Because Kade kisses me like I’m not broken at all. He kisses me like I’m fire, like I’m fury, like I’m worth setting his own soul on fire for.
“You’re fucking insane,” I murmur against his mouth, breathless, trembling. “But I kind of think you’re perfect.”
His laugh rumbles against my lips, low and feral, and I swear I’ll never forget the sound. “Right back at you, Dagger Kitten.”
chapter twelve
NOT-KADE
Dusty Crowley doesn’t looklike a man anymore. He looks like leftovers.
Willow made her tarot card trophy with his blood and tucked it away. Together, we clean up her back room. Every ounce of evidence is wiped away. Willow is terrifyingly efficient about it all. I’m mostly here for the heavy lifting after we’ve got him rolled up tight in a gray tarp. All the cleanup supplies went in with the body. And now he’s got duct tape cinched around him like some kind of trash burrito.
The smell isn’t great—Dusty had that swampy cologne that clings even in death, mixed with a hint of piss because apparently his bladder gave up before he did. My brain, unhelpfully, files it away:notes of musk, despair, and Eau de Predator.
Without a word, because apparently, we’re at that level of understanding one another, we climb into the truck. I wasn’t along for this part of the ride last time, so there’s a tiny, twisted part of me that grins in excitement that I get to see the rest of Willow’s kill ritual.
She backs out of the alley and heads down the road, pointing out of town.
Lake Mead is quiet. Just the chirp of crickets, the hum of far, distant traffic. No audience, no applause—just me, Willow, and a body that used to demand blowjobs for rent money. I want to tell Willow that dumping a body in Lake Mead is horribly cliché, but damn. Who the hell would ever, ever think to look in this godforsaken corner? It might be the most obvious place to get rid of a body, but it’s also so damn remote and isolated, I don’t think even NASA would spot us here.
I haul Dusty to the cliff’s edge at Willow’s instruction. And then, like a damn body disposal expert, she latches two cinderblocks to the tarp. And then, together, we heft him toward the ledge. My muscles strain, but Willow’s strength surprises me—there’s something almost ritualistic in the way she moves. Like she’s done this before. (Spoiler: she has.)
“One last ride, Dusty,” I mutter. Gallows humor slips out when I’m admiring.
Then, without ceremony, we shove. The tarp burrito slides, bumps the rock edge, and last of all, the cinderblocks heave over. There’s a heavysplash, then ripples, then silence. We both stare over the ledge. A few bubbles rise up out of the black water. But only thirty seconds later, the ripples die out. And just like that, Dusty Crowley is gone.
Willow dusts off her hands. “Good riddance.”
I should feel sick. I should feel horrified. Instead, all I can think is: I’ve never met anyone more beautiful.
We walk back to the truck. Gravel crunches under our boots, the night air heavy with the scent of algae and crime. My adrenaline is still buzzing, but not from the body. From her. Always her.
When Willow slips into the passenger seat, staring out at the dark, I raise an eyebrow, but simply take the driver’s seat. I glance at Willow. Her profile is cut sharp in the moonlight,eyes focused ahead, jaw tight. She looks untouchable. But I know better.
I grip the wheel and shift into gear. The night is quiet as I make my way back toward the road. It’s a journey we take in silence, each of us lost to the dark, to the justice we had to deliver tonight because the system failed. Again.
I’ve just pulled onto the highway when the words I went into her shop with won’t be held back anymore. “I came to your shop tonight because there’s something I needed to tell you. I almost did at breakfast. I went to Phoenix’s institute yesterday.”
Her head snaps toward me.
And just like that, the body is forgotten. What’s left between us now isn’t Dusty Crowley. It’s the weight of everything I haven’t said yet.
“The institute?” Her voice cuts through the quiet like broken glass. “How? That place is practically Fort fucking Knox.”
“Yeah.” My knuckles flex on the steering wheel. The desert highway stretches ahead, yellow lines glowing under the headlights like a spotlight I can’t escape. “I wanted to see it for myself. So, I signed up for one of his group day sessions.”
She doesn’t respond right away. I feel the weight of her stare like a knife pressing into my ribs.
I keep my eyes on the road. If I look at her, I’ll start over-explaining. And if I over-explain, I’ll start talking about the blender. The organ smoothie. The fact that Phoenix has his disciples chugging down blendedpartslike it’s a detox shake. The memory alone makes my stomach flip.
“Why?” Willow finally asks. Flat. Cold. But there’s a tremor under it, like she’s testing me.
“Because you’ve been circling this guy and getting nowhere. You told me that yourself. I did some digging into him after you asked me about him, and…” I shake my head. It feels like there’s a centipede crawling up the back of my neck, that’s how muchPhoenix gives me the creeps. “There’s something fundamentally wrong about the asshole. I went because…” I bite the inside of my cheek.Because I can’t stand the thought of him breathing the same air as you.“I wanted to help.”
Her mouth presses into a line. She doesn’t like it. Independence is written into her bones. She’s been running this bloody justice crusade solo for years. Me charging in like some knight? Not her style.
But then she sighs, and it’s not annoyance—it’s something softer. “I don’t like it,” she mutters, eyes back on the road.
