Faerie Bad Decisions

M. J. Michaels

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © M.J. Michaels 2025

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter One

My grandmother always warned me about making deals with Faeries. Not the Tinker Bell kind, either. No singing or any of that wand-waving Disney Channel bullshit. She meant the old country Fae. The kind of creatures that wore glamour like a second skin. The kind that granted wishes the way a butcher grants mercy. Quick, messy, and always with something missing afterward. A piece of you carved out clean.

She’d sit by the fireplace in her wicker rocking chair, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Smoke curled up into her silver hair, and her eyes squinted through it like she was watching something miles, or decades, away. Maybe both.

“They give you exactly what you ask for,” she muttered once, her voice thick and rough, like it had been scraped raw on broken promises. “And it ruin your life, Andrezj. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Soul is gone.”

That sound echoed in my bones longer than it had any right to.

I always called her Grandma growing up. It was simple, warm. American. The word you wrapped yourself in like an old quilt. But sometimes, when the wind whistled through the cracks in the house and the fireplace popped like it was remembering something, she’d slip into a different rhythm. She’d start teaching me little words in Polish, words that felt like secrets. Like keys to something I wasn’t supposed to open.

“Say it like me,” she said one evening, brushing flour from her hands, her fingers wrinkled but still strong. We stood in the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of roasted potatoes and fried onions. “Bahb-cha.”

I tried it. “Bahb-cha.”

She smiled, one of the rare real ones that made her eyes crinkle at the edges. “Babcia,” she repeated, faster, softer, like she was saying a prayer. “It mean grandmother. But is our word. From our place. Not American.”

From then on, Grandma became Babcia.

She had come from somewhere deep in Eastern Europe. The kind of place that gets swallowed by fog on maps, where borders shift every few decades because of politics, and the locals all have haunted eyes. They ended up in West Texas, of all places. It was like she’d spun the globe and picked the furthest place she could reach without falling into the ocean. She talked little about the past. Not about the village or the big war she grew up in. Not about whatever still made her light candles during thunderstorms and whisper names into her vodka spiked coffee.

Babcia brought the past with her, despite her best intentions. She carried it with her like a family heirloom packed tight in her bones, leaking out in muttered prayers and superstitions. She raised me after my dad died, oilfield accident, while my mom worked double shifts at the diner and the feed store. She taught me how to gut a fish, how to sharpen a knife until it could shave the hair off your arm, and how to spot a lie dressed in lace and perfume.

She taught me how to listen, too. Not just with my ears, but with my skin. With my gut. Because sometimes, the most dangerous things don’t knock. They slip in through the cracks, wearing a pretty face.

Their village, wherever the hell it was, sounded like a fairy tale written by someone with trust issues and a drinking problem. One of those places with more consonants than vowels and nobody went outside after dark unless they had a death wish or a deal to keep.

“Never take gift from pretty stranger,” Babcia would say, stirring her tea counterclockwise. “Especially if she not blink. Or if she offer food… but no taste it first. Vila can slip into our world, wearing skin not their own. Trick you with smile… with story… or kiss that burn like cold fire.”

I used to roll my eyes. Thought she was just old and too steeped in the past.

Thing is? The past doesn’t care if you believe in it.

Because this morning, I woke up with a ring on my finger, a pounding in my skull, and absolutely no memory of how I got in this hotel room.

There was a woman next to me.

A very naked, very beautiful woman. She lay on her side, one arm curled under the pillow, the other draped loosely across the sheets. And her wings—those impossible, violet-pink things—were tucked in neatly under the blanket with a gentle grace, glowing faintly with every heartbeat. Her body was the kind of art that got sculptors excommunicated from the church. All ivory curves and whispered promises.

The blanket was barely doing its job, clinging to her hips like a defeated soldier, one inch from giving up entirely. I could see the line of her spine, the dip of her waist, the swell of a hip that made my brain file for divorce from the rest of my common sense.

Her skin was pale, porcelain smooth, but shimmered faintly in the morning light—a soft, iridescent glow that pulsed with green undercurrents. Not human, not even close. It reminded me of the sheen of an oil spill when it got wet.

Thick tangles of hair, dark green and glossy like mossy velvet, spilled across the pillow. It was wild and unkempt, but in that perfectly accidental way. It framed her face, parting just enough to reveal a mouth made for secrets. She looked peaceful. Dreaming, maybe. Or pretending to.

I couldn't remember her name. Didn’t know how we got in this hotel room. Didn’t know how I got here. I stared, paralyzed in that half-awake, half-panicked state where your body forgets how to function, but your soul knows you’ve done something deeply, deeply unwise.

The ring on my finger caught the light. Gold, but not just gold. Ancient. Wrought like something found buried in an old crypt, with curling ivy leaves inlaid with green gemstones that pulsed faintly, like they had a heartbeat. Not a ring you buy on a drunken whim in Las Vegas. This thing had history.

It sure as hell wasn’t mine. I lifted my hand slowly, like it might bite.

“What the hell did I do last night?” I croaked.

My throat was sandpaper. My head pulsed like it had its own angry drummer. My stomach churned with the slow realization that this wasn’t a bad dream.

The Faerie woman stirred. Just a little. A sigh, soft and breathy, slipped from her lips. A sound that managed to be both innocent and predatory in the same breath. It was the sort of noise that could make a man forget about fire and brimstone, about rules and warnings and grandmotherly advice.

I swallowed. Then I looked down.

The blanket over me was doing a much worse job than hers. I had a very... noticeable problem forming under the covers, which felt like a cruel betrayal considering the circumstances.

“Fantastic,” I muttered, dragging a hand over my face.

The full force of my hangover hit me like a truck full of bricks the second I tried to get up. Not just a regular truck either, one of those eighteen-wheelers hauling concrete, propane tanks, and a mariachi band.

Everything hurts. My skull began throbbing like it was trying to claw its way out through my eye sockets. My stomach rolled and twisted and my mouth felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton. After they set it on fire… then used it to mop up the floor of a dive bar hosting dollar tequila night.

I groaned. Rolled out of bed like a dying animal trying to escape the predator of its own life choices. Every muscle in my body protested as I hit the floor with the grace of a collapsing bookshelf. I crawled. Literally crawled. On hands and knees, elbows and forehead. I probably looked like a wounded raccoon dragging itself off the highway after losing a fight with a Ford Focus.

I made it to the bathroom just in time to puke my entire existence into the toilet. It wasn’t just vomit. It was violence and vengeance. It was a full-body exorcism of every sin I’d committed in the last twelve hours, and probably a few I hadn’t puked out yet. My soul left me in chunks. My dignity followed right after.

Glitter…

Not a little. My puke was sparkling. Tiny flecks of blue and gold shimmered in the toilet bowl like a unicorn had died in there.

“What the hell did I eat?” I rasped, wiping my mouth with a trembling hand that may or may not have still been shaking from alcohol poisoning.

“Fucking Vegas…”

Edible glitter. Had to be. Or maybe actual crushed-up pixies. Possibly with battery acid. Or liquified nightclub glitter. Most likely all three, blended into a cursed smoothie and served with a tiny umbrella.

I slumped to the side and collapsed on the cold tile floor, curling into the fetal position like the big, strong, rugged cowboy I wasn’t feeling like right now. My cheek pressed against the ceramic. It was cold. Blessedly cold. Like an angel’s kiss. If the angel had a minor drug habit.

I moaned.

The scent hit me then, faint, but unmistakable. Wildflowers and cloves. A summer storm rolling through an ancient forest. Even through the stench of puke, sweat, and despair, I could still smell her.

And it wasn’t fading. If anything it seemed to give me strength.

But all I could do was lie there on the cold tile, moaning softly and trying not to die. I needed water. I needed painkillers. I needed an exorcist and probably a talented lawyer. Because somewhere between the strip club, the blackout, and the dream where I think I was playing poker with a talking cat, I’d apparently tied the knot.

With a naked woman made of moonlight, moss, and mistakes I hadn’t even invented yet. And I had a very strong suspicion it was all very binding.

What in the actual fuck did I do last night?

Chapter Two

14 Hours Earlier…

I had just landed in Las Vegas, still shaking the dust of West Texas off my boots. I’d left Amarillo behind—flat land, rusted fences, and dust storms that howled like wolves—and dropped straight into Sin City for my half-brother’s wedding. I felt like a cow in a shark tank. Even the air felt different here. Artificial, like someone had tried to bottle excitement then pump it through the vents. It made you want to do something reckless before you even hit baggage claim.

Neon signs blinked in the airport gift shop windows, peddling glittery shot glasses and I GOT LUCKY IN VEGAS t-shirts that were already lying to me. A slot machine stood sentry outside the bathroom like a reminder that in this town, you could lose everything, even on your way to take a piss.

And the people. God, the people.

Las Vegas attracts folks like blood attracts sharks. There was a group of bachelorette girls fresh off their flight, probably from L.A., matching pink tank tops that said “Bride Tribe” and enough pink to choke a Korean Pop Girl Band. They were already buzzed and shrieking over a margarita mix the size of a toddler.

A pair of middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts stumbled by next, clinging to styrofoam cups and midlife crises. Their eyes were red-rimmed and hopeful in that “we just need one good hand” kind of way. Across from them, a couple in business casual whispered like they were planning to embezzle something before dinner. Their luggage was expensive. Their wedding rings weren’t.

Then came the gamblers. You could always tell. Shifty eyes, wrinkled suits, fingers twitching like they missed the feel of poker chips. One guy was arguing with his wife over the phone, voice low but intense, muttering something about “just one more night” and “I swear I’ve got a system, babe.”

College kids in flip-flops and tank tops walked past with wide grins and no idea how fast the city would chew them up. Bright-eyed tourists dragged luggage bigger than their futures. And right behind them came the professional man eaters with their high heels, tight dresses, and sharp smiles. Looking for opportunity, or just someone dumb enough to confuse it with love.

All of it swirled around me in a chaotic, glitter-soaked kaleidoscope of human desperation and unchecked dopamine.

I adjusted my duffel on my shoulder, pulled my hat lower, and exhaled slowly.

“Welcome to Vegas,” I muttered to myself.

I texted Mike to let him know I landed. Then caught a cab to the hotel, a glass-and-chrome monstrosity just off the Strip that looked like a spaceship landed on a credit card.

The cabbie didn’t talk much, which suited me fine. I wasn’t in the mood to explain why I looked like a cowboy who got lost on the way to a rodeo. I just leaned my head against the window and watched the city unravel in neon and madness.

Coming from a town where the most exciting thing on a Saturday night was $2 Beer Night at the bar or a fistfight in the Dairy Queen parking lot, Vegas was… a lot.

Billboards flashed by like fever dreams. Showcasing half-naked showgirls, Elvis impersonators, and magic acts that promised to blow your mind and probably steal your wallet. One marquee featured a tiger mid-pounce next to a guy with too many teeth and not enough shirt. Another advertised an all-you-can-eat lobster buffet at two in the morning. Two in the goddamn morning.

Everywhere I looked, there were lights. Blinking, pulsing, and strobing like the city was trying to hypnotize me with excess. Even the pedestrians looked like they’d walked out of a music video. Glitter, leather, high heels, and enough cologne to fumigate a stadium.

I even saw a guy wearing a hotdog costume walking a llama wearing a sombrero… I didn’t ask questions.

When the cab pulled up to the hotel, I just sat there a second, staring up at it. Towering glass. Curved chrome siding. Blue lights spiraling along the edges like some kind of alien spinal cord. I stepped out. My boots hit the sidewalk with a dull thunk, and right away I felt the judgment.

Las Vegas was used to weird, sure. But dusty, weather-beaten boots and a canvas duffle bag? That got me some looks.

Especially when I stepped inside.

The lobby floor was polished to a mirror shine, and my boots made it squeak like it didn’t approve of my fashion choices. The whole place smelled like money and stale-beer-scented sin. Gold trim, futuristic couches, and way too much glass. Not enough shame. And before I could make it to the front desk, I had to pass through the casino.

The entrance yawned open in front of me like a glitzy, high-stakes mouth ready to devour whatever scraps of luck you thought you had left. Flashing machines lined the walls, chiming and dinging like they were singing lullabies to your bank account. Dealers in crisp uniforms flanked blackjack tables, their hands smooth and fast as conjurers. A woman in a sequined dress brushed past me, her perfume thick and expensive. She didn’t look back.

None of them did.

I walked through it all like I was underwater. It was like stepping into a spell. One woven from light, sound, and the reckless beating hearts of every desperate soul inside. By the time I reached the front desk, I was sweating and more than a little disoriented. The girl behind the counter smiled with the kind of shine they taught in orientation videos. Her nametag said Kelsey. Her eyes said I’m already dead inside.

“Welcome to the Nexus Hotel and Casino,” she said brightly. “Checking in?”

“Yeah,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “Name’s Andrew Nowak. Got a room under that.”

She tapped away at her keyboard, all plastic clicks, and forced cheer. “Let me just pull that up…”

I exhaled, tried to look casual, and failed. My reflection in the gold-tinted glass looked like I’d stepped out of a Marlboro ad and straight into the wrong timeline. Kinda a big contrast to the futuristic sci-fi scenery of the hotel.

I’d barely gotten the keycard to my room when I heard a familiar voice holler, “Drew!”

Mike found me like a bloodhound. Big grin and bouncing energy. Looked the same as he always did, just taller, leaner, and with a college-boy broccoli headed haircut that probably had a name. He’s my half-brother, but you’d never know it from the way we talk. When my dad was just a kid, Babcia packed him up and moved to Amarillo after my grandfather died. Dad grew up out there, fell for a waitress with a crooked smile and soft hands.

