Chapter 14
chapter fourteen
LUCKY
I don’t want to do this. Not tonight. Not after the most blissful, fucking perfect week of my life.
Not since my entire world tilted on its axis and I woke up with Willow in my arms. And then again, the night after.
And every perfect day since the woman I’ve waited my whole damn life for declared me hers.
But Vienna’s been on my ass. My manager’s been throwing a fit that I’m not “feeding the algorithm.” And the comments under my last few videos have been turning suspicious.
Why so few uploads? And why did @valetarot stop her Saint Shade series?
They’ve most definitely noticed the correlated timing.
So here I am, rigging the damn harness in my living room, setting up the tripod, pulling on my Saint Shade mask, and hitting record.
The room is silent when I climb into the silks. Neon Vegas glow seeps through the glass walls as I dangle upside down, abs flexing, a deck of cards at the ready.
Shuffle. Snap. The cards scatter into the air, but only briefly. My other hand plucks one clean from the mess. A queen.
The others? They never hit the ground. They vanish mid-air.
Smoke trick. Sleight. Mirrors. The comments will go insane dissecting it.
I let go with my feet, hanging from the ceiling with just one hand clutching the silks. I then pull a silver coin seemingly out of my mouth, letting it drop down my chest. It disappears into the waistband of my pants—which will be the part that makes the fangirls pause, replay, thirst-comment.
I hate this right now.
But then I picture her. Willow. Watching later, rolling her eyes, muttering, You ridiculous bastard while secretly smirking. And suddenly my movements sharpen. My showmanship slides back on like a glove.
I fan the remaining cards, then snap them into sparks. I hoist myself up, doing a roll up into the silks that makes my muscles burn. All before doing a dangerous unravel. I land on my knees, spreading them wide. Closer now to the camera. I know what they want—what she’ll notice.
I hook my thumb under the lower part of my mask and lift. Flash of teeth as I smile. Quick swipe of the tongue across them, feral and cocky, before the mask snaps back into place.
Video ends.
I get back to my feet, panting slightly. My body thrums with adrenaline, though not from the trick. It’s one hundred percent from the thought of Willow watching everything I just did.
I put everything away. The silks. The cards.
The mirrors. The smoke machine. The lights.
I’ve got half a damn stage set up in the closet of my guest bedroom.
Finally, I pluck Hattie from her cage, cradling my little princess to my chest, and I crash down into the couch with my phone in my other hand.
I do a quick edit to the footage I just recorded.
Cut the angles tight, overlay a dark, pulsing track, add a caption:
It’s all about the queen.
It’s the card I plucked. But Willow will know. It’s all about her. My Dagger Kitten queen.
I hit post. There. That ought to appease the masses and get them off my back for a few days. I’ll need to tell Bianca to record some footage at the show tomorrow. It isn’t as much shirtless flaunting as the feral TikTok consumers want, but at least I won’t have to go to all this extra effort.
“Mommy should be the only one who gets the skin now,” I coo to the rabbit as I scratch her cheeks. Her little nose twitches, and she blinks at me like she’s listening. “At least if I had a say in it.”
She climbs up my chest, headbutting her furry little head into my chin. I may have only had this ball of fluff for a week, but she’s my child now, the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.
With a kiss, I put her back in her ridiculously large enclosure. For a second, I debate just bringing her with me, but who the hell brings their pet rabbit to Thanksgiving dinner when you’re meeting your girlfriend’s family?
I’m unhinged, but that would be a little too weird, even for me.
I wander into my walk-in closet and set my phone on the bathroom counter as I pass through. I survey the options hanging, debating what the hell to wear for tonight’s adventure. I settle on a black button-up, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows.
But just after I pull some jeans on, the screen of my phone lights up and it dings.
I only have one kind of notification like that set up. I cross the space in two long strides and snatch my phone from the counter.
@valetarot:
bet you could make other things disappear as good as those cards. How about cotton and underwire?
My grin is instant. I’m going to this dinner looking like a lunatic.
I should not be this feral over one line of text. But fuck, how about cotton and underwire? I might combust before I even make it to her front door.
