Page 45 of A Witchy Spell Ride
She didn’t reply. But she didn’t pull away either. And that told me everything I needed to know. This wasn’t about strategy anymore. Wasn’t about intel or assignments or shadows on the street. This was personal. She was personal.
And if this Adam fuck thought he could take something that belonged to me? He was about to learn what happened when you stared too long into the dark.
Sometimes the dark looked back.
Chapter Fourteen
Selene
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I drifted. Floated in that strange half-place between exhaustion and adrenaline, where dreams turned sour and shadows turned into shapes. My body lay still on the couch, but my brain paced the walls like Ghost did, back and forth, back, and forth, learning the apartment’s breath the way a medic learns a failing pulse.
Ghost stayed.
Didn’t say much. Just paced the apartment. Checked locks. Sat near the window with his knife unsheathed and his jaw tight like he was chewing on gunmetal and rage. The knife glinted each time a car passed on the street below, and something in me uncoiled in answer, not because I liked the blade, but because it belonged to a man who would use it for me without asking for anything first.
I pretended not to notice how he looked at me when I wasn’t looking. Pretended not to notice how safe I felt when I shouldn’t. But deep down, I knew something had shifted. Something had cracked open. And I wasn’t sure I’d ever close it again.
The morning light was gray. Flat. Like even the sun wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.
Ghost stepped out to grab coffee from the corner spot he claimed brewed drinkable sludge. “Ten minutes,” he said at the door, a promise folded into a warning. I used the moment to breathe. Brush my teeth. Pretend I was a normal person in a normal apartment.
And then I opened the drawer.
It wasn’t locked. Wasn’t even stuck. Just… ordinary. Until I saw it.
Another envelope. Cream. Folded cleanly. Same handwriting on the front. No stamp. No seal. Just my name.
My stomach dropped. Hands trembling, I opened it.
Inside was a photo.
I stopped breathing.
It was us. Me and Ghost. Last night. Sitting on the couch. Me leaning into him. His hand on my back. My face turned toward his chest, eyes closed.
Intimate. Unmistakable.
Taken from inside the apartment.
My blood turned to ice. I dropped the photo like it burned. But my eyes caught the message scrawled underneath in sharp, furious red:
You were meant to be mine.
Not his.
He’s poisoning you.
But I’ll fix it.
I’ll make you clean again.
I stumbled back. Hit the wall. Slid to the floor. My breath came too fast, too shallow.
He was here. Not days ago. Hours. Watching.While Ghost held me. Photographing us.
