Chapter 8
chapter eight
NOT-KADE
The first rule of being Saint Shade? Feed the machine.
I roll out of bed at sunrise, already aching from my rehearsal burns, and head straight to the kitchen. The view out my penthouse windows looks golden and dusty, the desert in full view from up here. But my focus is on the counter, where I line up breakfast like a lunatic scientist with test tubes.
Eight scrambled eggs. A mountain of oats soaked overnight in almond milk, drowned in peanut butter and a banana.
A protein shake with two scoops of whey and an ungodly amount of creatine.
And because I’m a freak, a chicken breast I meal-prepped yesterday.
At six in the morning. Because this body? It doesn’t run on vibes.
I eat in silence, scrolling my phone one-handed.
TikTok wants me to post something, the Saint Shade account a bottomless pit of thirst waiting for another hit.
I ignore it. My DMs are a swamp, half of them begging to see my face, the other half offering parts of their bodies they probably shouldn’t be putting on the internet.
But none of it makes my pulse spike anymore.
Only one person does that now. And she doesn’t even know what my real name is.
The thought is enough to make me grind my jaw as I toss back the last of the shake, slam the bottle down, and head for the gym.
The elevator opens into an impressive but, as of this morning, empty space on the second floor, slick and industrial, all mirrors and matte black flooring. It’s quiet—no influencers here taking mirror selfies, no bros screaming mid-deadlift. Just me and the iron.
I start with pull-ups, weighted with a vest strapped across my chest. My shoulders scream, veins rising like roadmaps across my arms. Then I move to kettlebell swings, the 90-pound bell arcing through the air like it wants to take my arms with it.
My grip is steel, but even steel has a breaking point, and I push until the edges blur.
Acrobatics doesn’t forgive weakness. If I can’t hold my body weight for over an hour, I could die in the middle of a stunt in front of thousands of people. Simple math.
By the time I move to handstand push-ups against the mirrored wall, sweat is running down my spine, dripping onto the mat. My reflection stares back—upside down, veins bulging, face red, hair sticking to my forehead.
This is the part of me nobody sees. Saint Shade looks effortless on stage. But behind the mask? It’s all punishment. Every rep is a reminder that failure means face-planting from thirty feet in the air.
I finish with a stretch routine most would call contortionist-level. My hamstrings shake as I fold forward, chest flat to thighs. Then I twist, joints crackling. I hate it and love it in the same breath.
Twenty minutes later, I head to the theater, ready for another ass-whooping day. The space smells like sweat, metal, and overworked wires. Which means we’re in for a good day.
Marco’s pacing a hole in the concrete, muttering math under his breath. Juno’s sitting cross-legged on the stage floor, watching me like she’s already planning my eulogy. Because I told the team I have a new trick I want to map out.
“So,” I say, unrolling the blueprint I stayed up half the night sketching, “we call it The Iron Heart.”
“Shit,” Juno mutters. “That’s already a red flag.”
I ignore her and slap the paper flat. The drawing is crude but clear—an enormous mechanical press with two curved steel plates suspended by chains. Between them: me.
“I start chained at the wrists, ankles, and throat,” I explain. “No locks. No keys. It’s all about muscle, timing, and misdirection. I’ll have about sixty seconds before the plates close in.”
“Sixty seconds until you’re Saint Shade purée,” Rafi says.
“That’s the hook.” I grin. “Every second they think I’m going to die, the tension builds. The audience feels it.”
Juno squints. “And if you don’t get free in time?”
“Then it’s the most realistic show Vegas has ever seen.”
“Fucking psycho,” she throws her wrench at me. I catch it, laughing.
“Relax. I’ll have an emergency kill switch,” I say, even though we all know I won’t. The danger is the whole damn point. I need the edge, that near-death hum that makes my veins buzz like live wires.
Marco’s shaking his head, staring at the design. “You want to wrap a ten-ton hydraulic vice around yourself while chained up in front of a live audience?”
“Yes,” I say simply. “But with style.”
He blinks at me. “Define ‘style.’”
“The plates stop a breath away from my ribs. Smoke floods the stage, lights cut. For a split second, it looks like I didn’t make it.”
“And then?”
I flip the paper, revealing the second half of the plan. “Then I reappear at the top of the silks, holding the broken chains. The illusion is that I slipped through the press and into the air itself.”
Silence.
Then Juno leans back on her hands. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’ve got a death wish, or if you just hate being bored.”
