Page 70 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“Show me,” I said.

His brow ticked. “Show you what?”

“How he got in. Where he could’ve stood. What I missed.” I lifted my chin. “If I’m the battlefield, I want to know the terrain.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw, something like approval, something like ache. He moved past me, reached under the bed, and came up with a slim case. Inside: a small blacklight, a roll of hair-thin fishing line, two tiny magnetic contacts, and chalk the color of bone.

He clicked the light on and scanned the inside of my door frame, the latch, the hinges. Nothing obvious. He laid the contacts gently against the strike plate and the bolt, a whisper of metal on metal. “If the bolt slides even a hair, Cross will get a ping.”

“Good,” I said, voice steadier now that there was a tool in the room and not just fear.

Ghost set the fishing line low, ankle height, right where the shadow pooled beside the dresser. “Trip line,” he said. “Bell in the hallway. Bones will hear it if you don’t.”

I reached for the chalk. Drew a small sigil on the underside of the dresser lip, quick and neat, the way my mother had taught me protection, yes, but also attention. A sign forI see you.

He watched my hand. “What’s that one do?”

“Makes liars itch.” I met his eyes. “We’ll see who scratches.”

He huffed a laugh that didn’t make it to his mouth. “You always were meaner than you looked.”

“So are you.”

Silence. Not awkward. Weighted.

He took the note from the counter again, flattened it with two fingers. “He’s escalating. Close contact. Personal items. Next is… closer.”

“I know.” Saying it out loud felt like opening a door and letting the night in. “He thinks wanting me is the same as knowing me. He thinks knowing me is the same as owning me.”

Ghost’s eyes went cold. “He thinks wrong.”

I sat on the edge of the bed because standing felt like defiance and right now, I needed endurance. He leaned against the dresser, the towel forgotten on the chair.

“Do you regret it?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.

“The kiss,” he said, making it not a question.

“Yeah.”

“No.” No hesitation. “Do you?”

“No.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been pocketing. “But I don’t want it to be something he did to us.”

“It isn’t,” Ghost said. “It won’t be.”

“Promise?” I meant it like a child and like a general.

“I don’t promise what I can’t hold,” he said. “But I can hold this.”

My throat tightened. I nodded once. “Okay.”

A soft knock tapped the open door. Briar slid in sideways like she’d been pressed flat. She took one look at Ghost’s bare chest, my bare nerves, and the fishing line on the floor. “Domestic terrorism, but make it chic,” she said. “You good?”

“No,” I said. “But I have homework.”

She held out two tiny bells on safety pins and a tube of lipstick. “For your gremlin couture. And this is the color of revenge.”

Ghost took the bells. I took the lipstick. Briar’s eyes flicked to the note, already crumpled again and she went still. “He touched your bag?”