Chapter 17
chapter seventeen
WILLOW
If someone had told me two months ago I’d be plotting a health cult leader’s murder with a platinum-haired magician boyfriend, I’d have laughed, pulled a tarot card, and told them they were delusional. But here I am—cards on the table, knives in my boots, heart in someone else’s hands.
Phoenix knows my face. Knows my name. Knows I’ve tried to come for him. I could handle dying for my vendetta. I’ve made my peace with it that it might happen someday. It comes with the territory of becoming a serial killer.
But it’s not just me anymore. Lucky was there.
Phoenix saw him, knows he staked him out.
This wasn’t Lucky’s chosen path. He faked his own death and left his family because they were doing this kind of dangerous shit.
And now I’m dragging him back into danger.
The thought of him bleeding out on the floor because he decided I’m worth it isn’t something I can live with.
And Lucky was less than sixty seconds from killing Phoenix.
I’m not out to destroy anyone’s moral compass.
Killing might be therapeutic for me, but that doesn’t mean it’s right for everyone.
Dammit.
I’m a twisted ball of worry and overthinking.
But that’s the beautiful part of being with your perfect match. You talk through those things. You work it out.
So, we make a call: until Phoenix is at the bottom of Lake Mead, we can’t be apart. Lucky has five shows stacked back-to-back, which means we’re juggling rehearsals, crowds, his crew, and murder plans like some twisted Cirque du Soleil act. I guess this is what passes for “balance” in my life.
The plan is simple in theory: hit Phoenix at his house.
The man doesn’t know that we now have his home address.
It seems he’s never spotted my tracker. So, we go after him there, where he’s alone, knock him out so we can drag him back to my tarot shop, nail him to my oak table like a butterfly specimen, and suffocate the bastard.
My tarot cards say it’s the best plan. My gut agrees.
So, the morning after everything went sideways, Lucky and I head to my house so I can pack.
Not a go-bag, exactly. More like a “shack-up-with-your-unhinged-magician-boyfriend-until-you-kill-your-number-one-opp” bag.
Enough black jeans, shirts, underwear and eyeliner to last a week, my kill file on Phoenix, a tin of my favorite tea, a fistful of incense, and another blanket that still smells like home.
Lucky’s outside, loading my bags into the truck like he’s been moving my things his whole life.
I watch him from the doorway, the man who can vanish onstage and still somehow makes me feel more seen than anyone ever has.
And I think—no, I know: this is it. We’re in this until the bitter, bloody end.
And that’s where Iris catches me.
She stands in the kitchen doorway like she’s been waiting for me. Arms crossed, hair tucked behind one ear, wearing her crisp white button-up like she’s about to run a lab trial instead of make breakfast. Her gaze flicks over me, then the bag, then outside to Lucky.
Something shifts in her expression. Concern, but buried under that scientific detachment she wears like armor.
“You’re in deep,” she says. No question mark. Just fact.
I roll my eyes, because if I don’t keep it light, I might start crying. The last twenty-four hours have been… a lot. “I’m always in deep, Iris. That’s kind of my thing.”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s either holding back a concerned smile, or trying not to yell at me. But her voice stays flat. “This feels worse.”
It is worse. Phoenix is a different kind of predator. The kind that thrives in daylight, wearing linen and smiles. But I can’t drag her into this. For the last near decade that I’ve been doing what I do, I’ve kept my sisters innocent of it all. I have no plans to change that.
“I can handle it,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
“I know.” And she says it with such calm certainty it rattles me. She studies me for a long beat, then adds, “I just want you to be careful, Willow.”
It’s the way she says it—low, deliberate—that makes my stomach twist. Because it’s not just “don’t get hurt.
” There’s an undertone to her words, and they feel like a probing question.
Like maybe she knows there’s something darker going on, something bloodier.
But I’ll never admit it. Not if it means I can keep my sisters in plausible deniability.
Before I can answer, Iris lifts her chin toward me. “That post. The one with you and him.”
My pulse jumps. “You saw it?”
“I’m not online the way you are, but it’s kind of gone everywhere.
” She shrugs like it’s nothing, but her eyes say she’s cataloging every variable.
“I mean, it’s been obvious who Lucky is.
I mean, he gave you tickets to his show.
You texted me his picture that one night.
