Page 125 of Tricked By Jack
Jack’s hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers lacing together. I feel the calluses on his palm, the strength in his grip, and I squeeze back, accepting what she offers.
“Your path stretches beyond ages,” she continues, voice dropping lower. “Beyond death itself. What has been forged in blood does not easily break.” She gathers the cards, returning them to the deck without another glance. “You will face trials in every lifetime. Pain. Loss. But always, always, you will find each other in the dark.”
“And is that a blessing or a curse?” Jack asks, his voice steady but curious.
The fortune teller’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “For creatures like you? It is simply the truth.”
She offers no more, and we understand we’ve been dismissed. As we rise to leave, I reach for my wallet, but she shakes her head.
“I told you before that I don’t want your money. I don’t accept payment from those whose fates are bound to mine.” Something ancient flickers in her gaze. “We will meet again, when winter turns the world to ice and you require different truths.”
“You know,” I gasp. It’s not a question but a statement. I can see it on her face.
“Yes,” she nods slowly. “The cards told me. That’s why I moved my tent.” She points to her bags next to the table. “I’m ready to go.”
With those words, she ushers us out of the tent, unwilling or unable to answer any more questions.
“I can’t decide if she’s creepy or awesome,” I sigh once we’re outside, the night air feels electric against my skin, charged with possibility.
Jack pulls me close, his lips finding mine in a kiss that tastes of smoke and destiny. When we part, his eyes hold mine, something fierce and tender in their depths. “Definitely creepy,” he decides.
“Do you believe her?” I ask as his thumb traces the line of my jaw.
I think of everything we’ve survived—his revenge, my captivity, Shelby’s death. I think of how he looked standing in Nick’s basement, offering me the knife, giving me the choice to end a life that had tried to end mine.
“I believe in us,” I answer simply. “Whatever comes next.”
His smile is slow, predatory, promising. His fingers tighten on my hip, drawing me deeper into shadow where revelers can’t see the way his hand slips beneath my shirt, tracing bare skin with deliberate intent.
“Then let’s enjoy our playground,” he murmurs against my lips. “After all, we’ve earned it.”
And as his mouth claims mine again, more demanding this time, I surrender to the knowledge that the fortune teller was right—this isn’t soft romance. This is something sharper, darker, a love carved from violence and sealed in blood. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
We go from attraction to attraction, taking in as much as we can before our time here is up. We don’t need a clock totell us when we’re nearing midnight. The crowd gravitates toward the central stage—the same altar where Jack once claimed me as his Bride.
Tonight, it’s transformed by hundreds of black candles, their flames perfectly still in the windless air, smoke rising in straight columns toward a moonless sky. The scent of melting wax mingles with incense, with sweat and anticipation from the bodies pressing closer.
The stage looms ahead, draped in heavy velvet the color of dried blood, illuminated from beneath to create the illusion that it floats above the ground. Nicklas and Carolina are already waiting in the wings, their silhouettes sharp against the ambient glow of fire pits.
“There you are,” Carolina says as we reach them, her voice pitched low beneath the growing murmur of the crowd. She looks ethereal tonight in a gown that shifts between black and midnight blue with her movements, her hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of her throat. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost in the festivities.”
Jack’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly at my hip. “We had unfinished business with a fortune teller.”
Nicklas raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question further. He seems to understand that some things belong only to us, wrapped in privacy despite our public presence. Instead, he nods toward the stage where technicians are making final adjustments to microphones and lighting.
“Five minutes,” he says. “Carolina will open, then call you up at midnight exactly.”
I nod, oddly nervous despite everything we’ve already survived. This feels significant—a threshold being crossed, a door closing on one chapter and opening to another. Jack senses my tension, his thumb tracing small circles against my spine.
“Breathe,” he murmurs against my ear. “This is just a formality. The real work is already done.”
He’s right. Shelby’s body is already being disposed of, her blood washed from our hands, her memory fading with each passing hour.
Carolina checks her watch, then squares her shoulders. “It’s time.”
She steps out from the shadows and onto the stage, her appearance triggering a hush that spreads through the crowd like ripples in still water. The spotlight finds her, bathing her in cold light that turns her skin to alabaster.
Like a queen acknowledging her subjects, she raises her hands, and the silence deepens, expectant and hungry. “Welcome,” she begins, her voice carrying without strain, “to the final hour of the Sanctuary of Shadows.”
