“See? Teamwork. Proud of you.”
Behind me, Kade’s just standing there with his leather jacket hanging open, tattoos crawling up his chest and arms, blood smeared across him from where our little track star got a little too close to his blade. He looks like he slaughtered someone in the parking lot and couldn’t be fucked to clean up—which is normallymybrand, not his.
But hell, maybe he’s leveling up.
His mask glows solid red—steady, cold, giving off that pissed-off big brother energy.
He eyes the wings. “Seriously?”
“Fuck yeah, seriously.” I tighten the straps, bouncing my shoulders so the feathers shake. “If we’re going into Cupid’s Killhouse to take her out, I’m going in committed to the bit.”
Kade shakes his head once. The way he does when he wants to strangle me but doesn’t feel like putting in the effort.
“We get her fast,” he says. “Crowd’s huge. Cameras everywhere. No mistakes.”
“Relax,” I say, tapping the fake bow against my shoulder like it’s real. “We’ll find her. And hey, might as well enjoy the party while we’re here, right?”
He doesn’t answer.
Which, in Kade language, meansyes, andfuck you, and alsoI hate that you’re right again.
I shove through the warehouse doorway, heat smacking me in the face, bass rattling the steel walls, bodies everywhere, sweat and glitter and neon red lights reflecting off every surface.
The wings bounce behind me as I move, plastic bow in hand, tattoos glowing under the strobes.
I scan the crowd, grin stretching under my mask.
“Alright, little trackstar,” I mutter into the noise, “you made this interesting. Let’s finish what you started.”
1
AERI
Roses are red, my standards are low, and tonight I’m willingly climbing into a jeweled thong that looks like it was designed by a horny magpie with a blood kink.
So, you know. Healthy choices all around.
“Police are still searching for the suspect the media has nicknamed ‘Cupid,’”the reporter drones from my TV, voice way too calm for someone standing next to a body bag.“Authorities say the killer carves Valentine-style messages into the victims’ flesh?—”
I turn the volume up.
The screen cuts to a blurry shot of flashing caution tape and a white sheet on a gurney. Underneath the banner it says LIVE / DOWNTOWN ALLEY HOMICIDE. A red ticker at the bottom screams: CUPID STRIKES AGAIN?
I tug the red jeweled bra higher on my chest and watch the light throw scarlet flecks across my bedroom walls. The cups are shaped like they’re dripping, ruby stones falling in tiny beaded teardrops over my ribs. It looks like someone crystallized blood mid-drip and decided that was a normal thing to wear out of the house.
I fucking love it.
“This is your fault, Mark,” I tell my reflection, tilting my head. “Look what you did. You turned me into the kind of hot that ruins men on sight.”
My reflection stares back at me—long, thick dark brown hair streaked with deep red, pulled into those stupid-cute twisted buns on top while the rest falls heavy over my shoulders. My blue eyes look too bright, rimmed in smudged black and dripping in ruby gems that catch the light like I cried glitter instead of tears. My lips are painted a bruised red, glossy and dangerous.
I look exhausted, and a little pissed off… like a girl who’s been breaking quietly all week and decided to tape herself back together with rhinestones and bad decisions.
Which, honestly is kinda fitting.
There’s a soft buzz from my phone on the vanity. A small grey bubble that says, Heartless Bitches lighting up again.
Luna:
