My throat goes dry. I swore. I swore I’d never let this happen, that I’d take my identity to the grave. I built a whole life out ofsmoke and mirrors just to keep my life my own. And now—now my profile, my build, myblond fucking hair—are all out there for the whole internet to see, for all the internet sleuths to pick apart.
“It’s gone viral, Lucky,” Willow says as she clicks into this profile who tagged her. The video has two million views already, and it was just posted two hours ago. “Like,superfucking viral.” She clicks into another post. Eight hundred thousand views. Another with sixty thousand. Yet another with three hundred thousand.
And it’s been two damn hours.
The comments are going nuts, obviously.
SAINT SHADE HAS A GIRLFRIEND???
HOLY SHIT, THAT’S @VALETAROT!!
NO WONDER SHE STOPPED HER SAINT SHADE SERIES, SHE’S BEEN FUCKING HIM! JEALOUS!
SS IS BLOND???
“Willow,” I say, my stomach dropping out.
She swallows hard, scrolling through the chaos. Her own face is everywhere, screenshot, zoomed in, dissected. The comments are rabid, thirsty, some of them straight up vile. Her inbox is detonating with strangers demanding answers.
“They already know me,” she whispers, horrified. Her blue eyes rise to meet mine. “Lucky, how long until someone figures out your name?”
The real question hangs unspoken in the air. How long until my family realizes I’m not really dead?
chapter seventeen
WILLOW
If someone had toldme two months ago I’d be plotting a health cult leader’s murder with a platinum-haired magician boyfriend, I’d have laughed, pulled a tarot card, and told them they were delusional. But here I am—cards on the table, knives in my boots, heart in someone else’s hands.
Phoenix knows my face. Knows my name. Knows I’ve tried to come for him. I could handle dying for my vendetta. I’ve made my peace with it that it might happen someday. It comes with the territory of becoming a serial killer.
But it’s not just me anymore. Lucky was there. Phoenix saw him, knows he staked him out. This wasn’t Lucky’s chosen path. He faked his own death and left his family because they were doing this kind of dangerous shit. And now I’m dragging him back into danger. The thought of him bleeding out on the floor because he decided I’m worth it isn’t something I can live with. And Lucky was less than sixty seconds from killing Phoenix. I’m not out to destroy anyone’s moral compass. Killing might be therapeutic for me, but that doesn’t mean it’s right for everyone.
Dammit.
I’m a twisted ball of worry and overthinking.
But that’s the beautiful part of being with your perfect match. You talk through those things. You work it out.
So, we make a call: until Phoenix is at the bottom of Lake Mead, we can’t be apart. Lucky has five shows stacked back-to-back, which means we’re juggling rehearsals, crowds, his crew, and murder plans like some twisted Cirque du Soleil act. I guess this is what passes for “balance” in my life.
The plan is simple in theory: hit Phoenix at his house. The man doesn’t know that we now have his home address. It seems he’s never spotted my tracker. So, we go after him there, where he’s alone, knock him out so we can drag him back to my tarot shop, nail him to my oak table like a butterfly specimen, and suffocate the bastard.
My tarot cards say it’s the best plan. My gut agrees.
So, the morning after everything went sideways, Lucky and I head to my house so I can pack. Not a go-bag, exactly. More like a “shack-up-with-your-unhinged-magician-boyfriend-until-you-kill-your-number-one-opp” bag. Enough black jeans, shirts, underwear and eyeliner to last a week, my kill file on Phoenix, a tin of my favorite tea, a fistful of incense, and another blanket that still smells like home.
Lucky’s outside, loading my bags into the truck like he’s been moving my things his whole life. I watch him from the doorway, the man who can vanish onstage and still somehow makes me feel moreseenthan anyone ever has. And I think—no, I know: this is it. We’re in this until the bitter, bloody end.
And that’s where Iris catches me.
She stands in the kitchen doorway like she’s been waiting for me. Arms crossed, hair tucked behind one ear, wearing her crisp white button-up like she’s about to run a lab trial instead of make breakfast. Her gaze flicks over me, then the bag, then outside to Lucky.
Something shifts in her expression. Concern, but buried under that scientific detachment she wears like armor.
“You’re in deep,” she says. No question mark. Just fact.
I roll my eyes, because if I don’t keep it light, I might start crying. The last twenty-four hours have been… a lot. “I’m always in deep, Iris. That’s kind of my thing.”
