I totally get it.” And I know she does.
Shelby spends her days defending people who are most definitely guilty, getting them out on technicalities and negotiating deals. Like me, she has to close her eyes to her clients’ crimes.
“I miss you at those boss-bitch seminars, though,” she says. “Plus, let’s be honest. You were a fucking terrific therapist.”
Taking another sip of my drink, I smirk. “It’s too late to sweet-talk me now, Shel. I’m retired at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.”
She laughs loudly.
I take another sip, the alcohol burns pleasantly, loosening my tongue.
“Look, I was good at listening to monsters and nodding in all the right places. I was good at pretending their depravity was just another clinical puzzle to solve.” My voice turns bitter without my permission.
“What I wasn’t good at was stopping them. ”
Even though it’s been seven months since Jack came to see me in my clinic, I still hear his words. The accusations. And despite trying my best, I can’t stop wondering if he was right.
Should I have stopped Valentine? Could I have? No, I don’t think I could have. He was the Hunter of NYC, and Ruby was both his prey and… well, he loved her. I know he did. But as easy as it is to blame Valentin e for how things went down, she wasn’t completely innocent.
She played her role and accepted the outcome. I get why Jack is—or was—bitter. But there’s no rewriting history.
Shelby reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “You can’t save everyone.”
I snort. “Obviously…” I want to say more, but I trail off as my phone vibrates in my clutch. “Shit,” I mutter as I pull the device out.
The screen flashes with Caleb’s name, showing me three stacked messages. The last one is less than twenty seconds old.
Caleb: I didn’t know you had plans with Shelby tonight.
Caleb: Stop letting strangers grope you.
Caleb: You didn’t say you were getting drunk, Eve. Now I have to take care of this by myself *winky face*
Before I finish reading, a dick-pic joins the thread.
We’re not serious enough for it to be okay that he checks in this much. It’s not that his texts are threatening, more like little reminders. Ways to tell me he knows where I am and what I’m doing.
And I can’t help but wonder how the hell he always seems to know, down to the minute, exactly where I’m at and what I’m doing.
The part of me that hates being controlled bristles, but the part I’ve only really been able to let out around him, thrills at the attention. Sighing, I leave him on read, refusing to let him end my night out.
Shelby catches my expression. “Boyfriend check-in?” she teases, her tone edged with something sharp. “Honestly, Eve, you should be happy. Most women would kill for a guy like Caleb keeping tabs. He’s hot, dangerous, and obsessed with you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snort, focusing on the first part of her tirade while locking the screen. My thumb lingers over it longer than it needs to. “But yeah, he’s checking in.”
She smirks, eyes glinting. “Don’t screw it up, Eve. Guys like Caleb don’t come around twice. He’s exactly your type of reckless. You should lean i nto it.”
Her words land wrong, feeling extremely pushy. I narrow my eyes, but when Shel doesn’t even blink, I let it slide. I’m probably reading her wrong, and I blame the alcohol for making me oversensitive.
“Yes ma’am,” I mutter, aiming for light but hearing the edge in my own voice.
Leaning closer, she lowers her tone. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it. A man that into you? I’ve seen your taste, Eve. You thrive on the kind of attention that borders on unhealthy.”
She’s not wrong, and that’s the part that bothers me. In my head, this is exactly what I want. Reality is an entirely different matter, one where Caleb’s way too much.
“I swear he has a magic dick,” I laugh, though what I don’t say is that it’s more than that — the way he takes without asking, the way he fucks like I’m there to be used. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.
“That good?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“You have no idea,” I say, my tone sultry. I fan myself exaggeratedly. “That man definitely knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, damn,” she cackles.
“Let’s just say that it’s people like Caleb that make it hard to argue why we shouldn’t be allowed to fuck our clients,” I smirk. “He’s the right amount of arrogant, and reckless. He’s exactly the kind of mistake I can’t resist.”
“Lucky bitch,” Shelby groans, draining her cocktail. “I need to get laid. It’s been seven months, Eve. Seven. Months.”
“Poor baby,” I tease. “Does this mean you’re over your ex?”
She sniffs. “I’ll never be over him. But I guess I’m ready to move on to some meaningless sex.”
“And here I thought your plan was to save yourself for the Sanctuary of Shadows. You know, for your future demon husband or whatever.”
Her eyes light up at the mention of the upcoming Halloween event. “Speaking of which, I got confirmation we’ll have our VIP tickets.”
The law firm she works at has handled some of the complex liability waivers, NDAs, and contracts for the organizers. While she either doesn’t know much, or can’t share what she does know, she did score us VIP ac cess.
“Yes,” I exclaim, shimmying my shoulders. “I can’t wait.”
“God, I hope they choose me as a Bride,” Shelby says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you know the Brides get a private experience? Something exclusive, just for them.”
“Only you would be excited about being sacrificed to fictional demons,” I laugh, but there’s an answering thrill in my blood.
Everyone in New York has heard about the Sanctuary of Shadows, the notorious Halloween event on Governors Island. But no one really seems to know exactly what it is. A carnival, a theater, or something else entirely.
Those who know are keeping tightlipped, including my best friend. I know she knows more than she’s letting on. But since I know all too well how complicated client/patient confidentiality can be, I don’t push her.
“Whatever,” she sighs. “If only you knew… well, never mind.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Alright, stop the dramatics, Shel.” When she pouts, I laugh, and signal the waiter to get us more drinks. “Okay, spill it. What are you so eager to tell even though you can’t?”
“Well,” she sing-songs, waggling her eyebrows. “I’m not one to talk—”
“Right,” I snort.
“But from what I know, it’s going to be unforgettable. Like, some seriously epic shit.” She tilts her head to the side, expression suddenly serious. “Maybe you shouldn’t go, Eve. The Knights aren’t exactly your friends. They’re not anyone’s friends.”
I wave her off. “It’s only one Knight who hates me.” At least as far as I know.
“Sure, sure,” she rushes out. “Forget I said anything.”
Two hours and several drinks later, we stumble out of the club, my arm looped through Shelby’s for stability. The cool September air hits my flushed skin, and I inhale deeply, trying to clear the alcohol haze from my head.
“Wanna share a ride?” she asks, fumbling with her phone.
I nod, but as I turn to look down the street, something catches my eye. A figure stands in the shadows between buildings—tall, hulking, and utterly still.
They wear what looks like a gas mask, and even from this distance, I can feel their gaze locked on me.
I blink, and they’re gone.
“Eve? You okay?” Shelby’s voice pulls me back.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “Just thought I saw something weird.”
A car pulls up next to us, and Shelby announces it’s our ride. As I slide into the backseat, I glance once more at the spot where the figure stood. Nothing but empty shadows now.
Closing the door, I tell myself it was just the alcohol playing tricks on my eyes. After all, this is the Bronx and not Manhattan. Which means a guy casually wearing a gas mask would definitely stand out and gain attention from more people than just me.
Since I live the closest, I get out first, and after hugging Shel goodnight, I stumble into the apartment complex I live in.
I almost fall asleep while riding the elevator to my floor, and when I do get out, I almost get into a fight with my keys that act like they get a prize if they avoid the keyhole long enough.
“You. Will. Get. In. There,” I hiss. The jangle of my keys sounds like a mocking laugh.
The hallway tilts slightly, and I brace one hand against the doorframe, steadying myself with a quiet laugh. This is what freedom looks like, I think as I finally manage to unlock my door—messy, imperfect, and deliciously uncontrolled.
My apartment is dark except for the single lamp I left on, casting long shadows across my furniture. I kick off my heels with a satisfied groan, letting them land where they may instead of placing them neatly in the closet as the old Eve would have done.
I pad barefoot to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water that I down in greedy gulps. The cool liquid helps clear my head, though the room still wobbles pleasantly at the edges.
A sharp knock cuts through my thoughts.