Page 24 of A Witchy Spell Ride

Nothing triggered, no signs of a break-in. No shattered glass. Just the note and the rose left for me. I reached out slowly, picking up the paper and unfolding it.

The handwriting was careful. Like someone who took their time. Letters curved like poetry, but too clean, almost clinical.

You were made to be adored.

Watched.

Worshipped.

Soon, you’ll see.

I’m not the danger.

I’m the answer.

There was no signature. No smudges. No scent. No initials. Just that. I read it again. And again. Each time, it sat heavier in my gut. Like lead. Like fear finally given a voice.

I dropped it back on the counter and stepped away, heart thudding in my chest like it wanted out.

This wasn’t a prank. Wasn’t a fucking joke. Someone had gotten inside. While I was there. Ten feet away. Not hours before. Not overnight. Minutes.That was the part that turned my blood cold.

It wasn’t just the note. It was the fact that they wanted me to find it. To know they were close. To make it intimate.

My fingers shook as I grabbed my burner and texted Briar.

Come to the shop. Now. Don’t tell Reaper.

I didn’t wait for a reply. I walked to the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and locked it again.

Twice.

Then I sat behind the counter, rose still untouched, note still open — like maybe if I stared long enough, it would explain itself. It didn’t. But what did it do? It makes everything I thought I understood about this little game unravel at the edges. Because this?

This wasn’t just a stalker anymore. This was someone who thought they knew me. Someone who thought they were meant for me. And that was worse. Way worse. Because love or what people like this think is love doesn’t play fair.

It plays for keeps.

Briar arrived in seven minutes and thirty-nine seconds. I know because I counted every one of them with the same intensity you count breaths when you’re trying not to scream.

She didn’t bother to knock. She knew my tells sign flipped, blinds tilted, the tiny charm dangling from the top lock turned ninety degrees instead of straight. She slipped in, shut the door, threw the deadbolts, and came to a dead stop when she saw the counter.

Her eyes went straight to the note. Then the rose. Then me.

“What the hell,” she breathed, voice too soft to be Briar. “When?”

“Ten minutes,” I said. “Maybe less.”

“You were—”

“In the back.”

She swore quietly, a rarity for her, then pulled a pair of black nitrile gloves from her pocket like a magician producing a dove. “Rule one of crime club,” she muttered, snapping them on. “We don’t smudge the creepy.”

“You carry gloves around?”

“Do you not?” She arched a brow. “Have we met?”

Despite everything, my mouth twitched. “You’re ridiculous.”