My chest tightens. My thighs press together.
I should hate this. I should hate him. I should be sharpening my daggers instead of my eyeliner. But the more I tell myself not to, the more my mind betrays me.
And for the first time in years, I’m not thinking about survival. I’m not thinking about blood. I’m thinking about beingseen.
By him.
I press my hands to the vanity, staring at the stranger in the mirror—the silk, the slit, the lips like a tempting red flag of warning—and I realize I don’t know this version of myself.
But tonight? I think I want to.
The doorbell buzzes like a chainsaw in the quiet. I freeze mid-swipe of perfume, every nerve in my body screaming this is another omen.
I open the door to find a man in a black suit and white gloves. Behind him, a stretch limo idles at the curb, neon lights bouncing off its glossy paint.
“Willow Vale?” His voice is stiff, professional. I simply nod in affirmation. The man in black gestures politely to the limo. “Your ride, miss.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter. “What’s next, rose petals to the door?”
I tell myself this is about blackmail leverage. This is about keeping him close enough not to slit my throat metaphorically. But deep down, I know I’m full of shit.
With a sigh, I grab my tiny clutch and step into the night like I’m walking into the wolf’s den.
The limo ride is absurd. Leather seats, champagne chilling in a bucket, and me perched on the edge like Cinderella—with a concealed weapon. Every stoplight, I consider bolting. Everyturn, I imagine he’s luring me to some dungeon instead of the Strip. And yet, when the car rolls past the main entry, straight up to a quiet, private side entrance, my pulse is wild with anticipation.
The crowd heading to the main front doors is massive, lines curling down the sidewalk, girls in sparkly dresses snapping selfies with the marquee that displays the name Saint Shade.
We park along the side of the building, and I note the innocuous door waiting. The limo driver opens the door with a bow, and as I step out, I see eyes shifting. Limos have a way of drawing attention. Important people ride in limos; celebrities ride in limos. I am not an important person, but the people still stare. I step out, silk dress hugging me like it’s starving, and I feel every eye follow as I’m led through the private entry door.
Inside, an usher leads me straight down a hall. I can hear back noise, the sound of behind the scenes of a show about to start. But we don’t head back there. Instead, we make a right turn, down the hallway, and then we walk out through a door at the front of the theater. I’m escorted right to the middle, the man indicating my seat. Dead center. Front row.
I lower myself into the seat, heart thundering, hands slick. The stage is still cloaked by a heavy velvet curtain, but I swear I feel him already, lurking back there, watching me.
And the worst part?
I want him watching.
chapter six
NOT-KADE
The mask goes on,and “Kade Arden” ceases to exist. Saint Shade steps into the light.
Normally, this is the calmest part of my day. Backstage, I run through the rituals that keep me from becoming a skin sack of bone shards: hands chalked, wrists wrapped, silks tested, rigging checked. I slide the black fabric over my mouth and nose, pull the black and gold mask into place, and it clicks. The persona. The anonymity.
Tonight, though? Tonight, my whole brain and every one of my nerves is totally and absolutelyfucked. Because she’shere.
Front row. Dead center. In a dress that should be illegal under Nevada law. I only caught the briefest glimpse before Marco dragged me back to get ready, but it was enough to brand itself on my brain. Black silk, bare legs, and those damn heels… She’s the reason my pulse is sky-rocketing like I’m about to free-climb the Hoover Dam without a harness.
And my dick, the unhelpful bastard, has decidedtonight’s the night.She’s here, and I want her.
“You good?” my aerial captain, Beth, asks as she cinches my safety strap.
“Peachy,” I lie.
Beth arches an eyebrow at me. But the next second, I’m getting the countdown. I let out a nervous breath.
Nervous? What the hell? I haven’t been nervous for a show since my first week as the headliner.
