Chapter 5
chapter five
WILLOW
Ten days. Damn, these have been the longest days of my existence since my life went completely off-script, and I’ve spent every one of those days waiting for the sound of sirens outside my window.
My go bag has been practically glued to my hip.
I take it with me everywhere—work, errands, even when I shower it sits in the bathroom doorway, staring me down like a lifeline.
The thought’s crossed my mind more than once: just grab it, disappear, and make a new life somewhere where Saint Shade doesn’t exist and Kade Arden doesn’t know you kill men.
But I haven’t. Because so far, Kade Arden (ugh, even thinking it makes me scowl, that is so not his name)—hasn’t turned me in.
Which is… insane.
I cleaned like my life depended on it—because it did.
I went back to the dump spot two days later.
Checked the water, checked the rocks, checked for anything that might float back up.
Nothing. My truck bed got bleached until my nose burned.
My shop got stripped of any trace of my extracurricular activities.
No tarp, no special trophy tarot deck, no daggers, nothing.
Just incense smoke and velvet cloth, perfectly witchy, perfectly innocent.
The oak table might be saturated with the DNA evidence of over a dozen men, but that’s between me and whatever forensic lab has the misfortune of one day sawing into it.
And just in case, I filmed a draft on TikTok.
One where I look the camera dead in the eye and say, “Saint Shade’s real name is Kade Arden.
He’s blond, and for some reason, he’s good at murder clean up.
” I haven’t posted it, of course. But it’s there, waiting, like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. If he turns me in, I’ll post it.
Mutual destruction.
And yet… I keep replaying the way he looked at me. Not horrified. Not disgusted. Just… fascinated. Which is how I keep ending up in these mental spirals at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it feels less like blackmail and more like foreplay.
And that’s the worst part—I can’t stop thinking about him.
Not Saint Shade, the masked phantom the internet thirsts over.
Kade. The real him. He’s hotter than I ever let myself imagine while I was busy leaving dirty comments on his videos.
He’s magnetic in a way I can’t explain. He’s also infuriating.
Because Kade Arden doesn’t exist. I’ve searched the name.
Everywhere. It’s like trying to find a ghost. The only thing I haven’t done is upload his picture—the one I snapped behind my shop that night.
I could reverse-search it in seconds, though it’s not going to be as good as using a facial recognition scanner; I just don’t have access to that level of shit.
But he looked genuinely scared of being exposed, and somehow… I couldn’t do it.
So instead, I’ve been obsessing, imagining, replaying. And I hate myself for it.
“Are you watching him again?”
Opal’s voice jolts me out of my spiral. I glance up from my phone to find her floating through the living room like a forest nymph who wandered into the wrong city.
Which would be normal—except she’s topless.
Again. A flowing green skirt swishes around her hips, her hair dripping down to her waist in golden waves. But she wears no shirt. None.
“Opal,” I groan. “Put a bra on, for the love of the moon. Or at least some pasties. I am your sister, and I should not know about the freckles that half circle your left tit.”
She glances down at herself, then shrugs. “Boobs are natural, Willow. You should try freeing yours sometime. The world would be a happier place.”
“Pretty sure TikTok would ban me.”
Opal flops onto the couch beside me, completely unfazed.
The cat, who lies on the opposite side of the couch, lifts her head in annoyance, glaring at Opal for disturbing her sleep.
“The way you’ve been staring at that brain rot device isn’t good for you.
You know you’re going to eat your lip like a cannibal if you keep chewing it like that. ”
“I am not self-cannibalizing,” I say with a glare. But I realize I am in fact biting my lip, and dammit, it is in fact sore.
Opal just smiles that goofy, half-high smile of hers. “What’s got you so worked up? Don’t tell me it’s just a card shuffle kink.”
I snap the phone out of her sight and glare. “It’s not a kink.”
“Hmm,” she hums doubtfully, eyes sparkling. “Nothing gets you worked up like this. Thanks for confirming. Our Willow met her online fantasy, and she likes him.”
Oh, fuck. Am I this obvious? If Opal of all people has figured me out, I’m screwed.
“I didn’t meet anyone,” I shoot back. Too fast.
That earns me a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been humming all week, acting like the cult is coming to drag you back, glaring at your phone like it owes you money… So, is he nice? Is he hot under that mask? Does he have a nice cock?”
“Opal!” I screech, one-thousand percent horrified at my baby sister.