‘For safekeeping.’ It all clicked pretty fast. But I can’t imagine this is good publicity for him. ”
Of course it should be obvious to Iris who Lucky is. All the pieces were there. But still, it makes me nervous now that she’s said it out loud. “Lucky has some serious reasons why he keeps Saint Shade’s identity under wraps. You’re not…”
“Going to tell anyone?” she raises an eyebrow at me. “Of course not. His secret is safe with me.”
“Are we talking about Saint Shade?” a voice singsongs from down the hall.
Of course. Opal drifts in barefoot, wearing a gauzy floral dress. Her hair’s braided with little ribbons, and she’s holding a heaping bowl of cereal in one hand.
“When did you figure it out, Willow?” she asks, plopping into a chair with zero grace. “I mean, you had to be pretty excited. You drool all over your phone every time one of his videos pops up.”
Iris snorts. “She’s got you there.”
“I never drooled,” I retort, even though I probably did. It’s amazing Lucky doesn’t wake up every morning soaking wet from me panting over him. “But seriously, Opal. I need you to keep this quiet. It’s important.”
She looks up at me with those bright blue eyes, the only physical tell that we’re related. “Don’t worry, sis. We’d never spill. Not unless someone literally tortured it out of us.”
Iris deadpans, “And even then, I’d make them work for it.”
“Exactly!” Opal beams like she’s already proud of herself. “Lucky’s secret is safe with us.”
That’s when Lucky walks back in, catching just enough of the exchange to freeze in the doorway. His eyes flick from Iris to Opal to me, suspicion plain.
“You told them?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t have to. You kind of gave it away when you sent me the Saint Shade ticket and a limo and then started showing up at my house all the time.”
For a second, Lucky just stands there, and I can feel the tension rolling off him. He’s built his entire life around hiding. And now the Vale sisters have his number.
But before he can spiral, Iris says evenly, “You’re family now. Which means we protect you. Simple as that.”
Opal nods enthusiastically, pointing her spoon at him. “Yep, welcome to the madhouse. You love Willow, so we love you. No take-backs. Our lips are sealed. Promise, Lucky.”
And then, like the endcap, Grandma wanders in from the hallway. She sits directly on Lucky’s boots, tail curling around his ankle protectively. She stares up at him with unblinking eyes.
Opal grins. “See? Even Grandma has your back. You might as well change your last name to Vale now.”
Lucky blinks, floored, and for once doesn’t have a comeback. Just this raw, quiet look—like he’s realizing, maybe for the first time, what it means to be accepted.
Grandma sits on his boots, purring like she’s sealing a contract in blood, and Iris and Opal are just… waiting. They’ve already decided he’s one of theirs. The only question now is whether he can handle it.
Finally, he clears his throat. His voice comes out lower, rougher than I’ve ever heard it.
“You don’t… know what that means,” he says, looking between the two of them.
His jaw flexes, like he’s wrestling the words.
“I haven’t had anyone call me family in over a decade.
And when I did, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t… safe. Not like this.”
Opal grins like a loon, thriving on the chaos of sharing love. “Well, tough luck. You’re stuck with us now.”
Iris doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften, which is about as emotional as she gets. “Willow loves you. That’s all we need to know.”
Lucky blinks, trying to clear the emotion from his eyes.
Opal beams like it’s Christmas morning. “Breathe easy, Sainty. You have us. Willow, me, Iris. Even Grandma. We’re like a three-for-one deal.”
Iris adds quietly, “That would be a four-for-one, Opal.”
“Right,” she says with a grin.
Lucky presses his lips together, and his eyes shine. He blinks hard, then looks at me—like I’m the anchor in all this chaos—and the look just about guts me.
I’ve seen him cocky, I’ve seen him feral, I’ve seen him take down a murderous man with a grin. But this? This is Lucky cracked open, raw and grateful and so damn unguarded it makes my heart ache.
And me? I’m the oldest daughter. The protector. The one who’s supposed to carry the weight. But right now, I feel my heart swelling so fast it’s stupid. Dangerous. Like it’s going to tear me apart through my ribs.
Because sometimes I forget it’s not just me against the world. It’s us.
Lucky. Me. My sisters. Even Grandma.
We’re a family. And I’ll bleed for every single one of them.
“Thank you,” Lucky says finally. He steps forward, hugging Iris first, and then Opal. Iris just pats him awkwardly on the back. Opal spills cereal down his shirt.
“I love you both,” I say as I step forward and hug my sisters as well. “We’ve got to get going. But this will all be over soon.”
“Love you, too,” Opal says as she awkwardly hugs me with her bowl of cereal between us. Thankfully, I stay clean of her sugar rush mess. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”