Page 51 of Tricked By Jack
“My wife doesn’t need the time,” I bark, not bothering to mask the threat in my voice. “And you don’t need to breathe the same air as her.”
The man’s eyes widen, panic flooding them. “I was just trying to—”
I slam my fist into his gut, folding him like paper. “Like I give a flying fuck what you were trying to do.” I let him drop into the fog like discarded trash. “Walk away before I decide to finish the job.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Jack,” Eve sighs, stepping over the man without a glance. Her voice drips with bored disdain, like she’s scolding me for kicking over a trash can instead of dismantling someone’s wrist.
My cock twitches at the sheer ice in her tone, but it’s the restraint in her face that really gets me—like she’s weatheredworse and knows exactly how to bury it. I want to crack that composure wide open… but first, I’ll remind her exactly who she’s dealing with.
Reaching for her arm, I spin her around to face me. Her eyes narrow to steel-gray slits, but I just smirk. “If I don’t want you to know the time,” I say, tracing a finger along her jawline, “you won’t. Simple as that.”
Her nostrils flare slightly—a tiny tell that speaks volumes about the rage she’s containing. “Controlling even the most basic information. How predictable.”
“And yet you still asked a stranger,” I reply, my hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck. “How predictable.”
“So?” she challenges, baring her teeth.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask, my voice low and edged with danger. “Because if you want to keep tasting freedom, you really need to stop touching other men.” Before she can answer, I pull her along, almost making her stumble in her high heels.
The crowd parts as we move deeper into the Sanctuary grounds. Ahead, a structure materializes from the mist—a tunnel mouth constructed of what appears to be bone and sinew, though I know it’s all carefully crafted synthetics.
A neon sign hangs above, announcing this is theTunnel of Screams.But we’re not going there tonight.
We’ve barely made it fifty yards from the Tunnel when Eve’s stride falters. Her head turns, focus caught by something through the drifting fog. I follow her gaze to a small booth draped in black velvet, set apart from the main attractions.
Blood-red candles burn in iron holders, their flames perfectly still despite the night breeze. Their light illuminates a hand-painted sign that reads,Fate reads you as you read the cards.
Eve’s pupils dilate slightly, and I decide to indulge her curiosity. After all, knowing what she seeks might give me more to use against her later.
“Want to know your future, wife?” I ask, my voice silky with mock concern. “Or are you hoping to find out when you’ll escape me?”
Eve’s shoulders stiffen under my touch. “Perhaps I just want to know how this story ends,” she replies, her tone carefully measured. “Whether the monster gets his comeuppance.”
I laugh, sliding my hand to the nape of her neck. “Let’s find out together, shall we?”
Inside, the air is thick with incense—frankincense and myrrh, biblical scents of death and divinity. The space is smaller than it appeared from outside, forcing Eve to stand close enough that I feel the heat radiating from her body.
The fortune teller sits hunched behind a small table covered in black silk. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles. A tattered hood casts her eyes in shadow, but I catch glimpses of them when she moves—pale, almost colorless, like river stones worn smooth by time.
Her gnarled fingers extend toward us, beckoning. “I’ve been waiting,” she says, her voice surprisingly strong and clear. “The cards told me you would come tonight.”
Eve shifts her weight, her skepticism almost palpable. “Did they tell you our names too?” she asks.
The crone smiles, revealing teeth too perfect for her ancient face. “Names are masks we wear for others, Eve,” she says.
At my side, my wife tries her best not to react as the fortune teller casually throws out her name.
“The cards know you by what lies beneath,” the old woman finishes. She gestures for us to sit. There’s only one chair, low and close to the table.
I sit down before pulling Eve onto my lap like she belongs there. She stiffens, but I cage her in with an arm around her waist, forcing her to face the crone across the narrow strip of black silk. From here, I can feel every shallow breath she takes.
Before I can respond, she pulls a deck from nowhere—a fluid movement that my eyes can’t quite track. The cards are larger than standard tarot, their backs decorated with an intricate design of intertwined thorns and roses.
“Both of you,” she commands, laying the deck on the table. “Touch the cards together. They must taste your bond.”
I place my hand on the deck first, then grasp Eve’s wrist with my other hand, pulling her palm down beside mine. The cards feel warm, almost alive, beneath our touch. Eve tries to pull away, but I hold her there, fingers pressing into the soft skin of her inner wrist where her pulse jumps like a trapped bird.
“That’s enough,” the fortune teller says after a moment that stretches too long. She takes the deck back, shuffling with a dexterity that belies her apparent age.