That was my mom.

He died when I was young, oilfield accident. I remember little about him, just the sound of his voice on old VHS tapes and the way my mom’s face would get tight when she talked about him. The oil company paid out a settlement big enough to keep us fed and warm. Modest comfort, not rich. More than enough to get by without scraping the bottom.

And mom didn't have to work two jobs anymore.

A few years later, Mom married Sam Callahan. Ranchhand. He was a solid man with steady hands. He treated me like his own blood, no questions asked.

They had Mike, and even with seven years between us, we were inseparable. I helped raise the kid. Helped teach him how to ride, how to fix a fence, how to survive a West Texas summer without dying of boredom or heatstroke.

A few years back, tragedy struck again. because life just loves a sequel.

A drunk truck driver ran a red light. Took my mom and Sam in the same breath. Another settlement, another funeral, another hole punched straight through the gut.

That money helped keep Mike on his feet. Got me and him through college.

I went to school out in Lubbock. Big university. I studied animal sciences. Not because I had some grand plan, it just made sense. Grew up around horses, dogs, the occasional stubborn goat. I understood animals better than I understood most people. Ended up getting a job not far from there. Small operation. Hands-on. The kind of work that makes your back sore and your hands calloused, but it felt right.

I bought a little place outside of town. Nothing fancy, just ten acres of stubborn land and a busted old house I fixed up with my own hands. Couple cows and goats, a mule named Pancake, some chickens and two roosters that hate me personally. My dog and cat are my real pride and joy.

But mostly I fix fences, mend tack, feed the animals, shoot varmints, and sleep like a rock.

Through it all, Mike never stopped smiling. He and Babcia moved in with me. The kid was all sunshine. Got straight A’s, made friends with everyone, even learned to cook better than me. Which ain’t hard, since I consider chili and cornbread two separate food groups.

Now he’s finishing up at school in Austin, got a job lined up, and—this one hit like a branding iron—he’s getting married. To a sweet girl named Katie.

She’s polite, thoughtful, and calls me “sir,” which makes me feel like I should be wearing a suit and giving speeches.

The wedding’s in two days. I’m here in Vegas for the bachelor party.

What could possibly go wrong?

Mike pulled me into a quick hug, all grins and aftershave.

“Damn, Andrew. You made it!” he said, stepping back and giving me a once-over. “Still wearing boots, huh?”

I looked down at my dusty, scuffed-up work boots, then back at him. “You expected me to show up in flip-flops? What do you think I am… deranged?”

Mike laughed. “You’re definitely something. You look like you wandered in off a cattle drive.”

I adjusted my hat and gave him a flat look. “I wish I did. Woulda been better than sittin in a flying metal coffin for over an hour.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “C’mon, man. It’s Vegas! You gotta let loose. You’re too young to be acting like someone’s tired old uncle.”

Mike clapped me on the back. “Tonight’s gonna be good. Katie’s with her girls, I got you here, and the guys should be showing up any min…”

The hotel lobby elevator doors burst open.

“VEGAS, BABY!” someone roared before I even saw a face.

In stormed six human hurricanes. Eric, Nick, Brian, Derek, Tim, and Larry.

The kind of crew that looked like they’d just lost a bet with a reality show producer. Fresh-faced, loud, and dangerously confident, they moved with the speed and purpose of a bar fight, looking for an excuse. They were already filming everything, shouting, high-fiving random people, and narrating their lives like they were the stars of Idiots Abroad: Vegas Edition.

Eric wore sunglasses indoors, like he was hiding from the law or his own decisions. Derek had a can of Monster in one hand and a bottle of Fireball in the other, already dual-wielding. The big buff one, Nick, was shirtless, for reasons known only to him. Brian whooped, pointed at a chandelier, and yelled something about “manifesting alpha energy” before high-fiving a confused Japanese man. Tim looked like he’d pre-gamed with a six-pack and bing-rip. And Larry… Larry wore a fluorescent tank top that said LET’S GET NASTY.

Mike turned with the calm of a man used to herding feral animals.

“Guys, this is my brother, Andrew,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Try not to corrupt him too fast.”

Nick looked me up, and down like he was sizing up a weird new lifeform. “Whoa. Cowboy, huh? We gettin’ a horse or what?”

“Only if I get to watch you break your ass,” I said.

Nick snorted. “He’s got jokes! I like this guy!”

Tim dazedly thrust a red solo cup into my face like it was a peace offering or a challenge. “Dude… Drink this. You’re waaaaay too sober to be in this spaceship.”

I took it. Sniffed. Immediately regretted every decision that led to this moment.

“Is this…gasoline?”

“Tequila,” Larry said proudly. “And Monster energy drink. And, uh… some THC syrup. I call it the Three Amigos!”

“Why?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Vegas.”

Mike leaned in, lowering his voice. “You good?”

“Ya, I’m good. Help me take my bag up to my room and we can go celebrate.”

He slapped me on the back. “Thatta boy!”

We took the elevators up to the tenth floor. I glanced around. The hallway lights flickered slightly as the guys piled into my suite. The faint thump of lobby music pulsed through the walls like the building had a heartbeat. Nick was now challenging Brian to a push-up contest. Derek had just opened the minibar with the reverence of a priest, unlocking the Ark of the Covenant. Larry was filming everything. And Tim was…

Where the fuck is Tim? Ah, whatever…

I exhaled slowly.

“I’m pushing thirty,” I said. “But sure. Let’s tear up Vegas.”

Mike grinned. “Atta boy.”

Should be interesting. Or a total disaster. But then again, the best stories usually start with bad decisions.

We hit up a steakhouse with more stars than a clear West Texas night. One of those joints with lighting so low it felt like a séance, where the waiters glided around in tailored suits, whispering menu items like they were state secrets. The walls were dark wood, the booths were deep and plush, and you could practically taste the mob history baked into the upholstery. Everything was polished, quiet, expensive and judging me.

We got seated at a big corner booth, the kind you see in gangster movies right before someone ends up in a shallow grave. Mike’s friends piled in like over-caffeinated golden retrievers, already hyped, already shouting over one another, and already halfway drunk on the thrill of neon and the unearned confidence of youth.

I picked up the menu. It was leather-bound, gold-embossed, and weighty enough to double as a murder weapon. I nearly dropped it due to weight.

“Twenty-eight dollars,” I muttered, staring at the mashed potatoes like they’d committed a hate crime. “For fucking mashed potatoes.”

Mike leaned around Nick, who was already busy using the butter knife to make a miniature tower of sugar packets. “You okay?”

I tilted the menu so he could see it. “Back home, that much gets me a steak, a beer, and a tip.”

He chuckled. “It’s a celebration, man. Just go with it.”

“I am going with it. I’m just mentally preparing to sell an acre when I get back.”

Mike grinned, that warm, brotherly kind of grin that made me remember why I was here in the first place.

“You don’t have to cover this, y’know,” he said, lowering his voice a little. “We’ve got it.”

I waved him off.

“You’re getting married. I’m not about to let a bunch of college kids max out their credit cards on fancy meat and that stuff that looks like aquarium moss on top of it.”

Brian, apparently blessed with bat hearing, raised his glass. “To Drew! The real MVP!”

“Yeah! Big bro Andrew!” Tim echoed, sloshing his whiskey and soaking his sleeve.

Eric, two beers in and clearly vibing with his inner menace, added, “Cowboy by day, sugar daddy by night!”

I narrowed my eyes. “Call me that again and I’ll sugar-daddy my boot straight up your ass!”

“Alright, alright!” Mike cut in, laughing. “Let’s not scare the waiter.”

Too late.

Our server, a tall man with cheekbones like a Bond villain and a posture that said he could smell my net worth, approached with a perfectly polite smile. Still, he got their orders down with professional ease and even avoided flinching when Larry asked if Wagyu was a country.

The boys were having the time of their lives. Laughing, shouting, talking over one another about crypto, sports betting, girls, and something called shroom parties.

Apparently, that was a thing now.

I tried to keep up. I really did. But every time I smiled, it felt like borrowed skin. They talked fast, laughed louder, and threw around words like banger, lit, and vibe check like we shared a dialect.

We didn’t. Not even close.

I felt like a scarecrow sitting in the middle of a crow tailgate party. And maybe that was fine. Maybe this was their moment. Their city. Their mess to make. I was just here to make sure he stayed out of trouble.

Back in high school, my kind of party was ten people around a campfire, passing a thirty-pack and telling stories we hoped never got back to our parents. Card games, cheap beer, and maybe a game of beer pong on a tailgate of a truck.

That was more my speed.

I’d never been one for clubs, loud music, or wine I couldn’t pronounce. Probably why I was still single. That and the fact that I preferred feeding my animals to flirting with strange women.

My dog, Ripley, understood me better than most people. My cat, Achilles, ignored me with the regal disdain that only made me love him more. And when I wasn’t working the ranch, sometimes I’d boot up a game on my computer. Rarely these days, hard to focus when you’re exhausted from fixing a busted water line or chasing a wayward goat through a mesquite thicket.

But all of that to say… I wasn’t built for whatever came next.

Mike’s friends, though? They were vibrating with anticipation. You could practically see the mental checklists. Strip clubs, bottle service, and cocaine nosebleeds. They were ready to tear the city apart.

Me? I just wanted a steak, a drink, and to survive the night without ending up on a viral video or in a holding cell.

Mike looked at me across the table, gave me a warm smile.

“Thanks for being here, Drew,” he said, quiet, sincere. “Really.”

I nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it, kid.”

Even if I probably should’ve.

The sun was just setting by the time we hit the Strip. That Vegas glow bounced off every mirrored surface in sight. It wasn’t dark yet, but the city was already lighting up like a guilty conscience. The heat had backed off, but the air still felt thick, like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for the night to hit full throttle.

Mike and his pack of cologne-drenched hyenas were already shouting over each other, arguing about which casino to hit first like they were generals planning an invasion. We ended up in one of those over-the-top joints with a name that sounded like either a biblical demon or a prescription drug.

The Abaddon.

It smelled like a mix of carpet cleaner, stale cigarette smoke, and broken dreams. Gaudy gold ceilings, marble columns that probably weren’t real marble, and music pumping from some unseen speaker system. It was like Vegas had tried to physically manifest hubris and slapped a buffet on top.

Slot machines blinked like cheap jewelry, each one screaming for attention like a toddler at a funeral. Cocktail waitresses wove through the chaos in four-inch heels, all legs and dead eyes. They looked like they’d seen a thousand bachelor parties and hated every single one. I didn’t blame them.

I trailed behind the guys, hands in my pockets, letting them storm the floor like they owned it. Or at least like they hadn’t read the fine print about house odds.

Eric was already howling at the roulette table, “Red twenty-three, baby!”, as if sheer enthusiasm could bend physics. Brian made a beeline for the craps table, high-fiving strangers like they’d all been friends in a past life. Derek and Tim double-teamed a row of slot machines, feeding bills into them like they were paying protection money.

I usually played Texas Hold ’Em or blackjack, quiet games. Games where you could learn a man’s soul by watching how he fidgeted, where the cards were just an excuse to see who flinched first. But after dropping three grand on a steak and some glorified mashed potatoes, I wasn’t feeling lucky.

I was feeling haunted.

I could practically hear Babcia’s voice whispering in the back of my mind, scratchy and thick with disapproval. “That’s a used tractor, Andrzej. That’s twenty bags of feed. That’s a whole winter of hay.”

Still, Mike was beaming. Grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, soaking in the lights and sounds and chaos like he was born for it.

That made it worth it.

He came up to me at one point, a fancy glass in one hand, the other clapping my shoulder.

“You good, man? You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” I said. “But yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure? You look like you’re mentally repairing a fence post.”

I smirked. “That’s ‘cause I am. Larry just lost five hundred bucks in thirty seconds. He’s having a spiritual crisis.”

Mike laughed, loud and easy, and nudged my arm. “You could lighten up, y’know. Just a little. It’s Vegas!”

“I am light,” I said. “I’m downright featherweight right now. Just pacing myself.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Pacing for what?”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I looked around.

The casino had shifted. Gone from bright to alive. The air had teeth now. It was feeling like one of those nights where you wake up the next morning with questions and regrets.

“Whatever comes next,” I whispered.

Because I had a gut feeling. This night would not stay normal for long.

Chapter Three

Mike hit blackjack three times in a row, chips stacking like little monuments to good luck and dumb risk. The kid walked away from the table up seven hundred bucks, grinning like he’d just cured cancer with a deck of cards and a Red Bull.

That’s all it took.

“STRIP CLUB!” someone shouted. Probably Nick, judging by the volume and enthusiasm.

The chant started instantly. “Strip club! Strip club! Strip club!”

Like they’d been waiting all night for someone to throw the switch and launch the testosterone rocket into orbit.

I sighed. One that comes from knowing exactly where this road ends and still walking it, anyways.

Don’t get me wrong. I like women. Hell, I love women. But paying fifty bucks just to have one grind on me like I’m the most interesting man in the room? That’s not a connection. That’s performance. An expensive illusion, two drink minimum required.

And me? I’m not much for acting.

But I’d promised Mike I’d be here for him, for all of this madness. The last hurrah before he got hitched. And when in Vegas, right?

We gathered near the valet line; the city buzzing around us like a neon hive. The air smelled like exhaust fumes, hot pavement, cheap perfume, and desperation. Horns blared in the distance. Sirens, too, Vegas background music. The kind you stop noticing after a while.

