Chapter 13
chapter thirteen
WILLOW
I wake up warm.
There’s no icy pit in my stomach, no phantom hands clutching my throat, no sense of dread pressing me back under the covers. Just warmth. A steady heartbeat against my ear. The slow rise and fall of someone else’s chest beneath my cheek.
Lucky’s chest.
His arms are locked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear in my sleep. He smells like neroli and cedar and something faintly smoky, and my whole body hums with the reminder that I am not alone.
It’s the best sleep I’ve had since I was a teenager. Maybe ever.
I don’t dare move at first. I just lie there, letting myself soak it in. His body is solid, protective, like a wall against the chaos. I should feel trapped, but instead I feel… safe.
I tilt my head just enough to look at him. Lucky’s face in sleep is softer, stripped of the shadows and sarcasm. His lashes are unfairly long, his mouth relaxed instead of curved into one of those dangerous grins. He’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Not just the outside. Inside, too.
Last night, he unmasked himself for me. Brooklyn. His mob-adjacent family. The corpses. The organs. The circus. The birth of Saint Shade. And finally—the truth of his name. Lucky.
No wonder he didn’t flinch when Dusty hit the tarp. He grew up knee-deep in body bags and blood money. And instead of drowning in it, he clawed his way out, reinvented himself into something that could survive. Something dazzling.
Something mine.
The thought is wild, dangerous, unhinged. But as I look at him, as I remember every word he said, every vow in his eyes when I told him my own ugly truth, I know it’s real.
I more than like him. I might be falling in love with him.
I should be scared of that. Instead, it feels like standing in sunlight after years of dark.
I lean in, close enough to feel his breath ghost against my lips. My heart is hammering, my sarcasm nowhere to be found. I just want to taste him awake.
So, I kiss him.
At first, it’s sweet. His lips twitch under mine, like maybe his dream is upgrading into something filthy. I smile against his mouth, already imagining the smug comments I’ll make when he—
Lucky lurches awake like I’ve tasered him.
“What the fuck—!” His whole body jerks as he lurches away from me, arm flailing.
He almost knocks me straight off the bed.
Only, we’re tangled together, so my leg is caught between his, and his knee clocks me in the crotch.
I throw a hand out, gripping his forearm for dear life before he can launch me into the nightstand.
“Relax,” I hiss, half laughing, half clinging for dear life. “It’s just me, not a hitman.”
His eyes are wide, wild, green fire in the dim light. “Holy fuck, Willow—” He literally has his hand on his heart like I gave him a heart attack. “I don’t wake up with people in my bed. You scared the shit out of me.”
But I hardly hear a word he says, because that’s when I feel it.
Pressed against my leg, which is locked across his lap.
Something long. Something rock hard. Something wicked and impressive.
Morning wood.
“Well, good morning to you too, Saint Shade.” A slow grin spreads across my face.
Lucky’s eyes go twice as big, his entire face blanching.
He scrambles back against the headboard, horrified.
He snatches a pillow and tries to angle it in front of himself.
“Fucking hell. This is—this is not…” he huffs, flustered in a way I have never had the pleasure of witnessing.
“Woman,” he growls, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Relax, that is nothing to be embarrassed about.” I’m cackling now, full witch-cackle. “You just upgraded my morning. Consider this my daily tarot pull: The Upright Knight of Wands.”
He groans louder, dragging both hands down his face, muttering curses. His ears are red. His neck is red. His entire existence is red. “I was going to make you breakfast, but now? Now I’m just going to die.”
I grab at the pillow in his lap, pretending to take a peek. Lucky slaps a hand back down on it, cutting off my show. “You’re embarrassed? Lucky, half the Strip would pay for this view.”
He glares at me, but it’s ruined by how hard he’s blushing. “You’re the actual devil.”
“And you,” I shoot back, biting my lip, “are ridiculously hot, even when you’re mortified.”
“I’m making breakfast,” he announces, voice gravelly, like it’s a military decree. He scrambles out of the bed, taking the pillow with him. “I’m calling a do-over. We’re starting fresh. No more… morning incidents.”
I smirk, stretching like a cat in his bed, sheet sliding down just far enough to make him choke on his own tongue. “Incidents? That’s what we’re calling it? Because I’d label it a highlight.”
