Ten days.Damn, these have been thelongestdays of my existence since my life went completely off-script, and I’ve spent every one of those days waiting for the sound of sirens outside my window.
My go bag has been practically glued to my hip. I take it with me everywhere—work, errands, even when I shower it sits in the bathroom doorway, staring me down like a lifeline. The thought’s crossed my mind more than once: just grab it, disappear, and make a new life somewhere where Saint Shade doesn’t exist and Kade Arden doesn’t know you kill men.
But I haven’t. Because so far, Kade Arden (ugh, even thinking it makes me scowl, that issonot his name)—hasn’t turned me in.
Which is… insane.
I cleaned like my life depended on it—because it did. I went back to the dump spot two days later. Checked the water, checked the rocks, checked for anything that might float back up. Nothing. My truck bed got bleached until my nose burned. My shop got stripped of any trace of my extracurricular activities. No tarp, no special trophy tarot deck, no daggers, nothing. Just incense smoke and velvet cloth, perfectly witchy, perfectly innocent. The oak table might be saturated with theDNA evidence of over a dozen men, but that’s between me and whatever forensic lab has the misfortune of one day sawing into it.
And just in case, I filmed a draft on TikTok. One where I look the camera dead in the eye and say,“Saint Shade’s real name is Kade Arden. He’s blond, and for some reason, he’s good at murder clean up.”I haven’t posted it, of course. But it’s there, waiting, like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. If he turns me in, I’ll post it.
Mutual destruction.
And yet… I keep replaying the way helookedat me. Not horrified. Not disgusted. Just… fascinated. Which is how I keep ending up in these mental spirals at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it feels less like blackmail and more like foreplay.
And that’s the worst part—I can’t stop thinking about him. Not Saint Shade, the masked phantom the internet thirsts over.Kade.The real him. He’s hotter than I ever let myself imagine while I was busy leaving dirty comments on his videos. He’s magnetic in a way I can’t explain. He’s also infuriating. BecauseKade Ardendoesn’t exist. I’ve searched the name. Everywhere. It’s like trying to find a ghost. The only thing I haven’t done is upload his picture—the one I snapped behind my shop that night. I could reverse-search it in seconds, though it’s not going to be as good as using a facial recognition scanner; I just don’t have access to that level of shit.
But he looked genuinely scared of being exposed, and somehow… I couldn’t do it.
So instead, I’ve been obsessing, imagining, replaying. And I hate myself for it.
“Are you watching himagain?”
Opal’s voice jolts me out of my spiral. I glance up from my phone to find her floating through the living room like aforest nymph who wandered into the wrong city. Which would be normal—except she’s topless. Again. A flowing green skirt swishes around her hips, her hair dripping down to her waist in golden waves. But she wears no shirt. None.
“Opal,” I groan. “Put a bra on, for the love of the moon. Or at least some pasties. I am your sister, and I should not know about the freckles that half circle your left tit.”
She glances down at herself, then shrugs. “Boobs are natural, Willow. You should try freeing yours sometime. The world would be a happier place.”
“Pretty sure TikTok would ban me.”
Opal flops onto the couch beside me, completely unfazed. The cat, who lies on the opposite side of the couch, lifts her head in annoyance, glaring at Opal for disturbing her sleep. “The way you’ve been staring at that brain rot device isn’t good for you. You know you’re going to eat your lip like a cannibal if you keep chewing it like that.”
“I am not self-cannibalizing,” I say with a glare. But I realize I am in fact biting my lip, and dammit, itisin fact sore.
Opal just smiles that goofy, half-high smile of hers. “What’s got you so worked up? Don’t tell me it’s just a card shuffle kink.”
I snap the phone out of her sight and glare. “It’s not a kink.”
“Hmm,” she hums doubtfully, eyes sparkling. “Nothing gets you worked up like this. Thanks for confirming. Our Willow met her online fantasy, and she likes him.”
Oh, fuck. Am I this obvious? IfOpalof all people has figured me out, I’m screwed.
“I didn’t meet anyone,” I shoot back. Too fast.
That earns me a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been humming all week, acting like the cult is coming to drag you back, glaring at your phone like it owes you money… So, is he nice? Is he hot under that mask? Does he have a nice cock?”
“Opal!” I screech, one-thousand percent horrified at my baby sister.
“You’re such a prude,” she simply teases me, loving every second of getting under my skin.
Before I can respond, Iris’ voice drifts from the kitchen, where she’s perched in her crisp black-and-white outfit, laptop open, fingers tapping at lightning speed at the island. “She’s not wrong, Will. You’ve been acting… erratic.”
I whip my head toward her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Iris says without looking up. “But I’m also on the side of facts. You’ve been weird.”
“Have not,” I grumble as I sink deeper into the couch, clutching my phone to my chest. I should feel cornered. Instead, warmth seeps through me. This is what it’s like being a Vale sister. Banter, teasing, blunt truths, and unconditional love wrapped in chaos.
