I blink. “What?”
Frankie smirks. “Right. Sorry. You just give off vaguely haunted dream girl vibes.”
I stare at her. “Is that a compliment?”
“Absolutely not,” Ruby cackles from across the room, snorting as she nearly spills her drink. Laughter rings out around us—high and reckless and real.
Frankie leans in a little. “Just wondering if your dreams ever feel more like… memories. Out of order. Fractured.”
I blink. “No?”
But a chill skates down my spine anyway. My shoulders tighten. My breath catches in my throat and sticks there, a secret I don’t want to unpack. I don’t believe in magic. Not really. But there’s something about the way Frankie looks at me. Her expression holds the weight of something already known—something I haven’t let myself remember.
She nods with the ease of someone who expected that. Her gaze flickers to the candlelight. “Some truths don’t come all at once.”
What the hell does that mean?I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. But I file it away anyway. She knows something. About this place. About me, maybe.
About him.
The night spins on—chaos wrapped in soft lighting. There’s a playlist calledHot Girl Meltdown, and someone cranks it until the speakers threaten mutiny. At one point, Ruby challenges Darla to a dance-off to a remix of “Goodbye Earl” and “Bad Romance.” Frankie steals the last slice of pizza and defends it with the ferocity of a raccoon wielding a switchblade. Darla throws a pool ball at her and misses. Barely.
“I feel like I walked into a coven that drinks more than it curses,” I mutter.
“Oh, we curse,” Sloane says, eyes twinkling. “We just also make amazing cocktails.”
I didn’t expect to stay long. I thought I’d drink one thing, say one joke, and bolt. But I don’t. I end up curled into the corner of the couch in Malachi’s old hoodie, nursing a warm beer and letting the noise sink into my bones. The fabric carries his scent; soap, leather, and storm winds.
It doesn’t feel like a trap.
It feels like breathing.
Someone puts on a cover of an old acoustic ballad; one I haven’t heard in years. I used to play it in my room when I still believed music could fix things. My fingers twitch, muscle memory pulling at the ghost of my guitar. The ache isn’t just in my hands now. It’s in my throat, behind my eyes, down the length of my spine, a melody trying to claw its way free.
Without thinking, I trace a slow, silent beat against my thigh. A rhythm that used to soothe me when the world spun too fast. When silence got too loud and I needed something steady to hold on to.
Then Frankie flops down beside me, eyes knowing. “You look less murdery.”
“I’m still deciding.”
She grins. “Let me know if you need help burying anything.”
“You’re not supposed to tell people that,” Sloane calls from the bar. “At least not until after the trust fall.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. I swallow it. But it stays there. Warm. Strange. Dangerous.
Because I want to believe this is real. That they mean it. That I belong here, wrapped in laughter and mismatched blankets and too-sweet drinks. But belonging has always come with conditions, and I don’t know the rules yet.
Later, when the clubhouse empties out and the music fades to static, I realize I’m not going home. Malachi made that clear. He doesn’t want me there until they find my dad and the men he brought with him. The way he said it was low and final, with no room for debate. I didn’t argue. I just nodded.
I didn’t even flinch. Maybe that’s the scariest part.
Now the quiet settles in, collecting in corners the way dust does. The storm has passed, but the air still hums with the echo of it.
Ruby’s asleep on the couch, curled up under one of Sloane’s soft blankets, one boot still on, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes, war paint worn thin.
She’s snoring softly. I could sleep down here. I should. But even the couch feels too soft now. Too exposed. The hum of belonging is too loud and I don’t trust the way it seeps into my chest.
But my eyes drift to the staircase.