He points at me, scandalized, then immediately drops his hand because he realizes he’s pointing while still… pitching a tent. The pillow helps very little when it’s hovering a good eight inches away from his lap. “Shut up, Vale. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Normal. We’re normal.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “You and I will never be normal.”
He simply mutters curses and stalks to the kitchen.
I watch him go, admiring the way his muscles shift, lean and taut, and how ridiculously domestic he looks in the morning light spilling through the penthouse windows. Like Saint Shade just morphed into a househusband with criminal tendencies.
I clear my throat before I say something stupid like marry me. Instead, I go with, “Can I use your shower while you work your culinary magic?”
He glances back, and that grin—devilish, unhinged—spreads across his face. “Yeah. Just… don’t hex my waffle iron while you’re out of my sight.”
I raise a brow. “Waffles are sacred, I would never do such a heinous thing.”
The snort that comes out of him could cure all of my bad days.
The shower roars to life, steam filling the glass stall in seconds. I step under the spray and let it pound into me, scalding heat sinking into sore muscles. Killing a man is a lot of work, and my body is paying for it today.
But as I stand beneath the hot water, naked, just thirty feet away from the man who turns me on like no other, I brace my hands against the tile, and wait.
For the familiar weight to creep back into my chest. For Porter’s shadow to climb back onto my shoulders.
For shame to coil around my ribs, the way it always does after I get too close to any guy.
But nothing comes.
Instead, there’s… space.
I frown, water streaming down my face, steam curling in my hair.
Did saying it out loud really do that? Last night, I poured it all into Lucky’s hands—the professor, the manipulation, the years of carrying it alone.
And he didn’t recoil. He didn’t look at me like I was broken or pathetic.
He looked at me like I was still whole. Like I was more.
And now? I feel lighter. Like I finally set down a coffin I’ve been dragging through every year, every attempted relationship, every silence since I was eighteen.
It’s not gone—not entirely. Healing isn’t that clean. But for the first time, I can breathe without that weight crushing me. And that feels like a miracle.
I close my eyes, water streaming over my skin, and let myself imagine it—life where Porter’s touch doesn’t haunt every memory. Where the shame doesn’t anchor me to the past. Where I get to want things without choking on guilt.
It feels dangerous. It feels impossible.
But this also feels like the first step I’ve ever taken toward freedom.
When I finally shut off the water and towel myself dry, I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. My hair is wild and dripping, my cheeks flushed, my eyes blazing like someone lit a match inside me.
For the first time in years, I don’t look haunted.
I look alive.
When I step out of the bathroom, steam rolling after me, I’m dressed in last night’s black jeans and nothing else but my bra, because as I went to pull my shirt back on, I realized there was a smear of blood along the hem of it.
Dammit. I’m usually cleaner than that. I fold it up, careful not to let any of it flake off and land anywhere in Lucky’s home.
I leave it on the counter, committed to send it to the great blood-spattered beyond later.
Lucky is at the stove, spatula in hand. He turns at the sound of my bare feet and nearly chokes on his own tongue. His eyes catch on me—linger a beat too long—and then he drags them away, jaw flexing like he’s punishing himself for even looking.
I should tease him. I want to. But he doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, he gestures to the table where plates are already waiting. “Food’s up.”
I slip into a chair, swallowing once because words are not wording very well this morning. He sets down the plates and sits across from me.
We both pick at the food. The silence isn’t heavy—just… full. We both have a million thoughts running through our heads. It’s just a matter of who can organize them first.
Finally, Lucky exhales, and runs a hand down his face. “Last night might’ve been the best night of my life.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “You mean dragging a corpse burrito into Lake Mead or the part where I nearly lost my shit talking about my fucked-up sex drive?”
His mouth twitches, but he shakes his head. “Neither. Both. All of it. Just—being honest with someone. Finally telling someone the dark details of my life. Fuck, my real name. And not being alone in this penthouse for once. It feels like I can breathe for the first time in years.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. Because I know what that’s like. To breathe differently after carrying something for too long. We seem to be experiencing the same symptoms this morning.
I chew my lip, staring at my untouched bacon. “How do you feel about what I told you? About… not being with anyone since him? About my hang-up?”