“Make sure it’s open-casket,” I say, grinning. “It’ll be one hell of a final act.”
Five grueling hours, fivebrain-meltinghours later, I head home. The Iron Heart is happening. And I can’t fucking wait until we show it live for the first time in six weeks.
The elevator dings and spits me into my personal cage in the sky. I need to shower. I’ve got plans tonight. Plans I’m damn excited for. But last night niggles at the back of my brain, and I can’t help myself. I step into my office and boot up my computer, the glow harsh in the penthouse shadows. Willow’s words from last night keep gnawing at me, the name screaming like an alarm bell going off in my brain: Phoenix Marrow.
I’ve heard of him—it would be hard not to. The man’s face is plastered across ads for wellness retreats and book covers that scream about natural healing. His TikTok clips pop up on For You Pages everywhere, slick production and honeyed words.“The doctors have failed you. Let me teach you how to fix it. I have the secret.”
Cults wear different clothes these days. Instead of white robes and bonfires, they wear athleisure and sell you overpriced green juice and untested supplements.
I dig deep. Just for shits and giggles, I hack my way into a handful of security feeds from earlier today—old habits die hard. I find his wellness center in an insanely expensive part of town. I watch him arrive in a chauffeured car, bodyguard in tow. The place is stupidly busy, people constantly coming and going, all of them looking desperate.
I scroll through the comments on his videos. They’re all worshippers, swearing this man saved their lives, cured their tumors, resurrected their sex lives, gave them a second chance.
I tug at my hair. Why him? Why is Willow so obsessed with taking him down? He’s obviously got a god-complex. He gives me the ick. But what’s he done? I can’t find a clean answer. But I feel it in every inch of my gut: Willow’s instincts are sharp. She does what she does for a reason.
And hell, I hate and love how much I admire that about her.
With a glance at the time, I curse and launch myself from my chair toward the shower. Hot water needles down my back, washing away chalk dust, gym sweat, the tang of rigging grease.
I button up a black polo and pull on some jeans. Nothing flashy tonight—Saint Shade wears flash. Kade Arden gets to play it casual. Jeans, clean boots, just enough effort to show I give a damn.
I glance at my phone. Dammit. The notifications are piling up. My manager is hounding me about posting a new Saint Shade thirst trap. Some ridiculous clip of me palming fire or doing sleight-of-hand shirtless. Normally, I’d queue one up.
But I don’t feel like it.
For the first time since I built this double life, I don’twantattention from anyone else. Not the screaming fans, not the thirsty comments, not the millions of strangers who think they own a piece of Saint Shade.
I only want hers.
How the hell did I get here? And so damn fast?
I’ve just grabbed my jacket and am about to pull the door open when my phone buzzes.
You know, it would be helpful if you told me what the hell I’m supposed to wear tonight.
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. I canseeher typing that, jaw tight, probably pacing her little witchy bedroom. My thumbs fly.
Something casual. Jeans. T-shirt. Nothing that screams “arrest me.”
Three dots bubble. Disappear. Come back.
No kitten ears needed for tonight’s adventures?
I smirk, remembering the sight of her in those ears and the tail.
Dagger Kitten, you could show up wearing your special garbage bag and I’d still?—
I delete the whole thing before it gets too feral. I settle for:
Just trust me. Nothing fancy needed tonight.
Which is hilarious, consideringtrustis the only thing keeping either of us from jail or utter ruin.
By the timeI pull up outside her place, my nerves are shredded. I’ve walked into burning rings, dangled fifty feet upside down on a single rope, swallowed fire in front of thousands—but none of that compares to parking my car in front of Willow Vale’s house and realizing she’s about to walk out the doorfor me.
The porch light flicks on. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight it squeaks. And then—she steps out.
Jeans. Black combat boots. A white tee tucked in with a black belt that cinches her waist. Her hair is loose, swishing down her shoulders in dark, loose locks I’d really fucking like to run my hands through.
