Page 111 of A Witchy Spell Ride
Outside, sirens lifted faint in the distance — not ours. The city doing what it does when blood hits the wrong surface. Cross’s voice was a balm and an order in my ear. “I’ve got everything,” he said. “Petal in the sink matches the motel. Glove powder on Briggs’s hands. His phone just pinged the River Grove tower at 6:53. He killed Adam. He came for her. We nail him clean.”
Reaper’s shadow fell across the doorway. He looked at Selene the way kings look at the part of the world they can’t afford to lose. “You good?” he asked, which for him is poetry.
“I will be,” she said, and she slid under my arm like she’d always belonged there.
We walked her out under a sky that smelled like motor oil and victory deferred, and I let the cold air hit my face and scorch the parts of me that had been praying in languages I don’t admit to.
Someone had played us.
We’d learned the song.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Selene
“You always wore red when you were sad.”
Briggs crouched in front of me like we were swapping secrets at a sleepover, not chained in a candlelit garage that stank of gas and stale obsession.
“I noticed it back in May,” he went on, earnest as a Sunday school boy. “You wore that red dress for a week straight after your mom’s anniversary.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t twitch.
Didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
He continued, pleased with the sound of his own noticing.
“And your hair… you always do that messy bun when you’re overwhelmed. People think it’s just boho, but I know the truth.”
My stomach turned, but I forced my mouth to smile. “Then you really should’ve seen what I wear when I’m pissed off.”
He laughed. A quiet, dreamy sort of sound, like I’d said something sweet. “I missed you the week you went to the Gulf. You and Briar. You wore that yellow top I hate.”
“Shame,” I said, “I was thinking of wearing it to our wedding.”
His face lit up like a goddamn firecracker. “Really?”
“Sure. We can get married right here. Just you, me, and the rats in the wall.”
The glow in his eyes flickered, just for a second.
I leaned in—or tried to, bound as I was. “You want me, Briggs? Then prove it.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Untie me. Let me touch you.”
He inhaled, sharp and shallow. “I—I can’t. You’ll run.”
“No,” I whispered, “I won’t. But if you want me toseeyou the way you see me, you need to let me in. No more hiding behind duct tape and zip ties.”
He hesitated.
Then stood.
Paced.
