“That’s it?” My fingers drum against the steering wheel. I’m hoping for more, for a lead, for something that cracks open the fortress Phoenix has built around himself. Saint Shade has a massive following online. Phoenix has half of what Saint Shade has, but still, it’s large. They are both based out of Las Vegas. There could be a tie I never expected.
Kade exhales. “I don’t follow his crap, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve heard the name. Seen his face. But that’s it.”
Disappointment twists in my chest, hot and sour. I’d hoped for a second that Kade might be my way in. That this was fate handing me the key. Instead… nothing.
But there’s relief, too. Relief that the man who saw me kill, who’s gotten under my skin in a way I hate admitting, isn’t tied up with Phoenix Marrow.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says, his tone suggestive.
Something in my stomach hardens. “I do not need a man to help me, thanks. I’m a big, bad girl all on my own.”
“No, Willow, I…” he scrambles, obviously thrown off by me assuming the misogyny was coming out. “Trust me, I fully believe how damn capable you are. I just… Fuck. I just care that you come back alive.”
The words slip past my armor before I can stop them. I don’t know what to say.
“And,” he says, slyness creeping back in, “I was meaning that you really don’t have to do this alone. If you want company. If you want someone else with a morally gray compass to assist plotting a demise. If you want to get to Phoenix Marrow, you don’t have to do it alone.”
I blink at the windshield. He really didn’t mean take over. He truly meant that he’d help. And not judge?
“You’ll help me,” I repeat slowly, like I’m tasting the words.
“I can make sure you’re not alone. It never hurts having someone who’s six-foot-three watching your back,” he points out. “But I could phrase it more romantically if you’d like.”
I laugh, sharp. “You just had to drop in the height fact, didn’t you?”
“Figured it wouldn’t hurt my case,” he laughs through the phone. “Because I have another reason for calling.” His voice drops a note lower. “Can I take you out tomorrow night?”
A date. He’s clearly asking me out on a date. Did the invitation to his show count? Probably not, since he was on stage and I was in the audience drooling over him like a dog. But this time, there’s no question about it: this is clearly a date invitation.
My heart pounds, confused and hot and wild. Because what kind of man asks for a date after a discussion where he knows your endgame is murder?
And what kind of woman says yes to a man like that?
Me. Apparently.
Instead of calling him a psycho, I hear myself say: “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
I hang up before he can hear my breath catch. But his words keep echoing.I care that you come back alive.
For the first time ever, I don’t feel alone in this. And that terrifies me more than Phoenix Marrow ever could.
chapter eight
NOT-KADE
The first ruleof being Saint Shade? Feed the machine.
I roll out of bed at sunrise, already aching from my rehearsal burns, and head straight to the kitchen. The view out my penthouse windows looks golden and dusty, the desert in full view from up here. But my focus is on the counter, where I line up breakfast like a lunatic scientist with test tubes.
Eight scrambled eggs. A mountain of oats soaked overnight in almond milk, drowned in peanut butter and a banana. A protein shake with two scoops of whey and an ungodly amount of creatine. And because I’m a freak, a chicken breast I meal-prepped yesterday. At six in the morning. Because this body? It doesn’t run on vibes.
I eat in silence, scrolling my phone one-handed. TikTok wants me to post something, the Saint Shade account a bottomless pit of thirst waiting for another hit. I ignore it. My DMs are a swamp, half of them begging to see my face, the other half offering parts of their bodies they probably shouldn’t be putting on the internet. But none of it makes my pulse spike anymore.
Only one person does that now. And she doesn’t even know what my real name is.
The thought is enough to make me grind my jaw as I toss back the last of the shake, slam the bottle down, and head for the gym.
The elevator opens into an impressive but, as of this morning, empty space on the second floor, slick and industrial, all mirrors and matte black flooring. It’s quiet—no influencers here taking mirror selfies, no bros screaming mid-deadlift. Just me and the iron.
