Chapter 5 #2
I slide into my chair, my body taut, and sweep the deck into my hands. My fingers fit to the cards like they were carved for me. The air feels denser, thicker. I draw a deep breath.
“Fine,” I whisper. “You want to talk? Talk. What the hell do I do about this?”
The cards cut sharper tonight. They practically leap as I shuffle. My fingertips tingle, a current running through them. And then—one slaps against my wrist, another flips mid-air, the third lands face-down with a snap. My pulse spikes.
I flip the first. The Moon.
My throat tightens. Illusions. Secrets. Hidden truths that glow just faintly in the dark. The Moon never comes without mystery. But it always whispers to follow your intuition.
The second. The Lovers.
Heat floods my cheeks. Connection. Union. But also choices. Temptation. The Lovers never means easy. It means you stand at a crossroads with your heart on the line, and whichever road you take changes you forever.
The third card. The Three of Pentacles.
My breath catches. Partnership. Teamwork. Building something meaningful with an equal.
The cards are screaming the message: go. Not later. Now.
I slam my hands over the spread, staring at them like they’ve betrayed me. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The Moon. The Lovers. The Three of Pentacles. A cocktail of secrets, obsession, and propulsion. It isn’t just telling me to go—it’s dragging me there.
And the worst part? My heart agrees.
By the time I’ve trashed my closet for the fifth time, my bedroom looks like a crime scene of fabric. Black lace tangled with sequins, a trail of hangers like broken bones, a lone fishnet leg limply dangling from the bedpost like some cautionary tale.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, shoving my hair out of my face. My pulse is sprinting, my skin hot. I don’t do this. I don’t try. Not for a man. Not for anyone but myself.
Normally, getting ready means slapping on eyeliner, throwing on whatever black dress doesn’t smell like incense, and maybe—maybe—running a brush through my hair. I don’t preen. I don’t strut. I don’t care.
So why the hell am I standing in front of the mirror in a silk slip dress that clings like it wants to get me arrested, reapplying lipstick because the red wasn’t perfect the first time?
I lean closer to the glass, forcing myself to meet my own eyes. “It’s a trap,” I tell my reflection. “This is bait. This is him luring you in.”
But my lips part, painted crimson, and the voice in the back of my head whispers, And what if you want to be lured?
I grit my teeth. He saw me kill a man. He should’ve turned me in. Instead, he helped me wrap a body and wipe down blood stains like it was second nature. That should terrify me. That should have had me grabbing my go bag ten days ago and burning rubber out of Nevada.
Instead… it makes me want to know more.
Ugh.
I fix the straps of my dress and grab a pair of heels I haven’t worn in three years. They’re not practical—they’re “fuck me” heels, strappy and sharp, the kind that elongate your legs and announce your arrival with a click that says look at me.
I slip them on anyway.
And then I do the thing I hate myself for: I imagine him seeing me in this.
Not the mask. Not the shadowy Saint Shade the whole internet drools over. Kade. His green eyes, his stupidly blond hair, the tattoo I caught a flash of when he hoisted a corpse like it was nothing. I imagine his gaze dragging down my body, lingering, heating.
My chest tightens. My thighs press together.
I should hate this. I should hate him. I should be sharpening my daggers instead of my eyeliner. But the more I tell myself not to, the more my mind betrays me.
And for the first time in years, I’m not thinking about survival. I’m not thinking about blood. I’m thinking about being seen.
By him.
I press my hands to the vanity, staring at the stranger in the mirror—the silk, the slit, the lips like a tempting red flag of warning—and I realize I don’t know this version of myself.
But tonight? I think I want to.
The doorbell buzzes like a chainsaw in the quiet. I freeze mid-swipe of perfume, every nerve in my body screaming this is another omen.
I open the door to find a man in a black suit and white gloves. Behind him, a stretch limo idles at the curb, neon lights bouncing off its glossy paint.
“Willow Vale?” His voice is stiff, professional. I simply nod in affirmation. The man in black gestures politely to the limo. “Your ride, miss.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter. “What’s next, rose petals to the door?”
I tell myself this is about blackmail leverage. This is about keeping him close enough not to slit my throat metaphorically. But deep down, I know I’m full of shit.
With a sigh, I grab my tiny clutch and step into the night like I’m walking into the wolf’s den.
The limo ride is absurd. Leather seats, champagne chilling in a bucket, and me perched on the edge like Cinderella—with a concealed weapon.
Every stoplight, I consider bolting. Every turn, I imagine he’s luring me to some dungeon instead of the Strip.
And yet, when the car rolls past the main entry, straight up to a quiet, private side entrance, my pulse is wild with anticipation.
The crowd heading to the main front doors is massive, lines curling down the sidewalk, girls in sparkly dresses snapping selfies with the marquee that displays the name Saint Shade.
We park along the side of the building, and I note the innocuous door waiting.
The limo driver opens the door with a bow, and as I step out, I see eyes shifting.
Limos have a way of drawing attention. Important people ride in limos; celebrities ride in limos.
I am not an important person, but the people still stare.
I step out, silk dress hugging me like it’s starving, and I feel every eye follow as I’m led through the private entry door.
Inside, an usher leads me straight down a hall.
I can hear back noise, the sound of behind the scenes of a show about to start.
But we don’t head back there. Instead, we make a right turn, down the hallway, and then we walk out through a door at the front of the theater.
I’m escorted right to the middle, the man indicating my seat. Dead center. Front row.
I lower myself into the seat, heart thundering, hands slick. The stage is still cloaked by a heavy velvet curtain, but I swear I feel him already, lurking back there, watching me.
And the worst part?
I want him watching.