Page 91 of A Witchy Spell Ride

“Ghost,” Reaper said, and there was a warning and a benediction in it. “Alive.”

I nodded once. Deal I’d make and break if I had to—but I’d try to keep it.

I did a drive-by of the River Grove just before dusk. The place had the charm of a bruise. Neon that buzzed like a gnat. Two floors of doors that had seen more secrets than churches. Room 12A’s curtain sat open that same thumb-width Cross mentioned. A TV glowed a pale square on the far wall. I parked two lots over, walked past with a soda and a phone to my ear like a man arguing with his ex, and catalogued.

Mud on the welcome mat. Ashtray empty. Air smelled like cleaner trying and failing. No movement behind the slit of curtain. My gut still saidoccupied—the sort of empty that isn’t empty, the kind a hunter uses to let the woods forget him.

I didn’t knock. I left a hair across the latch of the exterior stairwell like a ghost calling card and slid back into traffic. This wasn’t the place. Not yet. I didn’t want a motel corridor with three blind corners and a manager who’d sell my soul for a Marlboro. I wanted home field.

Selene knew before I told her.

Of course she did.

She was at the bar that night, legs crossed, sipping on a bottle of sweet tea like it was whiskey. Hair up. Eyes sharp. Briar leaned beside her, carving a pentagram into a coaster with a steak knife because she likes to make art and threats at the same time. Reaper sat across the room with Bones, watching. Always watching.

“He’s in town,” Selene said before I spoke.

I just nodded.

“I’m not running,” she added, voice cool and clear.

“I didn’t think you would.”

She turned and looked me dead in the eye. “I want to go to the Halloween party.”

The words hit harder than I expected. Not because of the party. Because of thechoiceinside them.

“Selene—”

“I’m going,” she said again, slower. “But I’m not just showing up to dance and eat candy corn, Ghost. I’m going because he’ll be there.” A certainty I could respect. “He won’t be able to stay away.”

She stood. Crossed the space between us. Pressed her hands to my chest.

“I want him to come to me,” she whispered. “I want to look him in the eye when he tries to take what isn’t his.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re using yourself as bait.”

“I’m taking my life back.”

I gripped her wrists. Not to stop her. To steady myself.

“I’ll be by your side the whole night.”

“I know.”

“And when he makes his move—”

“I want him to see exactly who I chose,” she said, fierce now, “and exactly how wrong he was to ever think he had a chance.”

Fuck.

She wasn’t just strong. She was savage. Mine.

And when I kissed her there in the low light of the clubhouse—with her brother watching, with half the club pretendingnot to look—it wasn’t about possession anymore. It was about partnership.

We were going to end this.

Together.