Just as I was considering making a quiet break for the nearest bench or, better yet, an Uber back to the hotel, Nick pulled something from his wallet like he was drawing a sword in a fantasy novel.

A card. Black, glossy, and edges trimmed in gold. Screaming high-class.

“I met some cool red-head chick with silver tattoos at the bar who gave me this,” he said, holding it up like it was Excalibur. “Said it’s the real deal.”

Mike squinted. “Is it legal?”

Brian grinned like he was halfway through a thought he wasn’t sure how to finish. “Dude. Nothing in Vegas is legal. That’s the whole point.”

Nick handed the card to Larry, who read it out loud, slowly, like the words might bite.

“The Gilded Thorn.” His eyebrows went up. “Magic. Mystery. Girls who’ll ruin your life or your marriage.”

He looked up, grinning. “Sounds promising.”

I groaned. “That last part feels honest, at least.”

The card shimmered in the low light. Not sparkled, shimmered. Like heat on desert sand.

Mike was already pulling out his phone. “It’s got a QR code. That’s modern, right? That means it’s legit.”

Nick peered over his shoulder. “Says it’s invite only, for those who seek more than pleasure.”

Derek whistled. “Ooh. Fancy.”

I watched the card, still in Brian’s hand, and couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching me right back.

They called the number.

Fifteen minutes later, a long black limo rolled up to the curb like it was arriving at the climax of a heist movie. Tinted windows so dark they probably absorbed souls, chrome accents polished to a mirror shine. One of those vehicles that made you feel like something big was about to happen.

The driver stepped out. He had a British accent. Tailored black suit. Built like a pit bull in Prada.

“Evening, gents,” he said, voice low and gravelly, like a growl wearing manners. “Name’s Mustard.”

I blinked. “Like the condiment?”

He nodded once. No smirk. Dead serious. “Exactly like that.”

He looked, and sounded, like if MI6 had recruited soccer hooligan and now drove limos for strip clubs as a side hustle. Bald head catching the streetlight, eyes cold and unreadable, jaw clenched like it had opinions about violence. His whole vibe said: I don’t start fights, but I end them with paperwork already filled out.

“It’s hundred each,” Mustard said, already holding out his hand like he knew no one was dumb enough to argue. “Covers the ride there and back. Place is private. Real exclusive. You already got your invitation. Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it.”

The way he said you’ll enjoy it made it sound like a threat wearing a tuxedo.

I sighed, reached for my wallet, and handed over the cash. Vegas was nickel-and-diming us into an early grave, and we were tipping on the coffin.

He passed each of us a little matte black card with gold trim, and no logo. Just a number on the back.

“You call me when you’re done,” he said. “I’ll be the one not judging you.”

Nick was already halfway inside the limo, shouting “Let’s gooo! Gilded Thorn, baby!” like he was about to win something that wouldn’t come with a court summons.

The rest of the crew followed, tripping over each other with drinks still in hand. I slid in last. The seats were leather, soft, and somehow too warm. I sank into the seat like the city itself was trying to swallow me whole.

Mike leaned in beside me, grinning like a kid sneaking into a movie he’s not old enough to see.

“You good?”

I glanced around. Flashing lights, drunken chants, and a mobile cocktail of testosterone and poor impulse control.

“Peachy,” I muttered. “Nothing says brotherly bonding like overpriced drinks and lap dances.”

He laughed, full and genuine. “C’mon, you might even have fun.”

“Doubtful,” I said, while taking my hat off, resting my head against the tinted window.

The limo eased into motion, and the Strip rolled by in a blur of neon and temptation. We ended up at some off-Strip club called The Gilded Thorn. Sounded less like a strip club and more like a faerie tale tavern with a cover charge. It was tucked away behind a nondescript stucco building that looked like it used to be a chiropractor’s office. There were no flashing signs or girls in feathers beckoning from the sidewalk. Just a thick velvet rope, a bouncer who looked like he’d been carved out of granite, and a gold-etched red double door that whispered exclusive and expensive in equal measure.

The bouncer gave the black card a slow once-over, then waved us through without a word.

Inside, it was… too clean.

Marble floors that sparkled like they’d been polished with tears. Gold trim was on everything—pillars, light fixtures, and even the bar taps. The lighting was low and moody, all amber shadows and soft glows designed to make even the worst ideas seem romantic. The kind of place that tried very hard to look like an upscale gentlemen's club, but couldn’t quite shake the scent of desperation clinging to the air like cheap perfume.

Strip club chic. Las Vegas edition.

The music thumped with a deep bass that rattled in your chest like an arrhythmic heartbeat. Everything pulsed—soft pink and gold strobes blinking like the club was breathing, in and out, in and out, slow and heavy. It was hypnotic. Intentional. Almost lulling.

And the women?

Yeah, they were gorgeous. Legs for days, stilettos sharp enough to be classified as weapons, dresses that clung like they were afraid to fall off. But something was off. They were too symmetrical and polished. Like they’d been sculpted in the same mold and dipped in glitter for effect. They were just mannequins with just enough life to move.

Beautiful, yes. But uncanny.

The boys lost their damn minds. Mike and his crew were hooting and hollering before their butts even hit the crushed velvet couches. A few of them made a beeline for the VIP area, because apparently the dream wasn’t complete until they were paying triple for a girl to rub her ass in their laps. I heard Tim order bottle service. Eric was throwing singles like he was trying to bribe the rain gods into starting a wet T-shirt contest.

I found a corner seat with a decent line of sight and nursed a twenty-dollar beer that tasted like carbonated regret. Every five minutes, a dancer approached me. All smiles. All scent. All professional.

“You want a dance, baby?”

“No thanks.”

“Private room? I’ll take good care of you…”

“Appreciate it, darlin’, but I’m good.”

“You sure? You look tense…”

“I look like a man who just spent three grand on a steak and got dragged in here by a pack of bourbon-fueled frat boys.”

They always laughed, winked, and moved on. Like I was a vending machine that wouldn’t take their dollar.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like women. I did. Maybe too much, if I’m honest. But the scripted kind? The rehearsed intimacy? That did nothing for me. I liked the messy kind of affection. The kind that came with arguments and bad timing and long silences. The kind that didn’t smell like cigarettes and vanilla body spray.

So I sat alone in a room full of noise and movement, watching the spectacle unfold like a man staring at a sunset he knows isn’t for him.

Mike passed by my table at one point, laughing, arm around a blonde with legs for days and a fake Southern accent that made my ears itch.

“You okay, Andrew?” he shouted over the music, flashing me a grin.

“Yup,” I said, raising my bottle like a tired salute. “Just watching the youth of America lose their financial future.”

He snorted. “Try to have fun, old man!”

“I’m not even thirty yet!’ I waved him off and leaned back in my seat, content to let the madness swirl around me.

And that’s when I saw her. Not fully. Not yet.

Just a flicker.

A shimmer of green and gold was at the far end of the room. Like someone had painted moonlight onto a woman and let her walk through shadows. She didn’t move like the others. She glided. Like the floor moved for her. Like gravity asked for permission.

My pulse slowed. The lights around her seemed to dim. Or maybe my eyes just stopped caring about anything else. Because that one wasn’t stamped from any factory.

The lights shifted—subtly, almost reverently—casting the stage in a low, molten gold. The DJ’s voice slid out of the speakers like silk.

“Gentlemen… and degenerates… give it up for the one, the only… Laaaaady Ivy!”

The name hung in the air like perfume. Warm, thick, and dangerous. The crowd stirred. No cheers or whistles. Just a murmur. Like animals sensing a storm. Then she stepped onto the stage. And the whole damn club forgot how to exist.

Long thick legs wrapped in heels that looked like they could draw blood. Skin pale and smooth, lit from within by a soft, impossible glow—like starlight had soaked into her body and refused to leave. She moved like a myth, wrapped in lust and something older than sin. Her hair fell in thick waves of deep green. A faint glow that shimmered with every subtle movement. Each strand swayed like it had its own rhythm, like it knew music the rest of us couldn’t hear.

And oh, how she walked.

Each step was deliberate. Each sway of her hips, a quiet promise. Her body moved with the grace of a panther and the weight of a crown. The air seemingly bent around her.

She wore black… barely.

A short, tight dress that clung to her like it was a spider’s web. Her lipstick was a deep, venomous green. The exact shade of poison ivy leaves curling under the summer sun. Her eyeliner winged out like obsidian blades. Nothing soft about it. Nothing apologetic.

The crowd was dead silent. Like the room had been sealed in glass. Every breath held. Every eye on her. Except she wasn’t looking at them.

She was looking at me.

From the second she stepped out, her eyes locked onto mine. Burning copper. Sharp and alive. They didn’t scan the crowd.

I didn’t blink and neither did she.

And every instinct I had—the ones Babcia drilled into me between cigarette puffs and muttered prayers, the ones sharpened by years of raising animals, handling rattlesnakes, and surviving Texas tornadoes—every single one of them screamed.

Not human.

"Cousin Marek follow girl into woods. Say she have eyes like fire. She brush his hair. He go bald the next morning.”

Lady Ivy tilted her head, just slightly. Her lips curled into the faintest smile. Like she already knew everything about me.

I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to…

She didn’t dance to the pounding club beats that had rattled my skull for the last hour. No synth, no bass drops, and no auto-tuned moaning in the background. Instead, the music that drifted from the speakers was a soft, aching piano melody. Something slow and haunting, like the soundtrack to a dream that wasn’t quite a nightmare.

The notes moved like rain across glass. And she… she moved with them.

Real dancing.

Her body followed the melody like it had been written just for her. Every movement smooth and precise, each step placed like punctuation in a story only she knew how to tell. She spun slowly, the black material on her dress catching the light like the night sky. Her fingers traced down her body in time with a trembling high note, brushing over her breasts, her hips, and the soft slope of one thigh. Her eyes, those copper infernos, never left mine. Not once. Even when she slid to her knees and let the black straps fall from her shoulders like the shedding of skin.

She unwrapped herself like a secret, slow and reverent. Every movement was deliberate, every piece of fabric surrendered like a whisper. Her bare skin gleamed under the golden lights, pale and luminous, kissed with a shimmer that had no business existing outside of dreams or movies. She arched her back to a soft crescendo in the music, hair spilling down behind her like glowing ivy in motion. Her hands slid down her body again, this time slower, more intimate. A reveal, not a performance.

It was erotic. Absolutely. But it wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t the bump-and-grind desperation of most of the acts I’d seen so far tonight. It was art. Dangerous, decadent art. A story being told through movement and skin and stillness.

Even the other dancers had stopped what they were doing. I caught one of them, a tall brunette with a glittered pink corset, standing frozen near the bar, eyes wide, lips parted like she’d just forgotten what breathing was. Everyone was watching her.

But she was watching me.

Her gaze pinned me to my seat, hot and heavy and ancient. Possessive. She slid down the pole like silk unraveling, one long leg curling around the metal, back arched, hair spilling over her shoulder. As the piano reached its softest note, she paused—naked, radiant, and glowing like some forbidden thing found deep in the woods. Her body was still, her lips parted slightly.

Then her hand lifted. She pointed…

At me.

And the faintest smile touched her lips.

After her performance, she didn’t linger on stage. No twirls, no kisses blown to the crowd, and no scooping up the scattered bills like the others did.

Lady Ivy walked straight toward me. Past the suits, waving hundreds like they were bidding on her soul. Past the drunk guys hanging over the stage like they were gonna propose. Eyes still locked on mine, unblinking. She moved like she already knew the outcome. Like this was just the next step in something that had started long before I walked through that door.

She sat on my lap like I’d paid for the privilege.

“Hi,” she said.

Her voice was soft and steady. Like rain on a tin roof in the dead heat of summer—cooling, soothing, and just a little bit haunting. It sank into my chest and stirred up things I didn’t know how to name.

“You’re not from around here.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an observation. A truth peeled straight out of my skin.

I blinked. My brain tried to reboot.

“I, uh…” Real slick. “Nope… West Texas.”

She grinned, slow and satisfied. Like a cat stretching on a sun-warmed windowsill. Like a creature that hadn’t had to hunt in a long time because her prey always came willingly.

“Oh, I love cowboys.”

Her finger traced the line of my jaw, slow and deliberate, featherlight and sharp at the same time. Like she was testing the grain of wood before carving into it.

My skin prickled. Heat flared under the surface. My instincts didn’t know whether to kiss her or bolt through a window. I felt like a steak being inspected by a very hungry ranch hand.

“I rarely do private dances,” she murmured, shifting in my lap with the kind of grace that made rational thought a casualty. “But I’d like to dance for you.”

I blinked again, slower this time. “I, uh… I didn’t bring much cash…”

She leaned in. Her breath ghosted across my neck, warm and humid and electric. Like a summer storm rolling over dry earth. She smelled like wildflowers in the wind, rain on stone, and the moment lightning almost strikes. It hit me in the lungs, made my ribs feel too tight.

“Oh, honey,” she whispered. Her lips brushed my ear. I shivered. “I don’t want your money.”

That stopped me cold. My heartbeat tripped, stumbled, then slammed back into rhythm hard enough to shake my ribs.

I turned, barely able to get the words out. “Then what do you want?”

Her eyes caught the light again, copper and gold and something else entirely. Something deep. Something old. She tilted her head and smiled. Like she’d borrowed the idea of a smile from something that didn’t need to be loved to be obeyed.

And still, it made my pulse spike.

“Your name,” she said.

