Chapter 9 Willow
WILLOW
The mall is a living thing this time of year—warm and bright and too loud for its own good.
Lights spill from every corner, a hundred colors blinking in rhythm to the same loop of Christmas songs that follow us from store to store.
The smell of cinnamon, coffee, and fake pine oil hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the back of my throat.
We’re halfway through our list: bags dangling from Cast’s arms, his biceps flexing beneath his coat every time he shifts their weight.
He complains about the crowds but still insists on carrying everything—his version of chivalry, gruff and wordless.
My hands are wrapped around a paper cup of cocoa that’s already gone lukewarm, and I can feel the sugar clinging to my tongue.
Every shop window blurs together—silver ornaments, red scarves, “LAST MINUTE DEALS” signs that glow like neon guilt.
But I can’t focus on any of it. Not really.
Vincent’s been pacing in my head since we left the house, the image of him standing in the driveway, phone pressed to his ear, carved from cold and shadow.
He’s always carried stress like armor—measured, restrained, impossible to read—but lately it feels heavier.
Like he’s slipping behind something even we can’t reach.
Cast keeps trying to drag me out of it. He bumps my shoulder as we walk, voice cutting easily through the noise. “If I see another gingerbread candle, I’m committing arson,” he mutters, tossing another shopping bag over his shoulder.
I laugh, soft but distracted. “You say that every year.”
“And every year, I mean it.” He leans closer as we pass a kiosk full of cinnamon-sugar almonds. “Bet you twenty bucks you’re gonna buy more of those stupid reindeer pajamas.”
“First of all,” I say, bumping him back, “they’re adorable.”
He grins, flashing a dimple. “You wore them once, Willow. Once. Then you stole my hoodie for the rest of the week.”
“Your hoodie’s softer.”
“It’s stolen property.”
“Then arrest me,” I tease.
He laughs, that low, husky sound that always gets under my skin more than I want it to. For a while, it almost feels normal—light, easy, like the holidays are supposed to be.
We stop at a display of snow globes, each one a tiny world caught in glass. He picks one up, gives it a sharp shake, and watches the glitter fall. “You think he’s okay?”
My smile falters. “I don’t know,” I admit. “He doesn’t… let me in lately. It’s like he’s here, but not really.”
Cast hums in thought, setting the globe back down. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
But his voice doesn’t sound convinced, and the silence that follows says everything neither of us will.
We turn a corner, and the air changes—less peppermint, more perfume and lace. The sign over the next storefront glows blush-pink, framed with fairy lights: LUNE. The display window is all velvet and gold hangers, a mannequin in deep red satin framed by silver tinsel and strands of pearls.
I stop walking.
Cast notices instantly. “That’s not on the list, Angel.”
“I know.” My voice comes out smaller than I expect. “I was just thinking…”
He waits, patient, green eyes glinting under the soft mall lights.
“Vincent’s impossible to shop for. He has everything—watches, suits, whiskey that costs more than rent. But…” I swallow, my cheeks warming as I keep my eyes on the display, “he always loved when I dressed up. When I surprised him.”
Cast’s smirk softens into something almost tender. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, voice lower now. “He’d lose his mind over that.”
I glance at him, smiling despite myself. “You think?”
“I know.” His smirk returns, teasing but not cruel. “C’mon. Let’s find something that’ll make him forget how to breathe.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse skips. “You’re ridiculous.”
He bumps my shoulder again, his arm brushing mine. “And yet, you’re still walking in there with me.”
The moment we step through the door, the noise of the mall fades into something softer—low jazz playing from hidden speakers, the faint scent of vanilla and roses.
The lighting is warm, flattering, everything dipped in gold.
It feels intimate, secret, like the kind of place where people confess things without meaning to.
A woman behind the counter greets us with a knowing smile. “Shopping for someone special?” she asks.
Cast chuckles under his breath. “Something like that.”
I reach for the hanger almost without thinking, drawn to the shimmer of deep green tucked between the brighter reds and silvers. When I lift it free, the breath catches in my throat.
It’s emerald mesh, nearly weightless in my hands, stitched through with gold and violet thread that blooms across it like wildflowers caught in moonlight.