“You’re such a prude,” she simply teases me, loving every second of getting under my skin.
Before I can respond, Iris’ voice drifts from the kitchen, where she’s perched in her crisp black-and-white outfit, laptop open, fingers tapping at lightning speed at the island. “She’s not wrong, Will. You’ve been acting… erratic.”
I whip my head toward her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Iris says without looking up. “But I’m also on the side of facts. You’ve been weird.”
“Have not,” I grumble as I sink deeper into the couch, clutching my phone to my chest. I should feel cornered. Instead, warmth seeps through me. This is what it’s like being a Vale sister. Banter, teasing, blunt truths, and unconditional love wrapped in chaos.
And right now, I’m balancing it all while hiding the fact that the man they think I maybe met watched me commit murder last week—and I can’t stop thinking about him.
I just about jump out of my skin when there’s suddenly a knock at the door.
All three of us freeze. Iris looks up from her laptop, fingers pausing mid-keystroke. Opal blinks, pendulum dangling in one hand, boobs still completely unbothered by gravity or social convention.
“Are we expecting anyone?” I ask, already standing. My voice sounds a little too high.
Opal shakes her head. “I don’t have any plans.”
“DoorDash?” Iris suggests, though she looks skeptical.
I shake my head. “Didn’t order anything.”
The knock comes again. Three raps, evenly spaced.
I cross the room, pulse in my throat, and open the door just enough to see. A man stands there in a dark suit, holding a slim black envelope. He doesn’t say anything—just extends it to me like he’s delivering a subpoena.
My stomach flips.
“Willow Vale?” he asks. His voice is flat, professional.
“Uh…” I glance behind me at my sisters, who are watching me with big, huge eyes like we’re nine years old and the boogieman has come to the door. “Yeah?”
He places the envelope in my hand, gives me a nod, and leaves without another word. No explanation. Just leaves.
The second the door clicks shut, Opal squeals. “Willow, what if it’s a hex? Who just delivers a black envelope without saying anything?!”
The paper is thick, expensive feeling.
Iris narrows her eyes. “I’d say you were just served with papers, but I’m pretty sure they have to say ‘you’ve been served.’”
“Black paper though, Iris,” Opal says, eying the envelope like it’s a bomb.
I let out a breath. It’s not an arrest warrant; they would have just taken me away. And that guy was wearing a suit, not a uniform. Telling myself to chill the hell out, I slip my finger under the flap, tearing it open. Inside is a single piece of cardstock, black with gold ink.
It’s a ticket.
For tonight.
For Saint Shade.
Front row. And the show starts in two hours.
My pulse goes haywire.
“Ohhhhhh, my Artemis!” Opal shrieks, snatching the ticket from my hand before I can stop her.
She clutches it to her chest like it’s Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.
“This is it! This is him. I knew it! Fucking Saint Shade?! He invited you to his show? This is basically a marriage proposal in Vegas language.”
“Opal, it’s a show,” Iris says as she peers over my shoulder at the gold lettering. “But it’s not nothing. Front row isn’t cheap. Seems you’re not the only obsessed one, Will.”
“Holy hell, sis—you’ve got him hooked,” Opal grins wickedly, her eyes absolutely gleaming. “He’s like… mysterious-hot. Masked sex appeal. And he picked you.”
I snatch the ticket back, heart hammering. The words blur slightly, like they’re seared into my retinas. He knows where I live. Of course he does. The man’s been stalking me, just like I’ve been stalking him. Mutual obsession. Mutual blackmail.
This is dangerous. Stupid. Exactly the kind of reckless move I should run screaming from.
But my tarot cards are practically howling from my room down the hall. I swear I can feel them vibrating, alive, demanding I listen.
“I need to—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I need to think.”
Opal pouts. “What’s there to think about? Go put on a killer dress and melt his mask right off.”
Iris arches a brow. “Or stay home and don’t walk directly into a trap?”
Their voices fade as I march past them, clutching the ticket like it’s a live wire. My bedroom door slams behind me, cutting off their arguing.
I lean against it, heart still racing, the ticket burning in my palm.
The cards whisper from the table, louder and louder, and I already know what they’re going to say when I snatch them from the table.
They’re humming. Not literally—no flutter of sound, no vibration—but I feel them in my chest, in my bones.
Like a storm building pressure, pushing against my skin until I can’t stand it.