Babcia’s voice whispered in the back of my mind, thick with disapproval. "If stranger asks you your true name, you spit three times. Then you go home. Fast.”

“Andrew,” I murmured. “Andrew Peter Nowak.”

She repeated it softly, like she was tasting it. “Andrew… Peter… Nowak…”

Then she lifted my hand, gentle but firm, and kissed my knuckles. Her lips were soft. Ice-cold. It shot up my arm like a chill wrapped in silk.

“Oh, Drew,” she breathed. “Perfect.”

Then she stood, still holding my hand like it belonged to her now. Like the exchange had already happened. And she tugged me to my feet.

“Come with me.”

I did.

Because in that moment—with the bass thrumming low like a heartbeat, the room spinning like a carousel on fire, and her wildfire gaze pulling me forward—I couldn’t think of a single reason not to.

Even though I knew I should’ve.

Chapter Four

The private room was low-lit and humming with music that didn’t quite belong. Nothing that screamed Vegas or strip club or even human, really. No, this was something older. Almost ancient. Strings, flutes, and wind chimes. Whispering vocals that hovered just beyond the edge of understanding. It wasn’t English. Or maybe it was just too old for my bones to recognize. Like the soundtrack to a forest ceremony… or a very sensual blood sacrifice.

The air smelled different here, too. Not sweat and perfume like the main floor. This was rain-soaked earth and moss. Smoke curling off damp wood. And something sweet beneath it, honeysuckle maybe, or the kind of flower that only blooms under moonlight and disappears by dawn.

She led me inside without a word. Her grip was warm, firm. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense, like her hand had been shaped for mine long before I was born.

I dropped into the velvet chair and then she began to dance.

Ivy moved like a storm on the horizon A force of nature quiet, coiled with power, and inevitable. Her hair spilled down her back in glowing waves, catching bits of candlelight as she swayed and turned. It shimmered, moved, reacted like leaves in a breeze I couldn’t feel. Her hips rolled in time with that strange, haunting melody. Every movement was liquid and lush. Too smooth and precise. Like watching fire move underwater or smoke curling in reverse.

And the whole time she watched me.

Not with seduction. But with intention. Her gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t shift. She looked at me like she was reading me. Like I was a book she’d memorized but hadn’t touched in centuries and wanted to savor again.

She wasn’t dancing for me.

She was dancing because of me.

Like I’d stepped into a circle without realizing it. Like my name had been called in a language I’d forgotten, and this was the answer. A ritual triggered by my presence. A rite I didn’t understand.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

My breathing slowed. My pulse matched the rhythm of the music. The room felt smaller. The air is thicker, filling with pressure, like the walls were leaning in to listen. Under the guise of comfort, the velvet chair ensnared me.

Ivy wasn’t just beautiful now. She was dangerous. She was a secret wrapped in skin, something old and wild, pretending to be human long enough to make me forget how to walk away.

I blinked, trying to focus. To ground myself and finally my eyes drifted. Not on purpose. Not consciously. Like some quiet, stubborn part of me, maybe the part Babcia spent years fortifying, was trying to break the spell without alerting the enchantress. There was a book lying on a small table in the corner, half-hidden beneath the feathery edge of her shawl. The title stared up at me in curling script. I squinted.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Okay. Weird. Babcia didn’t read much, but she always had that book lying around somewhere. Strip clubs rarely keep a reading list. Especially not classic Shakespearean plays about mischievous Fae and magic gone sideways.

Then my gaze moved to the walls. Ivy vines. But they weren’t printed or painted. Instead, they were etched—delicate green grooves that climbed the room in twisting patterns, curling around faint symbols that seemed to pulse softly beneath the amber light. Then I saw the mirror behind her. Big, ornate and old-framed. The kind meant to make the room look richer, bigger. But as my eyes drifted to its base, my stomach turned.

Runes.

Carved with deep gouges into the wood, like someone had taken a blade to the frame and slashed the truth into it. Symbols that twitched just out of focus, that seemed to hum beneath the surface. The longer I stared, the more my teeth buzzed.

“Eyes up here Andrew Nowak!’

I looked towards her fast. The room spun.

What the hell was this place?

My skin crawled. That old instinct again, thick and cold, rising from the base of my spine like winter smoke. The same warning Babcia whispered about in hushed Polish as she scattered salt across thresholds and nailed iron above every window. Ivy circled back toward me, her copper eyes still locked on mine like she’d never left them. She smiled.

“You see it now,” she said. Not a question.

I tried to speak. But my voice had packed its bags and hit the highway.

She didn’t seem to mind.

“I was wondering how long you’d resist.” Her fingers ghosted across my chest, soft and sure. “Most men don’t. They fall before I say hello.”

Her hand traced the edge of my shirt pocket, slow and unhurried. Like she already knew what was inside. What I carried. What I was. She leaned in close, her breath warm against my neck. It felt like lightning in the bones.

“But you,” she whispered, “you’re interesting.”

I swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

She grinned. Beautiful in the way forest fires are beautiful… if you’re far enough away.

“The question,” she murmured, brushing her lips near my ear, “isn’t who I am.”

Her hand slid into mine again.

“It’s why I found you.”

Then the lights flickered. Just once. Barely a breath between beats in the music, like the building took a single stutter-step in the middle of a dream.

Wings.

They were divine. Two sweeping arches of pure beauty, unfurling from her back like some forgotten goddess reclaimed the night. Not feathered or leathery. Or even insect-like. Her wings were something else entirely. They shimmered with impossible color, shifting hues of violet and rose gold, electric pink edged in shadow. They moved like smoke held together by moonlight—sharp at the tips, graceful at the curve. The upper arches rose above her head like a crown. The lower curves framed her like blades poised mid-ballet. They looked carved from something that did not belong in this world.

And then… Gone.

Just like that. Like a hallucination. Like a dream dissolving on contact with breath. A secret too old to live for more than a second in the eyes of a mortal man.

But I saw them. I know I did.

My breath caught. Dread overcame me. It seeped into my skin and whispered… “You’re in a place you were never meant to be.” I turned my head, slow, eyes shifting toward the door. Toward safety. Toward overpriced drinks and neon signs and the blessed, beautiful, normal world.

I could walk. I could leave. Just stand up and go. I know I could. So why didn't I want to?

Then she spoke.

“Look at me, Andrew Peter Nowak.”

Her voice hit me like a velvet slap. I snapped my head toward her. My brain didn’t even pause. No second thoughts. No resistance. Just blind, immediate obedience. Like a dog hearing a whistle only it can hear. My eyes locked on her naked body. Her hips, her breasts, her glowing skin, and every hypnotic, devastating motion.

I couldn’t look away.

My skin was hot and flushed, and my mouth was bone dry. And beneath all of that, deep under the flood of desire. My mind screamed. It clawed at the inside of my skull. Beat its fists against the bars of whatever spell I should have been under.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right. THIS ISN’T RIGHT.

She laughed. God. That laugh. It wasn’t girlish. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was cruel. Rich, like a queen watching a blindfolded peasant walk straight into a pit and giggle while he fell.

“You’re mine now,” she said.

Her voice was deeper. Thick with magic and certainty. It rolled through me. Woven with bark and blood and everything wild that lives in the supernatural underworld.

My hands clenched around the velvet arms of the chair as my body burned, like bracing against an oncoming storm. Numbness overcame my legs. My skin buzzed like static, like something was trying to rewrite me from the inside out.

She danced slower now. Every sway was deliberate, and the whole time she watched me. It was like something older than fire, grinning at a creature that had forgotten fear. She watched me unravel with joy.

“Sometimes a man see beautiful woman dancing in forest. If he follows, he not come back. If he does. It's not him anymore. You turn around. That’s not for you. That’s a trap for someone dumber.”

Sorry Babcia.

Panic surged up inside me. White-hot and blistering. And still I didn’t look away. Because panic’s a funny thing. It can make you run, scream, or bullshit so hard you start believing the lie yourself.

And me? I’m a professional bullshitter.

I leaned back in the chair like I wasn’t seconds from crying, flashed her a cocky little smirk, and said, “Yeah. Sure. Real spooky. I know what you are.”

She tilted her head. Curiosity flickered across her face like a cat watching a mouse do something it shouldn’t be capable of.

“Oh?” she purred. “Do tell.”

“You’re Fae,” I said, puffing out my chest like I wasn’t seconds from a full mental breakdown. “And not just any fae. I know your name.”

That hit her. Just for a second. Her pupils flared, dark and wide. Her hips stuttered mid-sway, a hiccup in the spell. Like a skipped heartbeat. Then she laughed. A slow, rich, sultry laugh that crawled under my skin and laid eggs in my spinal cord.

“Do you now?” she said, voice thick with sugar and razors. “Well, I am curious. Enlighten me, mortal.”

I grinned like an idiot at the table bluffing with a two of clubs and a napkin.

“Titania.”

The word dropped into the air. It didn’t just hang there. It sank. The room went silent. Her smile vanished. Peeled away like something rotting beneath soft skin. The lights flickered and dimmed. As if the walls themselves recoiled from the name. Everything but her eyes were swallowed by the dark. They glowed, bright and burning, like lanterns swinging in the deep woods, hunting for something small and warm-blooded.

“Who dares…” she bellowed.

Her voice cracked through the air. It shook the walls. Rattled my bones. Settled deep in my chest like a second heartbeat trying to beat mine into submission. The mirror behind her shattered, CRACK!, a spiderweb of ruin exploding across the glass.

“WHO DARES SPEAK MY NAME?!”

My heart dropped. Just fell. Straight into my stomach and curled up next to my spine like it wanted no part of this. And somewhere, deep inside me—past the smirk, past the bluff, past the bullshit—something small and honest whispered.

You're fucked.

She started laughing. A full-blown, doubled-over, hand-on-her-stomach cackle.

“Oh my gods,” she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of one glowing eye. “I couldn’t hold it. Your face! You really thought you’d tricked me! That was adorable.”

I blinked. “Wait… what?”

She straightened slowly, one hand on her hip, the other still fanning herself like she’d just come off a Broadway high. Her grin was wide and wicked. It  made me want to back away slowly.

“That’s my mother’s name, dumbass.”

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“Mother?”

“Titania,” she repeated, voice dripping with mockery. “Queen of the Fae. The original nightmare in heels. The one mortals begged not to dream of. That’s who you just named.”

She took a step closer.

I did not move. I didn’t even breathe. The air was suddenly full of knives again.

She leaned in until our noses nearly touched. Her breath was warm, sweet, and sharp all at once—like crushed wildflowers in a thunderstorm. Her copper eyes glowed with too much joy to be safe.

“I’m her daughter.”

Oh no, I thought. Oh, no no no.

“Got any other bright ideas?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head like a crow deciding which part of the worm to eat first. “Andrew Peter Nowak?”

My mouth went dry. My soul left the chat. And my brain, bless it, started flipping through mental files like it was trying to find an ancient spell written in the margins of a cursed grimoire.

Babcia's voice echoed through my head.

"Vila, they like games, yes... You think it's just game, but they play with your head, your name, your soul.”

All it could come up with was one phrase.

“A challenge,” I declared.

Even though every part of me, from my rattling knees to my traitorous gut, was staging a full-blown coup. Complete with pitchforks and torches.

Her amber eyes flared, catching the light like wildfire through smoke. She stopped mid-step. Her smile sharpened—less seduction, more teeth.

“Oh?” she said, beginning to circle me. Slow and graceful. A lioness watching a gazelle do something deeply, deeply unwise. “You dare invoke the Old Ways?”

“I know the Fae love their games,” I said, lifting my chin in what I hoped looked like defiance and not impending cardiac arrest. “And I remember my grandmother’s stories. You got a name that wasn’t yours. So I’m calling for a game of truth.”

Her lips curled. “Mmm. Clever boy.”

She stopped just behind me. Her voice brushed the back of my neck like velvet laced with thorns.

“And what are the stakes, mortal?”

“My freedom,” I said. “For your true name.”

She went still. Then, slowly tilted her head.

“That’s it?” she asked. “Not my crown or my realm? Not the secret to immortality? Just… my name?”

“You said it yourself,” I replied. “Names have power.”

Her eyes narrowed. Then came the glint. A flicker of amusement, curiosity and danger.

“Fine,” she purred. “What’s the challenge?”

I grinned. “Tonight. One night. No magic.”

Her smile widened. Just a hint of fangs now. Still gorgeous. Still terrifying. Like a wolf dressed in moonlight.

“We each have until sunrise tonight to complete challenges,” I continued. “Winner picks the next one. First to three wins.”

She stopped. Considering the terms. The tension in the air felt like the moment just before a thunderstorm breaks.

“What’s the first?”

I leaned in, grinning like a man with a death wish and a dream.

“We each have to get three people of the same gender to propose to us. On their knees. Declaring their love.”

Her eyes widened—a blink, just a blink—then lit up like a firework factory catching flame.

“You… want to try to get three men to propose to you?” Her grin stretched, all teeth and delight. “Oh, this is precious.”

“You have to get three women,” I shot back.

She laughed. Loud and rolling. Like thunder wrapped in silk. Somewhere in the main room, a drunk guy dropped his drink.

“You realize I could get five in the next two minutes?”

“You could,” I said, “if you weren’t bound by the deal. Just charm, wit, and luck.”

She paused. Not because she doubted she could win, but because she was interested. She was already plotting.

The grin didn’t fade.

“And if I win?” she asked, stepping in close. Her presence rolled over me like perfume and pressure.

“Then you keep me,” I said.

She arched a perfect brow. “So eager to sell yourself, Mr. Nowak?”