The embroidery climbs over the cups and along the waist in soft, tangled vines—bright petals over sheer fabric, bold against the dark green.
It’s fragile and wild all at once, like something grown in secret and meant to be touched carefully.
The bra is delicate, the kind of piece that knows exactly what it’s doing: thin satin straps that would frame more skin than they cover, gold clasps that glint like jewelry. The garter is a whisper of silk and restraint, and the thong—barely there—hangs from the hanger like a dare.
I hold it up for Cast, against my body. “What do you think?”
“Mmm,” he hums slinking forward. “I won’t know until you try it on.”
“Cast!” I giggle, rolling my eyes.
A strong hand closes around my upper arm, the grip firm but not painful. Predictable. I suppress a shiver of delight.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me, Angel?” Cast’s voice is a low, velvet rumble that goes straight to my core.
I bite my lip, the bratty persona I’d been cultivating all afternoon surging forward. I can’t help myself. “Maybe. The dressing room is right there. You can see the outfit just fine from here.”
His other hand lands on my ass with a sharp, stinging smack that makes me gasp. The sound echoes softly in the intimate boutique. Heat blossoms across my cheek, a delicious promise of what’s to come.
“The mouth on you today,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “I think you want to be punished. Do you want that, Angel?”
I bite my lip, nodding slightly and receiving a sinful smile across Cast’s beautiful face.
He grabs the hanger next to me holding a leather set out for me. “Go. Into. The dressing room. Now.”
I grab the hanger from his hand, my fingers brushing the soft, sinful green silk, and turn toward the back of the boutique where the velvet curtains sway gently in the warm air.
The attendant—pretty, flustered, all pastel lipstick and holiday nerves—spots us halfway there. “Excuse me! Only one guest per fitting room!” she calls out, her voice high and nervous.
Cast doesn’t even pause. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a roll of bills, and tosses it onto the counter without breaking stride. The money lands with a soft thud beside the register, startling her into silence.
“We’re renting it for the next two hours,” he says simply, his tone calm but final.
The attendant’s mouth opens, then shuts again. Her eyes widen as the bills register, and she manages a faint nod. “Um—enjoy your… shopping.”
Cast grins, satisfied, then turns back to me. “Go on, Angel,” he murmurs, that teasing glint back in his eyes. “Show me what we’re buying.”
The command is absolute, brooking no further argument. A thrill, sharp and electric, slices through me. This. This is what I craved.
I hear the door to the back changing rooms lock as I slip behind the heavy velvet curtain, heart racing, knowing he is waiting on the other side.
The room is small, but lit like a runway.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. I hang the ensemble on the hook and just stare at it for a moment, my breath catching.
The leather two-piece gleams in the golden light—black, sleek, and sinful.
The top is a strappy harness that crosses in a deep V over molded cups, silver rings glinting at each intersection.
The matching bottoms are high-cut and minimal, soft leather meant to cling and command.
I know Vincent normally picks out my clothes, but Cast has picked up a few tricks as well.
I’m fumbling with the clasp of my sundress when the curtain is ripped aside. Cast fills the doorway, his eyes dark with intent. My protests die in my throat. He steps inside, making the already tiny space feel minuscule, charged with his presence.
My hands tremble as I finally shuck my dress, letting it pool at my feet.
I feel intensely vulnerable under his unwavering scrutiny, every inch of my skin hyper-aware.
I reach for the bra, my movements clumsy.
He doesn’t offer to help; he just watches, a connoisseur observing an artist at work.
I fasten the clasps, the cool satin a stark contrast to my heated skin.
The cups hold my breasts perfectly, lifting them, presenting them.
The thong is next, a scant triangle of leather and lace that does little to hide me.
Finally, I attach the garter straps to the tops of my stockings, the delicate click of the fasteners sounding absurdly loud.
I turn to face him, feeling a flush spread from my chest to my cheeks. I hold my arms out slightly. “What do you think?”
He doesn’t hum or give a casual compliment. His eyes rake over me, devouring the sight, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. It’s the most potent approval I’ve ever received.
“Stunning,” he says, his voice gravelly. “But you’re not quite in position yet, are you?”
My breath hitches. I know what he wants. What I need.
He points to the floor directly in front of his boots. “On your knees. Crawl to me.”