“And the other half were?” she questions, raising an eyebrow at me.
“You think learning everything I did on stage tonight didn’t come with a few trips to the ER?” I goad her. “But yes, they might have hurt like hell, but it was still fun.”
“Hmm,” she says, thinking about everything I just said. “Well, it’s a start. But, I thinkyoushould know, I don’t just kill forfun. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there is a part of it that I enjoy very much. Yes, I know something is broken in me. But I don’t kill just anyone. Only men who abuse power. The ones who corner women. Who laugh when someone says no. Too many women have been taken advantage of by men who hold all the power, and too often, no one does anything about it.”
Her voice doesn’t shake, but the pain under it is there, coiled tight. I can hear it even if she thinks she’s hiding it.
My chest tightens. I should be disturbed. Normal people would be. She’s justadmittedthat Travis Bell was not her first kill.
But all I feel is a raw kind of admiration. She’s brutal, yeah. But she’s not wrong. Literally everyone in the world has seen it. Women get taken advantage of all the time, and just about everycrime documentary out there is about a man who got a little bit of power and used it for evil.
“I know, Willow,” I say simply.
I steal a glance at her. The body-hugging dress, the eyeliner sharp as a dagger, the click of her heels against the sidewalk. She looks like some avenging angel playing dress-up as a hot as sin human. And for reasons I can’t even untangle, I want to follow her straight into hell.
We’re halfway down the Strip, and I notice the shift within seconds of it happening. Her stride shortens, her lips pinch tight. She’s trying to hide it, but every step in those heels is murder.
“You’re limping,” I point out, lightening the conversation.
Willow scowls up at me in defiance. “I am not.”
“You are,” I counter, and before she can argue further, I stop dead, crouch, and tug at the laces of my shoes.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving you from blisters.” I pry my shoes off, yank off my socks, and stand barefoot on the Vegas concrete. The pavement is still warm from the day’s heat. I ball the socks up and shove them at her.
She blinks at me like I just offered her a severed hand. “I am not putting on your socks. That’s gross.”
“Would you rather grind your feet into hamburger meat and limp home bleeding?” I ask, dead serious. “They’re fresh, I promise. I put them on right before you barged into my changing room for the peep show. Put them on. I’ll carry your shoes.”
The look she gives me could kill a man faster than any dagger. But I can see the gears turning in her head, the way she shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Finally, her eyes soften. And like a damn miracle, she actually slips out of her heels and jams her feet into my socks, muttering curses under her breath. I stuff my bare feet back into my shoes. I would havegiven them to her, but with the size difference? She wouldn’t make it five steps without tripping to her death.
Willow balances as she pulls one sock on and then the other, the crowd parting around us, giving amused glances. The socks swallow her ankles, hanging loose around her calves, but damn if it isn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
When she stands again, she bursts into laughter. The sound shocks us both—it’s unguarded, sharp, alive.
“Oh, my hell,” she says between giggles. “I look insane!”
“Correction, you look comfortable,” I say, fixing her with a stare, even though I can’t help the unhinged grin on my face. I grab her shoes. “And it’s Vegas, Willow. That guy over there is wearing boxers, a showgirl bra, and cowboy boots. A little tarot witch in oversized socks just fits the bill.”
She laughs harder, which surprises me. I grin like a loon. Every damn circumstance that we’ve been together is so insane, so unhinged, so weird, no wonder she can’t help but laugh. And I can’t help but laugh, too. It’s all… a lot. And it’s all exactly the kind of thing that keeps me awake at night, smiling up at the ceiling, replaying every ridiculous moment. I can’t remember the last time someone laughed like this with me.
When she finally catches her breath, her smile lingers, softer now. “I haven’t laughed like this in years. Not since before…” She trails off, eyes shadowing. Then she clears her throat. “Not since a long time ago.”
There’s a story here. I know Willow has a backstory. I know there has to be trauma there. But she doesn’t expand, and I don’t push. She’ll share that story with me in time, if she wants to, if I make her feel safe to do so.
My voice feels rough in my throat. “This is the first time in years I haven’t felt like I’m hiding. So, thanks for that, Willow.”
Her eyes flick to me, sharp and searching. For a moment, the Strip blurs—the noise, the neon, all of it. It’s just her in my socks,me holding her shoes, and this raw, dangerous pull tightening between us.
I recognize something in Willow, and I think maybe she sees it in me, too. The gray zone. The hurt. The angst. The shaded past that most would run from. I see it there in her. But I don’t want to run. I don’t want to look away.
And the way she’s looking at me? I think she isn’t afraid of the dark either.
“You’re not what I ever would have expected, Saint Shade,” she says simply.
“I’d be a terrible magician if I were predictable,” I say with a smile.