I shrugged. “Honestly, I figured I’d be dead or cursed by now. This is a step up.”

She studied me for a long moment. Then extended her hand. Her eyes burned with mischief, with something ancient and hungry.

“No magic. No cheating. Just charm. Wit and Luck.”

“And drinks,” I added. “This is Vegas.”

We shook. And just like that, the game was on.

Together we stepped out of the private dance room area of the club and back into the pulsing haze of the lounge. It was like some unholy wedding between a rave and a Roman orgy, equal parts strobe lights and bare flesh.

I spotted Mike and his crew slouched on a low couch like frat house royalty. Empty glasses littered the table. Someone had ordered every flavor of neon alcohol available. One of them, maybe Brian, was wearing bright pink comically large sunglasses and nodding like he was at a spiritual retreat. Tim was asleep, a half-eaten chicken wing delicately balanced on his nose like a greasy totem.

I made a beeline for them and stood square in front of the table.

Mike squinted up at me. “Yo, Drew. Where the hell’ve you been? You missed Derek taking a body shot off the waitress and almost dying. It was beautiful.”

“No time,” I said. “I need you to do something for me. No questions asked.”

He blinked. His expression slid from drunk to intrigued in record time.

“What kind of something?”

I leaned in slightly. “I need you,” I said slowly, “and two of your buddies... to propose to me. Right. Now.”

The table went dead silent. Even the DJ seemed to pause for a beat, like the music couldn’t believe what it just heard. Mike just stared at me.

“Like… get on one knee and all that?”

“Yes.”

He squinted. “Dude. No offense, but… what the fuck?”

I leaned in, kept my voice low and serious. “It’s a sex thing.”

That got their attention.

I tilted my head toward the Fae stripper, who was watching us from across the lounge. Still as stone. Green hair glowing under the strobe lights. Wild smile. Legs like sin wrapped in silk.

“If you three propose to me right now,” I said, “I get to hook up with her.”

Their heads whipped toward her like they’d been yanked on strings.

“Oh my God,” Kyle muttered. “She looks like she charges just for eye contact.”

Mike downed the rest of his drink like it was liquid courage and set the glass down with a thunk.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see you cut loose.”

Then he dropped to one knee. Dead serious.

“Andrew Peter Nowak,” he declared, loud and proud, “will you make me the happiest idiot in Las Vegas and marry me?”

Kyle stumbled over next, grinning like a lunatic.

“Same, bro! I propose too! I’d totally take your last name!”

The third guy… Brian? Derek? Maybe both?... blinked, wobbled, then dropped down beside them with a sloppy smile.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m in love with you, bro.”

All three. On one knee. Hands on hearts. Eyes glassy with drunken sincerity and cheap tequila fumes.

Across the lounge, Ivy’s amber eyes widened, just for a moment. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between a laugh and a purr. Then her lips curled into something wicked and indulgent. Arms folded, she glared like a queen watching her favorite jester pull off an actual miracle.

“Well played,” she said, gliding forward with a sway that could end wars. Her voice was soft, but with a wicked and silken undertone. “You lied… without ever actually lying. Mortal loopholes.”

I shrugged. “Fae games. You brought ’em here.”

Babcia's voice returned. "They like clever people best. But not too clever. If they think you try to cheat, ehhh... they don’t like it.”

Ivy circled me again, slow, deliberate. The scent of honeysuckle and ozone trailed in her wake. She stopped just in front of me, leaned in close, and tilted her head. Her eyes searched mine like I was a puzzle with pieces she didn’t realize were missing.

“One point to you,” she murmured. “Color me intrigued.”

Chapter Five

I won the first challenge. Hell, I was surprised I won it. I figured she would watch me first. See how I react. I had a feeling I could steal a real quick win from her that way. And I was right. But the Fae’s rules are their own, and I was riding the momentum while I still could—before the ground decided to shift under me again.

I had to pick the next challenge carefully. If I lose one. I may not get another chance to beat her if she gets to pick the next challenge.

Ivy smiled, amused and still very much dangerous as she slid a drink across the bar to me.

“Congratulations, Drew,” she purred, voice syrupy sweet and sharp at the edges. “Enjoy it while you can.”

I took the drink, the cold glass sweating against my palm, and knocked it back in one swallow. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to stay sober. Or sane.

She tilted her head, watching me like a scientist studying something fascinating under glass.

“So… what’s the next challenge?”

I paused, staring at the empty glass in my hand. A grin tugged at my lips, slow and crooked, even though I wasn’t sure where it came from. The drink was gone, the night was young, and I could already feel the universe loading its next punch.

“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “Tell you what… let’s walk. See if I get inspired.”

She giggled, it was light and musical. And fell into step beside me. Her presence buzzed in the air between us. Just like gravity, her own kind of orbit.

I turned back toward Mike and the others, who were still celebrating my victory like it was a national holiday. Larry was trying to start a toast. Some random guy was taking a selfie with Tim, now balancing several chicken wings on his passed out face.

“I’ve got something planned for the bachelor party,” I said, feeling a stab of guilt for leaving them to the chaos I’d helped ignite. “Gonna, step out with the stripper for a bit.”

The boys erupted. High-fives. Howls. Brian shouted, “America, fuck ya!” like I’d just declared independence with my pants off. I guess for them, I had. I walked over to Mike and handed him Mustard’s card.

“Here. I’ve got cash for the ride back,” I said, sliding a couple of bills into his hand. “Don’t blow it all on strippers.”

Mike gave me a wink and a salute. “I’ll make sure they get back, bro. Have fun storming the castle!”

I nodded once, then turned back to Ivy, who was already holding out her hand. Without a word, and placed mine in hers, she grabbed it and pulled. Her grip was insistent. Like she’d claimed it.

And I followed willingly. Even though I had the distinct feeling I was being led straight into the eye of a storm, I couldn’t outrun.

As we stepped through the door, the chilly night air hit me like a slap made of neon. Ivy’s presence beside me only made it worse. Worse and better. The first drop on a rollercoaster perfectly captures it; you’re committed, no turning back.

She looked at me sideways, that sly smile curling like smoke on her lips.

“Where are we going?” she asked, voice low, almost teasing.

“Not sure yet,” I said.

But the truth was, I was hoping the next challenge would find me before I ran out of ideas.

Or worse, before I ran out of luck.

We stepped out onto the Strip, into the chaotic bloodstream of the city. The night air was thick with neon heat, fryer grease, and the stench of secondhand stale beer. The sidewalks pulsed under a thousand flickering signs, and the buildings loomed overhead like chrome-coated gods of excess. Each daring you to lose your money and your dignity.

It was only a little past nine, so the madness hadn’t hit full crescendo yet. The tourists were in that early-evening sweet spot, buzzed but not belligerent. You could hear the slot machines crooning from every open casino door, bass lines thumping from rooftop clubs, and someone in the distance shouting about Elvis still being alive.

Ivy walked beside me like she owned the sidewalk. Her green hair shimmered beneath the glow of streetlights, that strange gleam casting her in the colors of half-remembered dreams. She hummed something—half lullaby, half war drum—and it made the hairs on my neck stand up like they were listening. Every so often, she glanced over at me.

“Still thinking?” she asked. Her tone was still syrupy—but thinner now, like watered down honey running low in the jar.

“Yep.”

She huffed, amused and annoyed in equal measure. “You mortals are so slow. It’s just a game.”

“It’s a magical Fae game with my soul on the line.”

“Semantics,” she said, waving it off like I’d complained about the weather. “How about… seduce a bartender?”

“Too easy. For you.”

“Steal a wedding ring?”

“Frowned upon.”

“Out-drink a troll?”

“Trolls are real, too!?”

She sighed. Loudly. Arms crossed like a diva who’d been forced to wait in the valet line.

“Yes, and more. Come ooooooon…. At this rate, sunrise will come before you do.”

I ignored the innuendo. Scanning the crowd, searching for a sign, a spark, anything clever enough to buy me another point. I needed something good. Something tricky. And I needed it fast. But all I could feel was the heat. The press of bodies. The city glowing like a fever. And that invisible clock ticking in the back of my skull. Counting down to when this stopped being flirty fun and started becoming very, very dangerous. I glanced at her. Still smiling. And it was getting sharper.

“Tick, tock,” she whispered.

“I invoke a new challenge,” I said, puffing up my chest like I wasn’t absolutely making this up as I went.

Ivy cocked an eyebrow, her copper-colored eyes narrowing just slightly. “Go on.”

“We each have to enter the next competition we physically come across,” I said, voice steady despite the panic party happening in my brain. “No backing out. No swaps. First, to win their competition wins the round.”

Her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, like a blade being unsheathed. “Mmm. Dangerous. I like it. Could be anything.”

“That’s the point.”

She studied me for a beat, the air around her crackling with amused curiosity. Then, with a pleased little hum, she extended her hand.

“Done.”

We shook. The moment our palms touched, magic surged through the handshake like a shot of static and adrenaline. It jolted up my arm, across my chest, down my spine, like lightning doing a background check.

And then… Fate showed up.

A booming voice exploded from somewhere down the sidewalk. Loud, distorted by a crackling megaphone, and full of doom.

“TONIGHT ONLY! MIDGET MUD WRESTLING MADNESS! One lucky contestant gets to square off against our reigning champion… Baby Rage! Sign-ups inside!”

We froze mid-step. Together, perfectly synchronized in horror, we turned toward the noise.

The bar was called The Little Watering Hole, and it looked like the set of a low-budget apocalypse comedy. Inflatable pool toys lined the roof. Plastic flamingos littered the sidewalk like casualties. A single sad inflatable unicorn slumped against the wall with the energy of someone who had seen too much. Two very drunk German tourists, head-to-toe in mud, were laughing hysterically—one of them missing a shoe.

Above the door, a cardboard sign dangled from two string ties, scrawled in permanent marker:

TRY NOT TO DIE.

I turned to Ivy very slowly. “...No magic, right?”

She smiled sweetly. “No backing out.”

And that’s when the bar doors burst open, and a male midget stormed onto the sidewalk. Wearing red boxing shorts. A glittery luchador mask. And brass knuckles. He raised both arms high above his head and screamed to the heavens…

“WHO’S READY TO BLEED?!”

I just stood there. Dead inside.

Ivy turned to me, her grin lighting up her face like a wildfire catching dry brush. Her eyes sparkled with glee and just a touch of malice. “Looks like you go first.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. Awesome.”

Because of course I was about to wrestle a midget in a kiddie pool full of mud. While trying to impress a Fae princess with a god complex.

Las Vegas. Am I right?

The inside of The Little Watering Hole was somehow stickier than it looked from the outside. Which was impressive. The interior already resembled a crime scene sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The air hit like a punch—equal parts cigarette smoke, cheap tequila, and the kind of regret that sinks into your skin and stays there. Floors tacky with decades of spilled drinks and questionable body fluids sucked at my boots with every step. A karaoke machine in the corner wheezed out a tragic rendition of “I Will Survive,” delivered by someone who absolutely would not. The voice cracked like drywall under pressure. Equal parts dying walrus and middle-aged trauma. A single disco ball spun overhead with the slow, despairing grace of something that wanted to die but wasn’t allowed.

Dead center of the bar, surrounded by a loosely defined “ring” of folding chairs and overturned coolers, was a kiddie pool. And inside?

Sludge… Brown, chunky, and suspicious sludge.

It sloshed under the dim lights like it had a life of its own. I caught the scent of it. Sour beer, body spray, and the unmistakable tang of something that had once been chili. Above it all, a warped cardboard sign dangled from fishing line and a questionable ceiling tile:

MIDGET MUD WRESTLING: NO REFEREES. NO MERCY.

The crowd roared as someone flopped into the pool with a wet slap that felt like a crime against my ears. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance. No one cared.

The bartender, who looked like he’d been rolled in cigarette ash and cheap tequila, handed me a waiver form and what might’ve once been a first-aid kit.

“You’ll wanna wrap the joints nice and tight,” he said, puffing smoke into my face like it counted as advice. “Baby Rage don’t pull punches.”

“Baby Rage?” I asked, squinting.

He nodded toward the far end of the pool.

Four feet of pure wrath. Muscles carved from vengeance. Vibes like a prison shank wrapped in leopard print. She wore a sports bra that had seen some things, black biker shorts, and combat boots that looked like they’d been through two divorces and a bar fight… and won both. Her biceps had backup biceps. Her glare could strip paint. She was cracking her knuckles and rolling her neck like she’d already picked out which vertebra she planned to target.

“Reigning ten-time champ,” the bartender added, as casually as someone pointing out a weather forecast. “Put a guy in the hospital last week. Take my advice… Don’t call her adorable.”

I turned, slowly, to look at Ivy.

She was already posted up at the bar like it was a front-row seat to the opera. One hand held a glowing cocktail with a tiny umbrella; the other rested lazily on the edge of the counter. Her black dress shimmered like forest fire under the bar lights. She looked so pleased with herself.

“Still no backing out?” I asked, because I hated myself.

She sipped her drink. “Not unless you’d like to forfeit.”

Goddamn Fae rules…

I stared down at the sludge. At the folding chairs. At Baby Rage flexing like a Mortal Kombat character. Then I stripped down to my boxers and stepped into the kiddie pool. The mud was warm and lumpy.

That was concerning.

Baby Rage climbed in like a gladiator entering the Roman Colosseum. She slapped her fists together and cracked her neck like she was about to murder a worried cowboy and then go back to her beer. The crowd roared. Drunk tourists pounded on folding chairs like an improvised war drum. Somewhere, someone lit a flare. I don’t even know where they got it. The smell of beer, chili, and raw chaos filled the air like a sports bar had mated with a demolition derby.

