Page 6 of A Witchy Spell Ride

When I finally stand, it ain’t because I have a plan. It’s instinct. The weight of her stare, the pull in my chest, the restless ache that has dragged me back to New Orleans in the first place. But Selene moves first. She pushes off the wall, says something low to Briar, and slips out the door into the night. I freeze, my boots itch to follow. My fists itch to knock sense into myself. Slow burn or not, one thing is clear, this wasn’t just a visit. I wasn’t back in New Orleans for the club. I was back for her.

Chapter Three

Selene

Therewas something about the way Banks looked at me.

Not in a you’re hot and I know it kind of way. Not even in the “your brother will kill me for thinking about you” kind of way. It was different.

Still. Cold.Like he already owned the ending to a story I hadn’t agreed to be in. He barely said a word, but I felt his gaze all the way down my spine. Like fingers I didn’t invite. Like breath on a windowpane. The kind of attention that makes you measure every step twice and spin a lock on the safe side so that the noise of the tumblers is loud enough to make your lungs forget to race. Ghost noticed it too.

I saw the way he moved. Quiet, deliberate. A shift in his weight, hand near the knife at his hip. Nowords spoken, but a message sent. I wanted to thank him. I also wanted to punch him. Because the last thing I needed right now was Ghost all up in my business, acting like he was doing me a favor by brooding nearby.

He hadn’t even said hello when I walked in. Just gave me that look. The one he always used to give me before I knew what to do with it. Before I understood how dangerous men like Ghost could be. Before I wanted it.

Now I didn’t know what to make of it. Or him. And I sure as hell didn’t know what to make of Banks and the way my stomach flipped when he was near. Not excitement. Not nerves. Something else. Fear.

“I don’t like that guy,” Briar says as soon as we step out into the courtyard, her arm loops through mine like she is dragging me toward mischief. I didn’t have to ask who she meant.

“Which guy?” I play dumb. She rolls her eyes. “The creepy-ass prospect who stared at you like he was trying to figure out how you taste with a side of fries.”

I wince. “Thanks for the imagery.”

“You’re welcome. I’m a poet of red flags.”

“He’s probably just awkward.”

“Awkward is forgetting someone’s name. Awkward is spilling a drink. He was calculating your blood type.”

I hesitate. It feels stupid saying it out loud. Admitting it makes it more real. And Briar, being Briar, catches it immediately.

“Selene.”

“What.”

She stops walking. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing—”

“I know you. And you’ve been twitchy for days.”

I sigh and glance toward the gate. The sun is dipping low, washing everything in gold, but it doesn’t warm the unease sitting in my gut. New Orleans late afternoon light always makes everything prettier and more dangerous at the same time, as if the city is dressing itself up to look innocent so it could stab you with a smile.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Something’s been… off.”

Briar tilts her head. “Define ‘off.’ Like a weird smell? Or like someone-is-watching-me-while-I-sleep kind of off?”

I hesitate again. Her eyes narrow. “Selene.”

“I think someone’s been following me.”

She doesn’t laugh, not even a blink. “How long?”

“A few weeks. Maybe longer. I didn’t really… I brushed it off at first. But now—”

“Now it feels real.”

“Yeah.”