Page 52 of Tricked By Jack
The first card slaps down on the table. The Tower—a lightning-struck structure with bodies falling through flames.
Her gaze sharpens. “Some towers fall by accident, others because the heir at their table decided they should burn. Even now, the bones of the man who built yours sit where you can see them every day… to remind you the cage is gone, but never forgotten.”
Eve’s shoulder twitches against my chest, like she wants to turn around but thinks better of it. I wonder if she thinks the card’s about me.
It’s not—it can’t be. My dad’s gone, but he was killed by Nick and Carolina, not me. And as far as I know, no one kept any of his remains. He’s rotting in the family mausoleum.
The old woman lays a second card beside it. The Devil—a horned figure with a man and woman chained at its feet.
“Bondage,” she continues, her pale eyes flicking between us. “Not just of the body, but of the soul. Chains you both forged willingly. His out of revenge, yours out of hunger for the dark. Each link is both a choice and a lock. And now there is no key.”
Eve’s breathing quickens slightly, and she presses her nails into my thigh. Whether to steady herself or claw her way free, I can’t tell. I shift my hand to her stomach, holding her in place, feeling the shallow drag of her breath against my palm.
It’s not lost on me that where my revenge is a negative, my Little Bride’s curiosity and hunger for the dark is a positive. How fucking ironic.
“I didn’t choose this,” Eve says, voice low but steady.
The crone’s eyes fix on her. “Didn’t you? You followed the masked man of your own volition—”
Whirling on me, Eve stabs her finger into my chest. “Did you tell her that? That I followed you here?”
The woman cackles. “The cards told me, dear. They know what’s in your heart.” She pauses for a beat. “You let him defile you, and you loved it even though you claim to hate it. Is this not your heart’s desire, Eve? To be free of the shackles your father bound around you? To be free of—”
“Please stop,” Eve begs, turning away from me again. Her face is down-turned as though she’s ashamed by what the fortune teller is saying.
“What else?” I demand sharply, not liking how uncomfortable this is clearly making my wife.
With a sharp nod, the old woman draws the third card; Death.
“Not an ending,” the fortune teller says, “but a transformation. Blood has been spilled, and more will follow. The question is whose, and whether either of you will survive what you’re turning each other into.”
Eve exhales through her nose, a sound too sharp to be a sigh. I feel it in the way her back muscles tighten against my chest. My own jaw locks—I tell myself it’s just theatrics, but the card’s image still burns behind my eyes.
Surviving each other… the thought shouldn’t interest me, but it does. What would be left of her if she did? What would be left of me if she didn’t?
I feel a trickle of genuine unease crawl up my spine. This is theater, like everything else at the Sanctuary—carefully researched, designed to unsettle—but something in the woman’s gaze feels too knowing, too precise.
“The cards show what already exists inside you,” she continues, laying down a fourth card. The Lovers—but inverted, the figures separated by a chasm of flame.
“A union built on revenge,” she says. “Two souls tethered not by love but by debt and desire. Every choice made for the wrong reason will come back to collect its price.” Her finger traces the divide between the figures. “Your souls are tethered now. One cannot bleed without the other tasting iron.”
The words hang between us like smoke, seeping intoevery crack. I feel her spine straighten against me, defiant, but she doesn’t pull away. She isn’t running. Not from me, not from this. That knowledge settles in my gut like a claim.
Eve seeking danger. My need for ruin. Two poisons poured into the same cup.
Her head tilts the smallest fraction toward mine, not enough for the crone to notice, but enough for me to feel the brush of her hair against my jaw. It isn’t closeness—it’s a dare, a silent acknowledgment that she knows exactly what we are.
Eve’s fingers twitch against the table. I catch the micro-expression that crosses her face—surprise followed by something deeper, more troubled.
“Blood bonds,” the fortune teller continues, “once formed, cannot be broken. Not by distance. Not by death. What flows between you now will flow forever.”
“Poetic,” I say, forcing a dismissive tone, “but hardly specific. This could apply to anyone.”
The crone’s eyes cut to me, sharp as blades. “Could it, Jack Knight? Could it apply to the brother who failed to save his sister? To the man who punishes the innocent for his own failings?”
My hand tightens on Eve’s wrist, hard enough that she winces. The fortune teller sees it and smiles, a knowing curve of lips that makes my skin crawl.
She draws a final card, placing it with deliberate slowness. The Hanged Man—but reversed, the suspended figure twisting unnaturally.