And then the bell rang, maybe a cowbell, maybe a frying pan. Could’ve been a guy yelling into a megaphone. Hard to say.

She launched at me like a human cannonball. I barely got my arms up before she clamped me in a headlock so tight I saw stars, and not the metaphorical kind. Like, literal stars. Babcia’s kitchen ceiling swam before my eyes. I could almost hear her voice…

“Put salt by the windows, Andrezj!”

Thirty seconds in… Panic kicked in. Ranch-born stubbornness took over. I twisted, flailed, and somehow flipped us both. We hit the mud with a splash that smelled like onions. She immediately responded by trying to choke me out with her thighs. The crowd went feral. Someone threw their shirt. The DJ started playing “Eye of the Tiger”

One minute in…

I slipped on a half-eaten hotdog that sailed into the ring mid-fight. I don’t even want to know where it came from. But somehow that slip worked. I reversed the pin and ended up straddling her shoulders like I was riding a pig at the worst county fair in history. I was upside down, but winning. I was also questioning every choice that had led me to this moment.

One minute, twenty seconds in…

She made a mistake. A short bark of laughter. It could’ve been a surprise. It could’ve been respect. Either way, it was enough. I twisted, rolled, and hooked her shoulder. It was sloppy. It was ugly. But it was legal. Her back hit the bottom of the pool and I locked it in with everything I had left.

The crowd screamed the count like it was a sacred ritual…

“ONE! TWO! THREE!”

The bell clanged. Someone shrieked. Confetti fell from the ceiling. There was no rig. No launcher.

Where the hell did it come from?

I sat up, dazed, covered in mud and confetti particles, panting like I’d just fought off a pack of wild javelinas with nothing but my hands and a mild concussion. Across the bar, Ivy was doubled over in laughter—real, full-body laughter. Her glowing cocktail sloshed dangerously in her hand. She looked like she was having the time of her life.

I looked over at Baby Rage. She grinned, wide and toothy, then sat up and slapped me on the back hard enough to shift a rib.

“Not bad, cowboy,” she said, wiping mud from her face. “You earned that win.”

God help me, I think I might’ve.

The crowd exploded. People threw drinks. Someone started chanting, “Andrew! Andrew! Andrew!” like I was the goddamn king of Vegas. Another confetti explosion went off near the jukebox. Again no one even questioned it.

A drunk Elvis impersonator ran up to me, threw his arms wide, and bellowed, “LONG LIVE THE KING, BABY!”

And for one shining, muddy, wildly inappropriate moment. I was a champion.

I crawled out of the kiddie pool like a war survivor—covered in bruises, pride, and at least three substances I didn’t want to identify. My breath came in ragged bursts. I’d never felt more disgusting or more victorious.

Ivy was waiting by the bar, leaning casually against the counter, slow-clapping like she’d just watched a particularly unhinged play and still hadn’t decided if it was comedy or tragedy.

“Well,” she said, swirling the neon cocktail, “you’re full of surprises.”

I held up the glitter-glue-covered “CHAMPION” belt like it was the Holy Grail.

“That’s two-nothing,” I wheezed.

Her smile didn’t fade, but her eyes changed. They became more narrowed and focused. Not angry. Just predatory. The way a cat watches a bird. She stepped in close. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell that impossible mix of honeysuckle and thunderstorm. A scent like a storm that wanted to fuck you before it wrecked your house.

“Oh, Andrew Nowak,” she said, voice low and dangerously amused. “You’ve made this so much more fun, then I ever imagined it would.”

Then she placed my lucky cowboy hat on my head. I don’t know if anything could be more of a turn on than that. She helped me towel off, her hands moving slow, deliberate. Lingering in a way that wasn’t strictly necessary. The towel was rough, probably meant for wiping down tables or dogs, but she used it like it was Egyptian cotton. Half the bar watched a woman who looked like a forest goddess lovingly dry off a mud-covered cowboy like I was her prize pig.

I tried not to look smug. Failed hard.

Grabbing the towel, I turned, did the ol’ quick maneuver… drop the boxers behind the fabric shield, slide into jeans, careful zip. The goods were secured. I was now, officially, free-balling it in denim and dignity. A small, muddy hand shot out from the crowd, snatched my boxers like a war trophy, and disappeared.

Baby Rage’s triumphant, maniacal laughter echoed from somewhere near the jukebox. I stared into the middle distance, the thousand-yard stare of a man who had seen too much and worn too little.

Ivy raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking that well.”

“I’m emotionally numb,” I said. “And I need a drink.”

I limped over to the bar, still wringing mud out of my hair. Before I could even lift a hand, someone shoved a drink into it. Then another. A stranger slapped me on the back. A woman in a bedazzled cowboy hat blew me a kiss. Someone asked for a selfie. Apparently, winning a mud brawl in your underwear against a pint-sized berserker champion makes you a local legend.

I handed one of the drinks to Ivy. She sniffed it, nose wrinkling.

“Candy-flavored poison. Charming.”

I took a sip of mine. It was electric blue, syrupy as hell, and tasted like bubblegum had gone rogue and staged a violent coup in my mouth.

“Disgusting,” I said.

She clinked her glass against mine; her smile returning full force. “To the Champion.”

“To not dying,” I muttered, and drank anyway.

Chapter Six

We walked side by side down the Strip, the neon glow washing over us in waves of pinks, golds, and, violent blues. Flickering across our faces like some fever dream parade we hadn’t meant to join but somehow ended up leading. Ivy’s fingers curled around my biceps, featherlight and firm at the same time. Possessive without pressure. Like she owned me.

And to be fair… She might soon. Depending on how the night ended.

She leaned in close, her breath warm against my skin. Her green hair caught the lights like stained glass in a cathedral designed by drunk angels. The color danced with every blink of neon, and I couldn’t decide if she looked more like a goddess or a comic book villainess brought to life. Her voice bubbled with excitement, her eyes bright and wide as she pointed at every ridiculous thing we passed.

“That one has fire breathers!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes. “What if our next challenge is who can blow the biggest fireball?”

“That one has a rooftop pool!” she gasped dramatically, clutching my arm. “Cannonball contest! Can you imagine the splash? Wait until you see my bikini!”

She twirled on the sidewalk, black dress flaring like something out of a Gothic fairy tale. Her heels clicked sharply on the pavement, but she moved like she was weightless, dancing through the heat and chaos like she was made for this place. Her laughter rang out, it was clear, sudden, and infectious. It bounced off the casino walls and overpriced steakhouse windows, echoing down the street like she was casting some accidental joy spell. And it was seeping into me as well.

Gone was the smirking predator from the club, the seductress with copper eyes and secrets in her teeth.

In her place was something else entirely. Lighter and sweeter, but still dangerous, yet softer at the edges. Like the competition had infected her with joy and chaos in equal measure. Like the Strip was feeding her—neon, noise, and wild human energy—and she was blooming right there in the middle of it.

And dammit… I kinda liked it.

"They wear beauty like Sunday dress. But underneath, they are cold like winter. No heart. Just hunger.” Babcia's voice tried to remind me.

She wasn’t human. I kept trying to remind myself of that. But in that moment—dancing in the heat and glow, breathless with wonder and possibility—she felt real in a way I hadn’t expected. In a way that made something behind my ribs shift.

If I wasn’t careful. I might start to want her to win.

We passed another casino when I spotted a brand-new hotel dressed up like someone’s fever dream of the Wild West, if that someone had never seen an actual horse in their life but had done a line of coke off a cowboy hat. Fake saloon doors flapped under a neon awning. Twinkle lights shaped like lassos looped lazily across the entrance. A giant cowboy hat, comically oversized, sat on top of the building like a cherry on a deeply confused sundae. You could probably see it from orbit.

The sign out front read:

THE SPUR & SADDLE – Home of the Strip’s Toughest Bull Ride!

A slow grin crept across my face. The kind that usually ended with an ice pack and someone yelling, "Hold my beer!” Ivy caught it instantly. Her copper eyes sparked, bright and sharp like sunrise over a battlefield.

“Ohhh,” she purred, matching my grin with one of her own, “you’re cooking something, aren’t you?”

She leaned in closer, biting her bottom lip in a way that should’ve required a permit and possibly a license to carry. She gave me that sweet schoolgirl look that short-circuited my higher brain functions and reminded me just how out of my depth I was.

I thought back to dusty county fairs, the sweet stink of livestock, and those half-mad bulls that looked at you like you insulted their mother. I remembered cracked ribs, bruised egos, and that one perfect summer where I walked away with a blue ribbon and the phone number of the prettiest red-head in Amarillo…

She broke my heart later.

“Come on,” I said, nodding toward the entrance, where the sign flickered like a challenge. “Next challenge’s simple.”

She bounced once on her heels, still wrapped around my arm like she’d leased it from my soul. “Oh?”

“Mechanical bull riding. The longest time wins.”

She stopped. Dead still. And then the grin spread. Grinch-on-Christmas wide. If the Grinch had legs for days, a waist that defied physics, and a strut that had caused at least three minor traffic collisions in the last ten minutes.

“Andrew Peter Nowak,” she said sweetly, her voice dipped in sugar and sin, “you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

And that’s when I got a feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach, that I had made a terrible mistake.

The saloon doors swung open with a squeak that tried way too hard to be authentic—less historic charm, more theme park trying to sell you overpriced shitty smoked brisket. Polished wood paneling wrapped every surface, glossy and golden under the string of lights shaped like tiny cowboy boots. Fake sawdust scattered artfully across the floor gave the illusion of grit without the inconvenience of dirt. Every inch of the bar gleamed with that “we’re rustic but corporate-approved” shine—like a Cracker Barrel and a honky-tonk had a baby and raised it in a strip mall.

A live band played from a corner stage surrounded by a ring of plastic cacti and actual dancing. The lead singer wore tight jeans and a belt buckle large enough to receive satellite transmissions. They were halfway through a cover of “Friends in Low Places,” and the crowd sang along like it was gospel. Half the room was dancing, two-stepping in boots that probably cost more than my truck. The other half hooted, hollered, and clinked glasses over pitchers of light beer.

The patrons were A chaotic mix of locals and tourists who’d gone full yee-haw. Glittery cowboy hats. Denim vests. Stilettos with spurs. One woman was wearing a rhinestone chaps-and-bikini combo and line-dancing like the ghost of Dolly Parton possessed her. And dominating the back wall, glowing like the holy grail of dumb ideas, was a neon sign above the bullpen.

MECHANICAL BULL CHAMPIONS

And beneath it, written in dry erase marker—because even legends can be temporary:

Record Time: 52 seconds

I could beat that in my sleep.

I swaggered up to the bar and slapped down a few bills. “Shot of whiskey and a cold Lone Star beer.”

Ivy followed like a shadow in heels. She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. She just matched me move for move. Tossed back the whiskey with a practiced tilt, set the glass down with a satisfying clack, and took a slow pull from her bottle like she’d been raised in a dive bar outside Amarillo. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gave me a grin that could melt the chrome off a Harley.

“You’re becoming my favorite person,” she said, her eyes practically dancing under the neon haze.

“Better people out there,” I muttered into my glass.

“Not as charming as you are.”

She bumped my shoulder, casual, calculated, and confident. Like she was tuning a guitar string just to see how far it could stretch before it snapped.

I gave her a sidelong glance. “You trying to distract me?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And right then, the bull at the center of the saloon gave a loud, mechanical snort—hydraulics whining as it shifted in place like it had already chosen who it was gonna throw tonight.

Game on.

I grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the pen, our boots echoing off the wooden floor.

“Come on. Time to show you how we do it in West Texas.”

She laughed—high, light, just a little wicked—as we weaved through dancers and cowboys and tourists in fringed crop tops. Her fingers stayed laced in mine the whole way, her heels clicking beside my boots like percussion in a wild, off-key duet. We reached the sign-up table. The man there was built like a retired linebacker and smelled like BBQ smoke and lost bets. He looked us over like he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or deeply, deeply concerned.

I slapped my name on the list. Still riding my win streak. Still two points ahead.

Don’t forget the rules, Ivy grunted. “Leader rides first.”

I cracked my neck and grinned.

“Let’s ride.”

They called my name over the speaker, and a cheer went up from a nearby table, probably folks who followed us from the mud-wrestling debacle.

A guy who followed us from the last bar started yelling, “Ride it like you mean it, Andrew!”

I stood, shaking out my arms like I wasn’t about to mount a mechanical beast engineered by drunk sadists with a grudge against vertebrae.

Just as I turned to go, her hand caught mine. That same electric velvet jolt hit my skin. She pulled me in, closer than necessary. Closer than safe. Her face was just inches from mine, her breath warm, her smile wicked.

“Good luck, Andrew,” she whispered, her voice like warm honey poured over a razor blade.

Then she winked and kissed me on the cheek. And just like that, my entire brain decided to take an early retirement package. I had something clever planned. Something cowboy-smooth, probably involving some kind of half-baked metaphor.

What actually came out was.

“Muuuuhhh… I-I… I… Uhhhh… pretty lady. Bye!”

She burst out laughing, bright and full and utterly unfair, as I turned and stumbled toward the bull, forgetting how my legs worked.

The crowd didn’t notice. But she definitely did.

I walked off like a man who had absolutely never interacted with a woman before in his life. Climbed onto the bull. Settled into the saddle like I’d been born there, like the world was just one long dirt road and this was where it always led. I tipped my hat to the operator.

