“Blah blah blah,” I mutter, tossing my phone back on the vanity before adjusting the red crystal straps digging into my hips. “Let the heartbroken girlies rave half-naked in peace.”
Cupid has what, three bodies? Four? In a city this size that barely qualifies as a side-hustle. And carving Valentine messages into skin? Honestly feels like the marketing team for Hallmark hired him.
The camera zooms in on my favorite part: the close-up of the carved message. They blur the gore, but you can still see the shaky lettering beneath the censor box.
BE MINE.
I snort. “So original.”
The truth is, the whole thing thrills me more than it scares me.
Maybe that says something seriously unwell about my brain chemistry. Whatever. My danger scale snapped months ago, right around the time some creep shoved me against a brick wall behind Harlow’s Market, pressed a gun to my temple, demanded my wallet… and my body reacted like it was fucking foreplay.
I should’ve screamed. That's what a normal bitch would've done.
But not me. No, instead I walked home shaking and so turned on I spent an hour in the shower getting myself off while replaying the cold metal against my skin.
Mom would absolutely drop dead if she knew that story. She’d also drop dead twice if she knew where I was going tonight or what I was wearing. Or that I’m half planning to fuck a hot stranger just to prove my pulse still works.
I glance at my phone. Missed a call from her an hour ago.
Guilt pricks, sharp and quick, then dissolves under the rush of tonight.
I love my mom. I really do. She worked two jobs and still never missed a recital, never forgot a birthday, never let me see her cry when the rent was late. She’s the kind of woman who texts me inspirational quotes at seven a.m. and signs off with more heart emojis than should be legal.
She also still calls me “baby girl” and thinks “dab pen” is a kind of art supply.
There is no universe where she can hear the words Cupid’s Killhouse without spontaneously combusting.
So I do what any responsible adult daughter does—call her back while I put on eyeliner and lie through my teeth.
She picks up on the second ring. “Aeri?”
“Hey, Mom.” I hit speaker, prop the phone against the mirror, and lean close to paint another wing on my eye. “Sorry, was in the shower.”
“Long day at the bakery?” she asks. I can hear the TV murmuring in her background too, the same news broadcast, probably. “You sound tired.”
“Yeah, it was super busy! Valentine’s week, remember? People want cupcakes shaped like hearts so they don’t have to use their words.”
She laughs, that soft little sound that always makes my chest hurt in a good way. “So,” Mom says, that sly mom-tone instantly activated, “does Mark have big plans for you two tonight, baby girl?”
Guilt hits me right in the ribs—not hard, just a soft, irritating tap to remind me I haven’t told her. Haven’t told her we’re basically an expired carton of milk in the back of the fridge. Haven’t told her he’sgone.
But I’m not ready to open that door. Not tonight.
“Actually,” I say, breezy as hell, “Mark’s working. Late shift. So I’m just gonna stay in. Self-care night. Face mask, movies, maybe soak in the tub until I prune.”
She hums, amused. “Self-care, huh? That’s code for ‘I’m avoiding the world,’ but alright. You deserve a quiet night.”
“Totally,” I lie, adding an enthusiastic little nod even though she can’t see me. “Just me, my jammies, and a mountain of overpriced chocolate.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs warmly. “You don’t evenlikechocolate.”
I smile at my reflection—winged liner sharp enough to slice, glitter clinging to my collarbone, lips glossy and red like I just kissed a crime scene.
Right. Definitely not telling her.
“Yeah, well, sometimes I can make an exception,” I joke.
