Chapter 10
chapter ten
NOT-KADE
Eight thousand dollars. That’s how much it costs me to spend a day listening to some blow-dried modern cult leader tell desperate people their livers can be reborn if they just drink enough organic spinach and root powder.
Eight. Fucking. Grand.
I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life.
My entire childhood was filled with chaos and literally ducking for my life.
I’ve made a career out of dangling upside down in front of five thousand tourists every night.
But paying eight grand to probably sit cross-legged on a yoga mat in a glorified spa? That’s a whole new level.
Still—I’m here. Because Willow wants this man dead. Because Phoenix Marrow is the name on her lips, the one she mutters like it’s poison. And if I’m going to help her pull it off, I need to see him with my own eyes. Need to smell the rot behind the mask.
The clinic looks like money fucked minimalism and had a love child. White stone walls that gleam like teeth. Gold lettering that spells THE PHOENIX MARROW WELLNESS INSTITUTE in a font so clean it hurts. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind that say, we’re healthy because we can afford to be.
Inside, it smells like eucalyptus and pine. It’s the kind of sterile spa scent that tries to convince you you’re being healed just by breathing. There’s a receptionist in an all-white pantsuit who beams at me like I’m a long-lost brother.
“Welcome to the institute,” she greets me, voice sugar-sweet. “How can we help you feel better today?”
I give her my fake name and fake smile.
“Welcome,” she says, sliding an iPad across the marble counter. “If you’ll just confirm your payment and sign the release forms…”
Ah yes. The paperwork that says if Phoenix accidentally kills me by shoving too much kale up my ass, my family can’t sue. Joke’s on them—I don’t have family anymore.
I scrawl the name, tap “accept,” and she ushers me down a hallway.
I take the opportunity to survey every damn inch of this place.
There are way too many cameras. Every corner, every hallway junction. And security guys—three of them in the first sixty feet. Big, beefy, black-suited, the kind you only hire if you’re guarding more than wheatgrass shots.
I keep my head tilted in that casual, curious-guest way, but my stomach is already tight. This isn’t a spa. It’s a fortress.
Why?
The hallway opens into a wide room glowing with natural light.
Floor-to-ceiling windows filter the Vegas sun into something gentler, warmer, holy.
The floor is pale wood, mats laid out in precise rows.
Fuck. I was right about the yoga mats. Eighteen other people sit waiting, most of them women in pastel yoga sets.
But there are a few men too, thin and eager-eyed.
And then there’s me. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders, black T-shirt that probably screams security detail more than wellness seeker. I adjust my expression, soften the edges, roll my shoulders loose. Pretend I’m just here to heal my energy or whatever the fuck.
Should I heal my energy? Absolutely. Is that going to happen here? Absolutely not.
I lower myself onto an empty mat in the back row. The wood floor creaks faintly under my weight. A woman two spots over gives me a shy smile, like she’s surprised to see a man my size here. I give her a polite nod and stare ahead.
Because the man of the hour is walking in.
Phoenix Marrow.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. The room stills the moment his bare feet touch the polished wood. He’s tall, lean, with golden skin and a mane of artfully mussed chestnut hair. A robe—cardigan? the color of bone drapes over his frame.
He doesn’t look like a villain. He looks like someone you’d trust with your secrets. And that’s what makes my skin crawl.
“Welcome, my friends,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’ve made the bravest choice of your lives—choosing not to settle for sickness. Choosing not to listen when the world says you’re doomed. You’ve chosen to be reborn.”
And the crowd? They melt. Some nod, some tear up, one woman presses her hands to her chest like he just announced she’s been chosen for sainthood.
I lean back on my palms and let the performance wash over me. I’ve been making a living performing for years. I know another performer when I see them. The bastard is good. Really good.
“You’ve been lied to,” Phoenix says, voice low and honeyed. “Since the day you were born. Lied to by doctors. Lied to by the government. Lied to by industries that profit from your suffering. They tell you you’re broken so they can sell you their poisons, so they can rob your wallet.”
Dude. I paid eight grand to sit here for a few hours…
A woman near me actually wipes a tear from her cheek.
Phoenix lifts his arms, palms open like he’s blessing the crowd. “But you are not broken. You were designed with perfection. Every cell in your body is a miracle. You do not need their knives, their chemicals, their toxins. You need only yourself.”
Damn. If I didn’t have some kind of inkling of what he was, I might believe him, too. He’s smooth, measured, practiced. He sells empowerment wrapped in rebellion, and it’s catnip for people who feel helpless.
And fuck, I don’t think he’s entirely wrong.
“Close your eyes,” Phoenix instructs. “Breathe with me. In through the nose, four counts. Hold. Out through the mouth, slow, eight counts. Again.”
The room fills with synchronized inhales and exhales. Phoenix slowly walks up and down the aisles, watching all of us. His voice dips into a lull, like a hypnotist.
“With every breath in, you draw life. With every breath out, you release pain, sickness, fear. Your body is holy. Your womb is holy. Your blood is holy. You do not need their interference. You need trust. Trust in yourself. Trust in me. Trust in the process.”
My chest tightens. That last part wasn’t accidental. Slip his name into the mantra, and now they’re breathing him in, breathing him out. Binding his damn name to their lungs.
I crack one eye open. Around me, people look blissed out, faces slack, hands on hearts.
One man is trembling like he’s about to faint from spiritual rapture.
The reality is, he’s probably shaking from pain.
There’s a reason people come to Phoenix.
They’re sick. They have ailments. There really are things wrong with their bodies.
My eyes are supposed to be closed, but I have to know, I have to see.
So, with my head tilted down, I look up from beneath my eyelashes and watch as the guru walks around the room.
Phoenix crouches beside a young brunette who can’t be older than nineteen.
His hand settles on her shoulder. His thumb drags once, deliberate.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. She looks like she might cry from the privilege of being touched.
But his touch lingers. Too long. Way too damn long to be professional.
There it is. The rot under the robes.
That didn’t take long.
My stomach flips. I force my eyes closed before his catch mine. If he sees me watching, I blow my cover. And I can’t risk Willow’s shot at this.
“Visualize it,” Phoenix croons. “The tumors dissolving. The scars fading. The toxins leaching out of your pores. See yourself reborn. See yourself divine.” His footsteps pad around the room as he walks among us.
“Feel the ground beneath you. This earth has held you since the day you were born. She has always wanted you to heal. You have always had the power.”
The room hums with agreement, like a congregation murmuring amen.
“Now,” Phoenix says, “inhale, four counts. Hold. Exhale, eight counts. Do not resist. Do not fight. Surrender. Let the breath flow through you.”
The collective air in the room moves in waves—inhale, hold, exhale. Dozens of bodies pulling oxygen in sync, as if he’s timing their heartbeats with his. I keep pace, because not blending in isn’t an option, but my brain is screaming that this is mass conditioning.
“See the sickness leaving you,” Phoenix continues. “See the pain bleeding away. See your womb glowing. Your blood purifying. See the chains doctors placed on you falling away.”
I crack an eye open again. Phoenix glides between the mats, barefoot and silent.
He stops near a tall woman with a scarf tied around her head—chemo patient, if I had to guess.
She looks like she’s praying. Phoenix bends low, his fingers brushing her cheek.
Too long. Too intimate. His thumb trails down to the hollow of her throat, a gesture that might almost look paternal to anyone desperate to believe—but my stomach knots.
That wasn’t a blessing. That was a test. A grooming move.
He moves on. Stops near another girl who has to be barely old enough to order a drink. She breathes heavy under his gaze, chest rising like she wants to please him. His eyes stay pinned there. Too long.
My lungs strain against the rhythm. Four in, hold, eight out. Instead of searching for healing and serenity, I picture my fist breaking his nose.
But Phoenix smiles, straightens, and addresses the whole room. “You are divine. You do not need their machines or their pills. You need trust. Trust in your body. Trust in your blood. Trust in me.”
That lands like a hammer. I don’t have to look around to know what’s happening—I can feel it. The crowd inhales his words like scripture. Some of them are crying. Some of them are trembling. One man whispers, “Yes, yes,” like he’s been waiting all his life to be told this.
This doesn’t happen to just everyone walking through these doors.
These people have been following Phoenix online for some time.
You have to warm people up to believing to this extent.
It’s the whole frog in boiling water thing.
You can’t just toss them in, or they’ll jump right out.
These people have been slowly pre-heated.