I look back in the mirrors, adjusting my collar like it matters. Truth is, I’ve got zero idea what people wear to meet the family. I’ve never done this before. Not once. Not even close.
Most guys dread this kind of thing because they think the family is going to grill them.
Me? I’m half-expecting a firing squad. Or to be pressured into a blood oath.
Maybe both. My stomach twists. I’ve fought men twice my size, faked my own death, faced down mob bosses. But tonight? Tonight feels bigger.
Because it’s her.
And because I’ve seen that house dozens of times from the outside. Parked down the block, watching the lights, wondering what it’d be like to belong to the world inside. Now I’m about to walk in the front door.
My phone buzzes. Notifications explode under the TikTok post. I don’t even check them. There’s only one comment that matters, and I’ve already memorized it. I stuff the device into my back pocket and take one last look in the mirror. Presentable. Still me. But fuck, my grin looks unhinged.
“Calm the hell down,” I mutter to my reflection.
The reflection doesn’t listen. It just looks at me like it knows just how gone I am.
I grab the pumpkin pie that I made and head to my car.
Yes. I made a pumpkin pie. From scratch.
I didn’t even put any protein powder in it.
It’s been a hot minute since I cooked anything that wasn’t purely to feed the machine that is my body, but I can cook.
If there’s a time to prove it, it’s on Thanksgiving Day.
The drive to her house only takes a few minutes, but my heart gives me an entire workout in that span of time.
I hope I’m not drenched in sweat by the time I park at the curb and climb out.
I’m wondering what the hell is wrong with me as I walk up the sidewalk.
Since when am I this un-cool? I perform in front of thousands of people every night, but meeting the family of my girlfriend? I’m about to crack.
But as I step onto the front porch, the door opens, and suddenly, I can breathe again.
Willow stands there like she’s been waiting her whole life just to knock the air out of me.
Her grin is feral and bright, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, blue eyes brighter than the Strip behind her.
Before I can say a word, she’s on me—hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me into a kiss.
She damn near knocks the pie out of my hands.
My entire body goes still. My mind stops. My chest stops. Everything that’s been spinning since the day I faked my own death just… grounds.
She tastes like tea and danger, like chaos disguised as comfort.
Her mouth is soft, but the kiss has teeth—like she’s reminding me she’s not safe, and I’m not safe, but somehow together we are.
She is gravity. My axis. My true north. For the first time in years, I feel anchored to something that isn’t survival.
When she pulls back, I realize I’ve been clutching her waist with my free hand like if I let go, I’ll fly apart. She laughs softly against my mouth, and it’s the kind of sound that stitches you back together.
“I missed you,” she confesses.
“It’s only been a day and a half,” I tease her, even though I’ve felt every minute of it, too.
“Don’t remind me. Come in,” she says, tugging at my sleeve like she owns me already. Because she does.
I step inside and don’t know exactly where to look.
From the outside, I’ve seen this house so many times. I’ve parked down the block, watched the windows glow, tried to imagine what lived in there. But it’s everything and nothing like I expected, all at the same time.
It smells like beeswax and sage, smoke and something sweet.
There are plants in mismatched pots crowding the windowsills, some thriving, some half-dead but stubborn.
Crystals sit in little clusters on shelves, jars of herbs line a crooked bookcase with labels scribbled in black ink.
Tarot and oracle decks are scattered like half-finished conversations across the coffee table.
A black cat statue guards one corner, and in another, a stack of shoes forms what I’m ninety percent sure is an altar to chaos.
It shouldn’t make sense. But it does. It’s alive. Messy and witchy and sharp-edged. It’s her.
I’ve spent years living in a penthouse that’s all glass and silence, a fortress meant to hide me. But this house hums. Like it’s breathing. Like it’s welcoming me in even as it sizes me up.
Willow beams at me, wicked and warm, like she knows I’m seeing her world for the first time. “Don’t look so shocked,” she teases, tugging me further inside. “What were you expecting?”
I shake my head, still floored, still grounded by the taste of her kiss. There, on a shelf, I spot what looks dangerously like a human femur bone. “This,” I murmur. “Exactly this.”
“This way,” Willow drags me through the living room, and I catch movement in the dining room.