Page 71 of A Witchy Spell Ride
“Yeah.”
Her shoulders squared. “I’ll sit the hall tonight. He tries to walk past me; I’ll make sure he rethinks legs.”
Ghost didn’t argue. “You and Vex split shifts. No one comes in or out without one of you counting their teeth.”
Briar nodded and vanished with the efficiency of a small, glamorous storm.
We were alone again.
Ghost turned the note to ash in the sink with a match. The flame ran fast, hungry, then died in a twist of smoke. He rinsed the black flakes down, slow, and precise, like the act itself was a ritual.
“Keep your bag with you,” he said. “Even to the shower.”
“Romantic.”
“Alive,” he corrected, same as before.
I stood. He stepped into my space. Not touching. Close enough that the air between us remembered how to burn.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said. “Hair on the latch. Ear to the floor if you hear something you don’t like. You yell my name. I’ll hear it.”
I believed him. That scared me almost as much as the note.
“Ghost,” I said, and he looked down at me like it was the only word he’d been waiting for all night. “Be careful.”
He smiled, small and dangerous. “I am when it counts.”
He left. I locked the door. Set the hair. Pressed my palm flat against the wood and felt the thud-thud of footsteps fade down the hall, his, steady. Mine, wild.
In the mirror, my mouth was still a little swollen. I uncapped the lipstick Briar had handed me and painted my mouth the color of fight. Then I tucked a blade into my boot, slipped the coin pendant beneath my shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed with my hands open on my knees.
He thought he knew me better.
He didn’t knowthisversion. The one who kissed a dangerous man and refused to be written by anyone else’s hand.
I waited.
And for the first time since the photos, since the lilies, since the red-thread nail, the fear made room for something else. Resolve.
Chapter Nineteen
Ghost
I should’ve pulled back.
Should’ve kept my distance.
Should’ve given her space, time, breath.
But the moment she walked into my room with that look in her eyes—fire, defiance, need, I knew I was done pretending. She held the note like it was a weapon. Like she was done hiding. Done shrinking.
And when she said, “Make me forget,” I didn’t ask questions.
I moved.
She was in my arms before the door clicked shut. The first kiss was a collision and a confession. No preamble, no mercy, just heat, and the rough sound we both made when relief finally found a mouth. Her fingers fisted in my cut; I shrugged the leather off without breaking, swallowed the small gasp that left her like I’d been starving for it.
“Selene,” I rasped against her cheek, breath dragging. “Say it.”