“Let ’er roll!”

The music shifted. Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash fired up over the speakers. The lights around the ring flared gold and red, bathing everything in that rodeo-by-neon glow. And then the bull moved.

Not slow.

The women? They got warm-ups. Playful sways. Polite bucks.

The men? They got war.

This operator meant business. The bull lunged. Spun. Kicked like it wanted my spine on a platter. I’d ridden real bulls before. One was literally named Cowboy Blender, and even that felt like a gentle massage compared to this monster.

But I didn’t falter.

One hand gripped the rope. The other waved like I was conducting a symphony made of thunder and adrenaline. I rolled with every buck, hips and shoulders moving in perfect sync. Every jerk answered like a verse in a song I knew by heart.

The crowd started to cheer. Then a roar. Phones came out. People spilled from the bar, drawn like moths to madness. One guy screamed, “USA!” despite the lack of international competition or relevance.

Didn’t matter. The chant caught.

“USA! USA! USA!”

Forty seconds… Fifty-five.

The bull operator kicked it into overdrive. I held. Legs clamped. Teeth grit. Laughing like a man possessed. Drinking in the energy of the crowd like it was oxygen and I hadn’t breathed in years.

One minute… One-twenty… One forty-five.

And then, finally, the bull gave a final savage twist, and I flew. Hit the mat. I Rolled, and popped back up like I’d just scored the game-winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. Hands in the air. Chest heaving. Shirt soaked with sweat and leftover beer and something dangerously close to euphoria.

The crowd went wild.

“NEW RECORD!” the announcer barked, voice cracking with disbelief.

I turned toward the bar. Turned toward her. Ready for the smirk. The mocking slow clap. The challenge. But she was still. She hadn’t moved. Not during the ride. Not during the cheering. One hand on her drink. The other at her side. And her eyes were locked on me. Just watching. Like I was something she’d never seen before.

As I walked back toward the bar, someone shoved a fresh beer into my hand. I chugged it like it was my birthright. Another guy, maybe the same one who screamed “USA!” earlier, ran up and slapped my dusty cowboy hat onto my head.

My hat… I didn’t even notice I lost it… Didn’t matter.

The crowd still buzzed behind me. A few flash photos going off like I was a minor celebrity. I felt like I was walking off a movie set. Sweaty, bruised, victorious, and grinning like an idiot. Only thing missing was the part where I kissed the girl.

But Ivy didn’t look like she wanted to be kissed. She was standing exactly where I left her, still as stone, one hand resting lightly on her glass.

“Well done, Andrew,” she said.

Soft, almost too soft. And that, somehow, unsettled me more than any wicked grin or spark-eyed Fae threat she’d thrown my way all night. She wasn’t planning her next game like she always did. She was just watching me, like she was recalculating something. Her eyes flicked down to my hand, still wrapped around the beer, then up to the hat. The smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, just briefly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’re full of surprises,” she murmured.

I wanted to say something clever. Something light. Keep the mood spinning where I could control it. Instead, I just stepped closer. Not touching her. But close enough that she’d have to feel it, that tension between us. That shift neither of us wanted to name yet.

“Two points up, now you gotta beat one-minute and fifty-five seconds,” I said, voice low. “You still in this?”

She tilted her head. The smile came back, but this time it looked more like armor than amusement.

“Of course I am,” she said.

But something in her tone told me she wasn’t talking about the game anymore. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but she turned away slightly. Her gaze already shifting, her voice low as she nodded toward the bull ring.

“I’m next,” she said. “After this one.”

I followed her eyes just in time to see a man, built like he’d lost a bet with gravity, get launched off the bull with all the grace of a falling piano. He hit the mat hard, let out a sound like someone stepping on a kazoo, and rolled off muttering something about worker’s comp.

The crowd winced in unison.

I took another swig from my beer, but my eyes drifted back to her. She wasn’t looking at me for once. She was watching the bull now. Still. Her smile was gone. The sparkle dimmed. Something had shifted. And I wasn’t sure if I liked what was coming next.

Then they called her name. Or rather… her stage name.

“Lady Ivy!”

I blinked. Right. Of course.

The same name they’d whispered through the club speakers. The same name that had curled through the air like perfume and promises. It drifted over the bar’s sound system like a slow spell, and the crowd responded the only way people ever do when something too beautiful to be safe steps into the light.

Ivy reached over and grabbed my hat right off my head. She put it on and strolled toward the bullpen with the lazy confidence of someone who already knew the ending. Then she mounted it.

Mounted it…

My throat immediately forgot how to swallow.

She swung one long leg over the saddle with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. She settled, her spine curving just enough to hint at sin, her whole body melting into place like she was poured into the shape of the seat.

One hand wrapped around the rope. The other moved up through her hair under my hat. Down the curve of her neck. Over the swell of her breasts, fingers gliding like brushstrokes. Like she was painting attention onto herself one motion at a time. Somewhere behind me, I heard a woman gasp. A man dropped his drink.

The crowd had gone quiet. I wasn’t sure if the bull had started yet, or if time had just stopped to watch her ride.

The music kicked in—slow country rock, thick with bass and heat. A beat that resonates in your bones, making foolish plans feel inspired. The kind you could grind to in the back of a smoky bar and wake up three counties away with a new tattoo and no memory of how it happened.

The bull began to move. And God help me…

She danced with it. Her hips flowed with every twist, every buck, like the bull was a partner she’d been waiting for. Seducing it, like the machine had been built for her, and it was just grateful to be touched for once. The lights around the pen caught in her hair, casting glimmers of green and gold across her skin. Her spine arched, rolled, dipped like she was underwater, and the air was thick with her scent.

The crowd didn’t cheer. They couldn’t. No one dared break the spell.

Her free hand slid down the curve of her waist—over her hip, her thigh, across the flat plane of her stomach—slow, sensual, and deliberate. Every motion was an invitation and a dare. Like she was reminding everyone watching that she could ruin them and make them say thank you for the privilege.

Ivy’s eyes never left mine. Locked on me with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. She stared straight through me, reading the fine print on my soul. Like she was wondering how it might taste.

The bull kicked harder. Jerked left. Spun right. She flowed with it. Like sin on rails. Like the Fae weren’t born in woods or mists, but bars with bull pens and slow country songs.

The operator, that poor bastard, looked dazed at first. Eyes glazed, mouth slightly open. Caught somewhere between awe and cardiac arrest. Then something flickered behind his eyes. Some primal challenge response, maybe. He grinned like a man possessed and reached for the control box. Cranked the speed.

The bull jolted harder, violently now, the motion no longer playful but punishing. And Ivy laughed. A rich, delighted, maniacal laugh that curved up from her chest and slid down my spine like silk. She reached out with her freehand and grabbed my hat from her head and let out a loud, “YEEHAW!”

The operator cranked it up again. And again.

Ivy’s spine arched with it. Her leg muscles flexed. Her whole body rippled like molten gold, every motion impossibly fluid. It didn’t look like riding anymore. It looked like worship. Like some sacred dance handed down by gods who never wore clothes and didn’t believe in mercy.

Even the music had cut off—mid-beat, the speakers stuttering into a ghost of sound before dying completely, like the playlist knew it was outclassed. The announcer had dropped his mic. It hit the floor with a soft, defeated thud. I don’t think he remembered how to breathe. I know I didn’t. The operator’s hand trembled as he pushed the dial to max.

The bull bucked like it was in pain—wild, spasmodic, nearly vertical. Like it was trying to eject her from the planet. Like it knew it was outmatched and wanted no part of this sorcery. And still She rode it. Effortlessly. Eyes locked on mine, steady and bright.

With one final, dramatic, spine-jolting lurch…

The machine died. The bull let out a mechanical groan, shuddered like a dying lawn mower, and gave up the ghost. A sad little electronic whine escaped its speakers. One last puff of smoke coughed out of its nostrils. It sparked once. Twitching. Then went limp.

Dead and defeated.

Ivy swung her leg over and hopped off like she’d just dismounted a show pony at a Sunday picnic. Not even a hair out of place. She strutted back toward me, the crowd parting like they weren’t sure if she was royalty or a bomb that hadn’t finished detonating yet.

I stood there with a beer in my hand and no idea what to say. Because for all my wins, for all the laughs and clever cowboy charm… I had just watched a Faerie princess break a machine with nothing but hips and spite.

Ivy didn’t even glance at the crowd as she sauntered through the silence. Everyone was still frozen. The bartender’s mouth hung open. I think someone in the back crossed themselves as if witnessing a holy miracle. The smell of arousal and burned out eyeballs hung heavy in the room.

I looked at the timer.

5 minutes. 35 seconds.

We all stared at it like it was a countdown to the end of the world.

Ivy stopped in front of me and put the hat back in my head. Lifted one delicate finger and ran it down the center of my chest, slowly, leaving a trail of goosebumps and something colder. Something hotter. Her touch felt like jalapeño ice cream dripping through my ribs.

“I win.”

My brain offered one final, coherent thought…

Shit.

She leaned in close, lips just brushing my ear, and whispered.

“My turn to pick the challenge.”

After the bull’s corpse was dragged away—yes, corpse, that thing died—we stood in the center of a hushed crowd still recovering from the sight of Ivy grinding a robot to death. She just sipped her beer like nothing had happened.

“Two-one,” she said, tapping her nails against the bottleneck with a gentle clink-clink-clink that sounded just a little too much like a countdown.

I nodded slowly, tugging at my shirt, adjusting what remained of my pride and a very confused cowboy hat. “Fair win.”

She smiled, slow and knowing. The kind of smile that says, I let you get this far because it was fun.

“Ready for the next one?”

I snorted more bravado than sense. “Always.”

She leaned in, voice low and sultry, threaded with that dangerous mischief I was quickly learning to dread. The kind of tone that usually meant something was about to go delightfully wrong.

“Texas Hold ’Em,” she said. “Last one standing wins.”

I straightened. Perked up. Now that was a game.

“Now you’re speaking my language,” I said.

She arched her brow. “Confident, are we?”

“Sweetheart,” I said, pulling myself together with every last drop of Texas I had in me, “I’m from a town where church lets out early for the Tri-county poker finals. I’ve been playing since I had baby teeth and a booster seat.”

That earned me a grin. Like she’d just realized her prey had spurs.

“Perfect,” she said.

Already I could feel it, that hum of adrenaline. The shuffle of cards. The weight of a bluff. The slick, satisfying slide of chips across the felt. This was my arena. My rhythm. I was going to take back control, even the score, and maybe—just maybe—rattle her for once.

“Let’s hit a casino,” I said, flipping open my wallet like a man checking his revolver before a duel.

But she tilted her head.

“No,” she said.

I blinked. “Why not? Casinos are…”

“Too loud. Too predictable.” Her voice dipped—low, rich, velvet dipped in bourbon and secrets. Her eyes caught the light like storm-lit amber. “I know a place. Private club. Quiet. High stakes. Only the interesting ones get invited.”

There was something in the way she said interesting that made my spine itch. The not so good sort of itch. One that says turn back now and lean in closer at the same time.

The ghost of Babcia’s memory whispered in my ear. "They don’t lie and cannot cheat. But don’t say whole truth. Leave holes in word, so you fall in. Then they say how they trap you."

I hesitated. Just for a breath. Then I shrugged, flicked the brim of my hat, and said.

“Lead the way.”

Chapter Seven

We walked for twenty minutes, down narrower streets and off-Strip alleys. The noise faded and the neon softened as the Strip bled away behind us like the memory of a bad dream. Eventually, we stopped in front of an unmarked black door squeezed between a vape shop and a boarded-up psychic’s storefront. A faded, hand-painted sign hung crooked in the window, Be back in 2009.

Ivy knocked three times. A click echoed from inside. And then we stepped through the veil.

Literally.

A shimmer rippled across my skin as we crossed the threshold, cool and electric, Like we’d stepped underwater in a place that didn’t have water. The air shifted, turned heavier. Oppressive in that you’re-not-supposed-to-be-here kind of way. Reality hiccuped. Just a blink. And when it cleared, we weren’t in the reality I knew anymore.

The lighting inside was low and lush, warm as firelight with no visible source. Shadows moved like they had thoughts of their own. The air smelled thick, like old spice markets and richer tobacco than any human ever rolled. Earthy, heady, and ancient. At first glance, the velvet drapes and dark wood walls looked real until you noticed how perfect they were. The wood grain pulsed faintly under your eyes like it was breathing. The velvet caught the light wrong, like it had been woven by spiders high on moonlight and PCP. I heard music—slow, smoky jazz—but it wasn’t right. It bent mid-note, looped backward, changed keys like it couldn’t settle on a century.

“Welcome to the Other Side,” Ivy said, her voice almost reverent.

“A Fae-run private club and casino,” she added, eyes sparkling like stained glass hit by lightning. “One of the oldest in the world.”

I blinked. “I thought you said magic was off the table.”

She smiled. Not kindly. “It is. That’s what makes it fun.”

We moved deeper into the club, and the veil of illusion peeled back with every step. To my left, a dryad lounged in a smoky corner booth. Her skin was smooth, but there were patches of bark, her eyes glowing bright green. She cradled a glass that pulsed with light and sprouted tiny vines curling up the rim, slowly blooming with pale flowers.

At the next table, a vampire in a pinstripe suit leaned in close to a silver-haired witch. His fangs peeked out as he whispered something in her ear. She laughed, low and throaty, and traced a glowing pentagram into the surface of her martini with one long black nail. Behind the bar stood a centaur, polishing a glass with the weariness of someone who’d survived multiple apocalypse parties and was tipped poorly at all of them.

