Willow hasn’t said one word about Saint Shade since Halloween. Not a single card-pull about who’s behind the mask.
At first, I felt relief. Like dodging a guillotine by a hair’s breadth. But the longer her silence stretches, the heavier it feels. Relief curdles into disappointment, and I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, because it feels like she’s ghosted me. Which is insane—she doesn’t even know me. Not really. Notbeyond the man in the mask and the freak that helped her clean blood off the floor.
But I can’t get the damn woman off my mind. I just keep replaying it, over and over. The smirk she wore just before her daggers slid clean through that guy’s palms. The blood. Her calm, steady hands.
You’d think watching her kill a man would be the thing to finally put me off her. The thing that would snap my unhinged obsession.
Something is wrong with me. Fundamentally wrong. Because instead of making me run, it’s gasoline on the fire.
And what does that say about me? That I watched a woman commit cold-blooded murder, and instead of reporting her, I wanted to applaud?
I scrub my palms over my face, groaning into the empty room. The silence in my penthouse gnaws at me. Even with the Strip glowing outside my windows like a damn carnival, it feels too quiet. Too sterile. Too much space for my thoughts to ricochet.
I should let it go. I should delete the app, go train, rehearse, drink, do literally anything else.
But instead, I’m back on her profile, scrolling through her videos like a man possessed. Her smirk, her laugh, the sharpness of her words when she reads the cards. She looks like sin wrapped in black velvet.
And she hasn’t posted about me in a week.
Why does that feel like punishment? It’s exactly what I asked—no,beggedher to do. It was always my downfall. I’ve always craved attention. And I may be an addict, because I hate that I cut Willow’s unhinged thirst comments and curiosity. It’s left me fucking starving.
The next afternoon, I’m dangling forty feet above the stage, one wrist wrapped in a length of crimson silk, my entire bodystretched in a hold that makes my shoulders burn like they’re on fire.
“Higher,” Marco calls from the ground, squinting up at me. He’s one of my longest-standing coaches—ex-gymnast, muscles like coiled springs, a stickler for details. “Your angle’s off. If you try to roll into the drop like that during the show, you’ll break your damn spine.”
“Noted,” I grunt, flexing my core and correcting my line. The silk creaks against the rigging, a sound that always spikes adrenaline straight into my blood. The only thing between me and a headfirst fall onto hardwood is a strip of fabric and grip strength I’ve spent years building.
I shift, wrap, and release, flipping upside down into the drop. Air rushes past me. The ground comes up fast. At the last possible second, the silks tighten around my calves, jerking me to a halt just inches above the stage floor.
The crew claps halfheartedly, used to me defying gravity like it’s a game. To the audience, it’ll look effortless. To me, it feels like cheating death one rehearsal at a time.
I flip upright, landing lightly and tugging the silk free from my ankles. My body hums, muscles sharp with exertion. This is the part the world doesn’t see when they watch my thirst-traps on TikTok or buy tickets to Saint Shade: the bruises, the burns, the constant gamble that one mistake could mean a hospital visit—or worse.
“Again,” I say, rolling my shoulders.
“Boss,” Marco fixes me with a cold glare, “maybe take a breather. You’ve run the routine four times already.”
But I wave him off. If I stop moving, I’ll start thinking about her again. The smirk. The daggers. The blood.
I climb back up the rigging, wrapping the silk around my wrist.
My palm is slick with sweat.
My arms are shot.
And my focus is slipping.
Halfway through the next stunt, I fuck up. Just for a second—just long enough to miss my grip and swing too wide. The edge of the flame prop licks my side, heat biting into skin before I yank myself out of range.
“Fuck!” the curse rips from my lips as pain sears through me. I slip again as my attention goes straight to the burn, and I barely catch myself from splattering across the stage.
“Shit!” someone yells from below.
“Down! Get him down!” Marco barks, already dragging the floor mat across the stage to catch me if I fall.
I curse again, wincing at the pain. I spin, twist, and finish the drop with a clean snap. I land, though as I try to straighten, the pain screams through me. I wince, hunching against the burn. Bianca, the former EMT turned backstage guru, darts across the stage with her kit.
I yank off my rehearsal mask, trying to wave her off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. See? Still pretty.”
