“Of course we were,” Willow says, eyes sparkling. She slides her hand into mine under the table. “And you passed. With honors.”
“Oh, you all are going to pay for this,” I say with a barked laugh. “Someday, I’ll return the adventurous favor, and your stomachs will not be ready for it.”
“I look forward to it,” Opal says with a grin. “I’m not afraid of a little adventure.”
“Clearly,” I retort, indicating the eighty-percent still full dish.
But the ache in my stomach doesn’t matter. The way Willow is looking at me—soft, proud, like I belong here—makes every bite worth it.
And thank fuck I brought a pie. I can handle pie. With the sky outside long dark, I dish it up, wildly fucking proud of my contribution to the weirdest Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever attended.
When dessert is mostly devoured, Iris sets her fork down neatly, folding her hands. “You know,” she says, tone even but with something softer underneath, “I can’t remember the last time Willow smiled like this.”
My stomach flips. Willow squeezes my hand tighter under the table, but doesn’t look at me. She looks at her sister, steady, like the words landed heavy.
Opal leans in, chin propped in her hands, and adds, “She laughs different around you. It’s real.” She grins, wide and unashamed. “Not that scary witch-cackle she uses to intimidate people.”
“Opal—” Willow warns, cheeks flushing.
But Iris doesn’t let it drop. “It’s true. She’s lighter. Happier. Even Grandma isn’t worrying over Willow.” Her gaze flicks toward the cat snoozing on her blanket.
I glance at Willow, at the pink in her cheeks, at the way she ducks her head but doesn’t argue. My chest does something painful and sweet.
“I’ll keep doing my best,” I say, meaning every word. “Glad to hear I’m returning the favor. Cause Willow’s the best thing that’s happened to me. Ever.”
“Aww,” Opal gushes. “You two feel like the Fates themselves put you together.”
“Opal,” Iris groans, giving her a pointed look.
Somewhere in the middle of the Vale chaos—half-finished plates, Opal humming, Iris sipping her cranberry juice like a queen, Willow’s fingers laced with mine—I realize I feel…comfortable.
This feels like… family. And maybe I’m rushing things in thinking that, but it’s true. Sure, it’s messy, a little unhinged, but it’s real. And now they’re pulling me into the fold, even if they had to test me first.
Iris catches my eye like she knows exactly where my thoughts wandered. Her expression softens almost imperceptibly. “You did well,” she says simply. “I know we’re an odd bunch.”
Opal beams. “He’s officially part of the coven now.”
Willow shoots her sister a pointed look. “Hey, don’t scare him off.”
But I’m not scared. Not even close. For the first time in years, I’m sitting at a table with people who feel like home—and I’m not pretending to be anyone else.
“Come on,” Willow says as she stands and grabs my hand, tugging me up with her. We grab our plates and put them in the dishwasher. Willow then leads me to a door off the living room. I know it’s her bedroom before she even opens the door. I’ve watched her enough, I knowexactlywhere in the house her room is.
Her bedroom smells like her—smoke and tea, sharp ink and something wild. I step inside, and it feels like stepping straight into Willow’s head: cluttered, witchy, alive. Candles clustered on a dresser, stacks of books threatening to avalanche, half-burntincense perched in a dish, tarot cards scattered like they’re mid-conversation.
I’m nosy; I can’t help it. My gaze sweeps the entire room. Her clothes are hung up, a basket half full of laundry in the corner. There’s some worn underwear half hanging out of it, and I resist the urge to snatch them and tuck them into my pocket. Out of survival, my eyes sweep to the other side of the room and land on her desk. There are papers everywhere. Names, dates, clippings printed off the internet. Phoenix Marrow, the name is circled and underlined.
My stomach knots. I can’t ever forget. He’s not just a cult leader with too much money. He’s hertarget.
Willow notices me looking and doesn’t apologize for it. She crosses the room, pulls a page free, and sets it on top. “I’ve been trying to track down his home address for weeks now. I think he must have bought something under a separate company name.” Her voice is tight. Determined. “He’s too protected. Too careful. Every woman he touches, he makes sure no one can get close enough to pull back the curtain.”
I step closer, scanning the notes. Retreats, clinics, gala dinners. All wrapped in bodyguards and followers who’d die for him.
“There’s the couple’s retreat,” I say, dropping into her chair. “Four days in the desert. That would give us an opening at some point.” I’ll keep the fact that it costs forty grand to myself.
She shakes her head, looking frustrated and a little defeated. “He knows my face. He knows I have it out for him. He’d sniff me out before the hors d’oeuvres.”
I hate that she’s right. Relief and frustration battle in my gut. Relief because I don’t want her anywhere near that monster. Frustration because it means the hunt isn’t over.
