Chapter 22 #3
Upstairs, the penthouse feels too still, too wide. It’s like the walls exhaled when my family left. The quiet is a living thing—thick, velvety, the first deep breath of peace since everything fell apart.
I walk over to the window. The city is pulsing below, endless light and promise. “I can’t believe I still got away with it. That somehow my family didn’t ruin my identity. Saint Shade still stands.”
“That might be the real miracle.”
I glance back at Willow over my shoulder, and my eyes darken. “Are you ready?”
Her lips curve into that wicked smile that makes my heart do dangerous things. “Mask. Camera. Magic.”
The air crackles between us.
For the first time since the world caught fire, we’re back in our own orbit—right back where we started. Just us. Our world. The magician and the witch.
And the internet’s about to lose its mind all over again.
It takes us fifteen minutes to get everything ready. Between the two of us, we’re practically professionals in knowing how to film a reel. We’ve got the lighting. We both pick the background. I hang the silks from the ceiling, and Willow sets up the tripod in just the right spot.
“You’re not really leaving that shirt on, are you?” Willow asks, sounding disappointed.
I walk out of my office with my Saint Shade mask in hand. I can’t help it. I’m a cocky, thirsty, horny son of a bitch. I grin. “Baby, if you want me to take my shirt off, you’ll never have to ask twice.”
I peel it off and drop it on the floor.
Willow bites her lower lip, her eyes tracing every inch of my bare skin. “That’s better,” she says shamelessly. “You ready to get into position?”
I pull my mask on and pull her in for a quick kiss through the fabric, before I grab hold of the silks and hoist myself up into the air.
Willow hits record and goes to sit at the coffee table.
She knows exactly how to position herself, how to make the dramatic red and purple lights make her look mystical and seductive.
She takes a breath, her eyes closed for just a second.
And then she lets it out, and opens her eyes to stare straight at the camera.
“The rumors have been running rampant,” she starts, her voice low and intriguing. “The picture has gone viral. The comments have been… invested. I know it’s been a long week and a half with no answers. So why don’t I answer the question everyone’s been asking?”
I shift my grip, getting ready. Willow doesn’t break character once. She stares intently into the camera, her expression turning sly.
“Why did I stop my Saint Shade series?” she starts, her tone teasing and leading, low and seductive. “Who is the man behind the mask?”
Right on cue, I descend.
The silks slide through my hands as I drop, slow and deliberate, until I slide into frame beside her. The light catches my mask, and it highlights every muscle I’ve spent half my waking hours building.
Willow grins wickedly as she cups a hand behind my head. Still dangling upside down, I lift the lower part of my mask just enough to flash my wicked smile. And then Willow pulls me in and kisses me.
It’s not frantic—it’s worship. Controlled chaos. It’s the kind of kiss that looks like a promise and a confession all at once. I reach forward, grabbing her shirt to pull her in harder. My tongue darts out, catching hers, and I bite at her lower lip.
When she breaks the kiss, a little out of breath, Willow faces the camera again. Her voice is low, sultry. “I’ll never tell,” she whispers, and draws a tarot card from her deck. The Magician. Of course.
The comments will eat this alive.
She holds the card to the camera, smirking. “Some secrets are sacred.”
I drop from the silks behind her. I slide my gloved hands around her waist, pulling her back against me, both of us still in frame. I twist her around until she’s facing me, her blue eyes meeting mine through the mask. I lower my head slightly and start walking her backward, slow, out of the shot.
Her laugh—low and dangerous—fills the room. “Guess that’s a wrap.”
We’ll cut the video right there, but for now, it keeps recording. Anything that happens to be recorded from here on out, I’ll be keeping for my own personal file for later.
But the footage we got? It’s perfect. The kind of thing that will break the internet.
Willow glances at her phone as I continue to stalk her backward toward the kitchen island. She looks back at me with that half-lidded, wicked stare that should be illegal. “I’ll edit and post it later,” she says, her voice a challenge. “But for now…”
I back her right into the edge of the kitchen island, boxing her between it and my body with my hands flat on the counter.
“Leave the mask on,” she whispers.
—
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