“Can’t it be both?” I say.
They laugh, but it’s nervous laughter. They know me too well. They know I need to prove I can always outthink the trap, always escape what should have killed me.
Marco sighs, rubbing his temples. “You’re going to make me gray.”
“Already there, buddy,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder.
Juno groans. “Fine. But when the Iron Heart kills you, I’m selling tickets to the funeral.”
“Make sure it’s open-casket,” I say, grinning. “It’ll be one hell of a final act.”
Five grueling hours, five brain-melting hours later, I head home. The Iron Heart is happening. And I can’t fucking wait until we show it live for the first time in six weeks.
The elevator dings and spits me into my personal cage in the sky.
I need to shower. I’ve got plans tonight.
Plans I’m damn excited for. But last night niggles at the back of my brain, and I can’t help myself.
I step into my office and boot up my computer, the glow harsh in the penthouse shadows.
Willow’s words from last night keep gnawing at me, the name screaming like an alarm bell going off in my brain: Phoenix Marrow.
I’ve heard of him—it would be hard not to.
The man’s face is plastered across ads for wellness retreats and book covers that scream about natural healing.
His TikTok clips pop up on For You Pages everywhere, slick production and honeyed words.
“The doctors have failed you. Let me teach you how to fix it. I have the secret.”
Cults wear different clothes these days. Instead of white robes and bonfires, they wear athleisure and sell you overpriced green juice and untested supplements.
I dig deep. Just for shits and giggles, I hack my way into a handful of security feeds from earlier today—old habits die hard.
I find his wellness center in an insanely expensive part of town.
I watch him arrive in a chauffeured car, bodyguard in tow.
The place is stupidly busy, people constantly coming and going, all of them looking desperate.
I scroll through the comments on his videos. They’re all worshippers, swearing this man saved their lives, cured their tumors, resurrected their sex lives, gave them a second chance.
I tug at my hair. Why him? Why is Willow so obsessed with taking him down? He’s obviously got a god-complex. He gives me the ick. But what’s he done? I can’t find a clean answer. But I feel it in every inch of my gut: Willow’s instincts are sharp. She does what she does for a reason.
And hell, I hate and love how much I admire that about her.
With a glance at the time, I curse and launch myself from my chair toward the shower. Hot water needles down my back, washing away chalk dust, gym sweat, the tang of rigging grease.
I button up a black polo and pull on some jeans. Nothing flashy tonight—Saint Shade wears flash. Kade Arden gets to play it casual. Jeans, clean boots, just enough effort to show I give a damn.
I glance at my phone. Dammit. The notifications are piling up. My manager is hounding me about posting a new Saint Shade thirst trap. Some ridiculous clip of me palming fire or doing sleight-of-hand shirtless. Normally, I’d queue one up.
But I don’t feel like it.
For the first time since I built this double life, I don’t want attention from anyone else. Not the screaming fans, not the thirsty comments, not the millions of strangers who think they own a piece of Saint Shade.
I only want hers.
How the hell did I get here? And so damn fast?
I’ve just grabbed my jacket and am about to pull the door open when my phone buzzes.
You know, it would be helpful if you told me what the hell I’m supposed to wear tonight.
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. I can see her typing that, jaw tight, probably pacing her little witchy bedroom. My thumbs fly.
Something casual. Jeans. T-shirt. Nothing that screams “arrest me.”
Three dots bubble. Disappear. Come back.
No kitten ears needed for tonight’s adventures?
I smirk, remembering the sight of her in those ears and the tail.
Dagger Kitten, you could show up wearing your special garbage bag and I’d still—
I delete the whole thing before it gets too feral. I settle for:
Just trust me. Nothing fancy needed tonight.
Which is hilarious, considering trust is the only thing keeping either of us from jail or utter ruin.
By the time I pull up outside her place, my nerves are shredded.
I’ve walked into burning rings, dangled fifty feet upside down on a single rope, swallowed fire in front of thousands—but none of that compares to parking my car in front of Willow Vale’s house and realizing she’s about to walk out the door for me.
The porch light flicks on. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight it squeaks. And then—she steps out.
Jeans. Black combat boots. A white tee tucked in with a black belt that cinches her waist. Her hair is loose, swishing down her shoulders in dark, loose locks I’d really fucking like to run my hands through.
She’s casual. Like I asked.
Deadly. Like she always is.