Page 105 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“Look at me,” he whispered.

“I am,” I said. “I just don’t see what you want me to.”

He smiled sadly. “You will.”

I smiled back and made my wrists small one more time, because when I moved, I needed the distance to count.

“Briggs,” I said conversationally. “Who helped you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You looped Cross’s feed for ten seconds,” I went on, as if we were sharing kitchen gossip. “You knew the vent slats to pop. You knew the blind pocket by the back door. You don’t get that good by watching me buy candles.”

His pride preened. His paranoia flinched. The tug-of-war inside him made him careless.

“People like me always see what’s ignored,” he said. “Some of the boys never deserved the cut.”

Not a name. Not a denial.

“People like you,” I echoed, sliding the blade under the cord at my ankles and letting the wet nylon sing. “Which ones.”

“You don’t need to know,” he said, almost fond.

“Oh baby,” I said softly, “I already do.”

The cord gave. It didn’t pop; it sighed. The sound was small enough to hide under candle hum. I kept my ankles together, kept the illusion of restraint, and moved my right foot a fraction so the blade could tuck under the chair seat, invisible if he checked.

He lifted his hand to my face again, thumb hovering over my mouth like he thought he might wipe the lipstick away and find his property underneath.

“Don’t,” I said.

He thought I was pleading. He smiled and leaned in anyway.

Outside, far away, and close, a night sound changed, subtle as a held breath. The kind of stillness that means the world has noticed a wrong note and is tuning to fix it. I knew that quiet. Ghost had taught me to listen for it the way wolves teach their young to hear fresh snow.

I let Briggs touch the edge of my mouth, because sometimes you let the monster get exactly one thing he wants so you can take everything else from him after.

“Last chance,” I said.

His eyes softened with pity I didn’t request. “I forgive you,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” I repeated. “You won’t have time.”

He didn’t understand. That’s the thing about men who script your life in their heads, they never believe you when you tell them the ending.

He reached for the crown in my hair, like he meant to lift it and set it somewhere he could bless. His fingers brushed the ward Briar had hidden in the metal. It sparked, a tiny sting, nothing more and he hissed, yanking his hand back.

“Careful,” I said, and I smiled like a blade. “She bites.”

He stared at his fingers, offended. The candles guttered in a draft that came from nowhere—and everywhere.

Because somewhere close, a door was opening. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough to change the pressure in the room.

Briggs looked up, suspicion finally beating ritual. His head cocked toward the hall. He didn’t move away from me. He didn’t move toward the sound either. He stayed poised between a choice he hadn’t prepared for and a woman who had.

“Stay,” he told me, like I was a dog.

“I’m not the one who’s going to run,” I said.