Opal pouts. “What’s there to think about? Go put on a killer dress and melt his mask right off.”
Iris arches a brow. “Or stay home anddon’twalk directly into a trap?”
Their voices fade as I march past them, clutching the ticket like it’s a live wire. My bedroom door slams behind me, cutting off their arguing.
I lean against it, heart still racing, the ticket burning in my palm. The cards whisper from the table, louder and louder, and I already know what they’re going to say when I snatch them from the table. They’re humming. Not literally—no flutter of sound, no vibration—but Ifeelthem in my chest, in my bones. Like a storm building pressure, pushing against my skin until I can’t stand it.
I slide into my chair, my body taut, and sweep the deck into my hands. My fingers fit to the cards like they were carved for me. The air feels denser, thicker. I draw a deep breath.
“Fine,” I whisper. “You want to talk? Talk. What the hell do I do about this?”
The cards cut sharper tonight. They practically leap as I shuffle. My fingertips tingle, a current running through them. And then—one slaps against my wrist, another flips mid-air, the third lands face-down with a snap. My pulse spikes.
I flip the first. The Moon.
My throat tightens. Illusions. Secrets. Hidden truths that glow just faintly in the dark. The Moon never comes without mystery. But it always whispers to follow your intuition.
The second. The Lovers.
Heat floods my cheeks. Connection. Union. But also choices. Temptation. The Lovers never means easy. It means you stand at a crossroads with your heart on the line, and whichever road you take changes you forever.
The third card. The Three of Pentacles.
My breath catches. Partnership. Teamwork. Building something meaningful with an equal.
The cards are screaming the message: go. Not later. Now.
I slam my hands over the spread, staring at them like they’ve betrayed me. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The Moon. The Lovers. The Three of Pentacles. A cocktail of secrets, obsession, and propulsion. It isn’t just telling me to go—it’s dragging me there.
And the worst part? My heart agrees.
By the time I’ve trashed my closet for the fifth time, my bedroom looks like a crime scene of fabric. Black lace tangled with sequins, a trail of hangers like broken bones, a lone fishnet leg limply dangling from the bedpost like some cautionary tale.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, shoving my hair out of my face. My pulse is sprinting, my skin hot. I don’t do this. I don’ttry. Not for a man. Not for anyone but myself.
Normally, getting ready means slapping on eyeliner, throwing on whatever black dress doesn’t smell like incense, and maybe—maybe—running a brush through my hair. I don’t preen. I don’t strut. I don’t care.
So why the hell am I standing in front of the mirror in a silk slip dress that clings like it wants to get me arrested, reapplying lipstick because the red wasn’tperfectthe first time?
I lean closer to the glass, forcing myself to meet my own eyes. “It’s a trap,” I tell my reflection. “This is bait. This is him luring you in.”
But my lips part, painted crimson, and the voice in the back of my head whispers,And what if you want to be lured?
I grit my teeth. He saw me kill a man. He should’ve turned me in. Instead, he helped me wrap a body and wipe down blood stains like it was second nature. That should terrify me. That should have had me grabbing my go bag ten days ago and burning rubber out of Nevada.
Instead… it makes me want to know more.
Ugh.
I fix the straps of my dress and grab a pair of heels I haven’t worn in three years. They’re not practical—they’re “fuck me” heels, strappy and sharp, the kind that elongate your legs and announce your arrival with a click that sayslook at me.
I slip them on anyway.
And then I do the thing I hate myself for: I imagine him seeing me in this.
Not the mask. Not the shadowy Saint Shade the whole internet drools over.Kade.His green eyes, his stupidly blond hair, the tattoo I caught a flash of when he hoisted a corpselike it was nothing. I imagine his gaze dragging down my body, lingering, heating.