To the right, a cluster of gnomes haggled over gold coins at a dice table like tiny stockbrokers on their third espresso. At a blackjack table, a red-haired banshee in a feather boa shrieked in delight as she hit twenty-one. Her scream warped the cards in the dealer’s hands like heat rising off asphalt.

The hostess was a Fae like Ivy. Just slightly less regal and beautiful. Her silver wings radiated with just a little less majesty. But nevertheless, I stopped walking, dead in my tracks. Tried not to gawk like some wide-eyed yokel dropped into Narnia with a beer in one hand and a Whataburger receipt in the other.

Ivy leaned into my shoulder, close enough to feel the smirk in her breath. “Still confident?”

I swallowed.

“This is… a lot.”

She nodded toward the back, where a raised card table shimmered in red-gold light like it had been dipped in dragon’s breath.

“That’s the high-stakes table,” she said. “No glamour. No enchantments. Just skill, luck… and a little blood.”

I froze. “What?”

She grinned. “Kidding…mostly.”

Then she turned and walked toward the table, hips swaying with the same effortless arrogance as a storm cloud rolling in. I followed like a man walking into church with a hangover and a stolen suit. Before we reached it, she veered off toward the bar, that playful bounce in her step like she’d picked it up somewhere between the now and the Dark Ages.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing my hand again. “Let’s get something to loosen up.”

“Loosen you up?” I muttered. “You just murdered a mechanical bull with your thighs.”

She looked over her shoulder, smiling like a wolf in lipstick. “And you’re still thinking about it.”

“That’s a memory that’s going to stick with me for the rest of my life.”

The bar curved like a crescent moon, carved from a material that flickered between obsidian and polished bone. It pulsed faintly under the lights, like it might’ve once been in the sky and just hadn’t gotten the memo it was furniture now.

The centaur bartender was still there, stoically polishing a glass with the same grim dedication as someone wiping blood off a sword. His upper half looked carved from marble. His horse half wore a sleek black apron with a nametag that said simply: Rudj.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, voice like gravel ground through thunder.

“Something strong,” Ivy said, leaning into the bar until her shoulder brushed mine. “But sweet.”

“Faerie Fire,” he grunted.

I nodded toward a bottle that looked older than the state of Texas. “Kentucky Bourbon. The good stuff. High-proof. If it doesn’t burn, send it back.”

We stood there in silence for a moment, drinks in hand. Her cocktail glowed like it had its own opinions, blue and gold tendrils slithering lazily inside the glass like tipsy fireflies. She sipped, then licked a drop from her lip, turning toward me with a predator’s patience.

“You’re quiet,” she said, resting one elbow on the bar. “Afraid the table might bite?”

I took a drink, let the burn coat my tongue like armor. “Not afraid. Just... aware. You bring me into a place with a centaur bartender and a banshee hitting blackjack. I’m not gonna walk in acting like I own the joint.”

She grinned, slow and satisfied. “Prudent. Sexy. I like that.”

I glanced around.

“Everyone else is in their true form. Why not you?”

She leaned in. “Why the rush? I’d rather slowly reveal myself to you.”

I coughed into my glass. She stepped closer, voice softening to something silkier.

“You know, it’s funny. Most humans would be drooling by now. Eyes glazed. Trying to impress me or speechless. Most people can’t resist Fae charm, especially not with royal blood like mine.”

Her gaze lingered on mine, sharp and amused.

“But you? You’re still calculating. Still figuring out how to win.”

I met her eyes.

“You think I can’t? I bet I surprise you.”

Her smile shifted, something darker in the curve of it.

“I think I underestimated you once. I won’t do it again.”

The flirtation was still there. But underneath? Steel.

“Good,” I said. “Means we’re finally playing the same game.”

That earned a laugh—short, genuine, and a little surprised. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand like it had slipped out.

“Gods,” she said, “I forgot how fun mortals could be.”

She raised her glass toward me. “To losing beautifully.”

I clinked mine against hers. “To winning ugly.”

We drank. And then turned towards the next challenge.

The high-stakes table sat in a roped-off corner of the club, secluded in shadows that didn’t quite behave the way shadows were supposed to. They twitched too much. They clung to things that weren’t there. One reached toward me as I passed, and I politely batted it away like I would a drunk uncle trying to steal from my plate at a family reunion.

The table itself looked carved from obsidian fused with tangled tree roots, slick black curves interrupted by gnarled veins of petrified wood. It pulsed faintly beneath the surface, like it remembered being alive. The felt was blood-red, trimmed in gold thread that shimmered like it disapproved of us being there.

The chips weren’t chips. Not really.

Mismatched piles lined the edge. Ancient gold coins, bone slivers etched with runes, dice made of polished amber, and one stack of what looked like crystallized spiderwebs. They glittered faintly, and I got the sense that touching them would cause them to shatter.

As we approached, Ivy tossed a velvet pouch onto the table. It landed with a heavy clink that echoed like a bell in a tomb. The gnome sitting across from us flinched so hard he nearly knocked over his stack of glowing teeth. Gold coins spilled across the felt—thick, uneven, and stamped with symbols I didn’t recognize. They looked old enough to have been used to pay off temple guards.

“I’ll buy you in,” she said, sliding into her seat like a queen. “Since I’ll own you by the end of this, I consider it… an investment.”

“Generous,” I muttered, dropping into the seat beside her and adjusting my hat like it would protect me from whatever eldritch nonsense this table was made of.

The dealer cleared his throat. The sound was like stone grinding against steel. He was a dwarf. The Tolkien kind, not the snow white kind. The real deal. Broad. Bearded. Compact enough to punch through a mountain if he wanted. His tuxedo was pressed, immaculate, and utterly absurd for someone who looked like he’d stolen from a dragon for fun. The beard was braided into a thick silver knot that hung below the table and swayed slightly when he moved.

“House rules,” he growled. “Texas Hold ’Em. No enchantments. No external tampering. No binding wagers without mutual consent. Cheating results in immediate and permanent dismemberment.”

Then he looked directly at me. I gave him a slow, deadpan thumbs up.

“Excellent,” he said, with a smile that showed far too many molars. “Let’s begin.”

I scanned the table.

This was not the Yellow Rose Poker Club back home. There were no Styrofoam cups of tobacco spit, no dusty ceiling fans, and nobody here was going to call me kiddo and asking if I brought the good deer jerky.

To my left sat a succubus draped in a red dress that didn’t so much cover as it did suggest. Her skin had a warm, rose-gold sheen that practically glowed in the low light. A pair of small, curling horns peeked through waves of jet-black hair, and her eyes gleamed faintly pink like distant warning lights on a foggy road. She leaned back in her chair, one long leg crossed high over the other, tail lazily twirling in the air behind her. She stirred her drink with her pinky finger in slow, sensual circles, like each rotation cast a tiny spell. 

“I do hope this game’s more fun than the last,” she said, accent lilting and slow, rich like melted chocolate. “The last mortal who lost… ay, pobrecito, he cried so beautifully when I took his gold. Don’t disappoint me, cowboy.”

I gave her my best poker face. Which meant not staring too long at anything, especially not her.

Beside her, curled on a velvet cushion that had his name stitched in gold thread, was a sleek black cat. He looked like he could cuddle with someone or kill them, depending on the time of day. His fur shimmered like ink, and his eyes glowed emerald green.

Without even turning his head, Mr. Midnight said in a crisp, disinterested British accent, “Let’s get on with it, darlings. I’ve got a ritual in a few hours, and I’d like to win something expensive before I do it.”

Across from me was a man chewing a toothpick. Leather jacket. Scar over one eye. Human, probably. He didn’t introduce himself, didn’t smile, didn’t blink. Just gave me a once-over and cracked his knuckles like punctuation.

Beside him sat a short, broad man in black robes stitched with bones, feathers, and symbols I didn’t recognize. His skin was dark, his eyes milky white, and his face was painted in the pattern of a skull. Dreadlocks hung past his shoulders, tucked beneath a tattered top hat. He turned his blind gaze toward me and grinned.

“You feel da spirits yet, cowboy?” he asked, a thick Caribbean accent curling around the words. “'Dey been whisperin’ since you walked through dat door. Real curious about you, dey are.”

I nodded slowly and added being haunted to my list of current problems.

Next to him was the gnome. And I mean an actual gnome. Keebler elf style. Tall cone-shaped red cap, child-like face, maybe two feet tall. He sat on a stack of books to see over the table, clutching a beer that was taller than his torso. A fat joint dangled from the corner of his mouth, and he glared at everyone like we owed him rent.

“I’m feeling lucky tonight!” he chirped in a squeaky, fast-talking voice that belonged in a black-and-white cartoon. “And don't you think I’m going to let you win again, you flea-ridden bastard!”

Mr. Midnight didn't respond, Instead he smugly turned around and flashed his butthole at the gnome. Tail flickering before sitting back down to lock his paw.

The gnome slammed a tiny, soot-stained hand on the table. “I HATE YOU SO MUCH!”

And finally, seated stiffly at the far end of the table, was a zombie. His suit was a once-stylish pinstripe number from the 1920s, now yellowed and moth-bitten. His flesh sagged in places, gray and paper-thin, and one eyeball had clearly made a run for it and been shoved back in without much ceremony.

But the voice?

“Oh, finally,” he snapped, pinching his nose like someone offended by the smell of the living. “We playin’ cards or admirin’ each other’s complexions? ‘Cause I gotta a lot ridin’ on this game.”

His voice was high, nasal, and pure Bronx—like a chain-smoking bookie who’d once broken kneecaps during Prohibition and never stopped talking.

“I’m sittin’ here, fallin’ apart at the seams… literally, see this? Stitchin’s comin’ outta my wrist… and you mooks are makin’ small talk? Give me a break.”

The dwarf dealer, unbothered, cleared his throat. Tuxedo crisp. Beard braided tight.

“Everyone buy in?”

A chorus of nods, growls, mumbles, and a single purring, “Mmmhm” from Mr. Midnight.

I tossed in Ivy’s gold and met the succubus’s smirk with a blank stare.

“Let’s play,” I said.

The cards were shuffled. The pot was seeded. And the first card hit the felt.

Chapter Eight

The dwarf dealer moved like a machine made of gristle and purpose. He dealt two cards to each player, hands a blur above the blood-red felt. I barely looked at mine before I committed.

Two and seven. Off-suit.

Utter garbage. Didn’t matter.

I always played the first hand. Old habit. Maybe superstition. Maybe just good ol’ West Texas arrogance. Nine times outta ten, it gave me a read on the table. Besides, playing trash like it was gold? That was just good bluff exercise.

I was the big blind. Ivy was the small. She flicked her chip in with a casual flick of her fingers, glowing drink in her other hand, legs crossed elegantly beneath the table. Her copper eyes flicked toward me, studying, amused. I could feel the grin she wasn’t quite showing.

Then the zombie made his move. He creaked forward, his fingers rasped over his chips with a sound like dry leaves.

“Hundred,” he said, voice like a rusty hinge swinging open over a grave.

Mr. Midnight, curled luxuriously on his embroidered throne of a cushion, let out a soft purr and arched one brow-whisker.

“Feeling bold tonight, are we?” he drawled. “Very well. I’m feeling indulgent.” He called, pawing his chips forward with delicate disdain.

The succubus sighed, trailing a crimson-tipped claw down her thigh. “Mmm. I like to watch more than I like to lose.” She folded, pouting like it was foreplay.

The man in the leather jacket didn’t speak. He simply blinked, cracked his knuckles, and folded with the finality of a man who wasn’t here for warmups. The gnome puffed out a grunt, flicking ash from his joint into a half-finished beer.

“Fucking nothing in this damn hand!” He folded and reached for another beer.

The voodoo priest smiled, leaned back, and waved a hand like blessing a funeral.

“Dis ain’t da hand I was waitin’ for. I pass.”

Then it was Ivy. She took her time. Sipped her drink. Tilted her head. Glanced at the zombie, then Mr. Midnight. Then me.

She smiled.

“Raise,” she said, voice warm, rich, and dangerous. She slid a stack of chips forward gracefully and controlled. “Fifty.”

The zombie groaned like something had cracked.

"Eh... What's this? You raisin’ me, ya broad? I’ve seen classier dames than ya back in my day.”

Mr. Midnight’s tail twitched. I raised a brow.

“Raise,” I said, matching Ivy and tossing in fifty more.

Her drink paused at her lips. She didn’t look surprised. Just intrigued. The zombie let out a long wheeze and called, pushing his stack in with fingers that left faint, crumbling dust on the felt.

"Heh… oh, you both got moxie. Raisin’ me, eh? Yous got ice in them veins or rocks in the head? Either way yous two were made for each udder.”

Mr. Midnight sniffed, unimpressed. “You people are animals,” he muttered. “This game will be delightful. Let's see how this plays out.” He folded with dramatic flair, stretching luxuriously on his cushion.

Three players left: me, Ivy, and the corpse from old New York. The dealer flipped the flop.

Two of Clubs. Eight of Hearts. Jack of Spades.

Not much. Except for my little trash pile starting to glitter. I checked. Kept my face stone-cold. Ivy mirrored me, tapping the table with one elegant finger. The zombie stared at the cards, then nodded to himself and tapped too. No raises.

Then the turn.

Seven of Diamonds.

Okay. Two pair. Not bad for hot garbage.

The zombie shifted again, sounding like a bag of bones being dropped down a stairwell. He pushed forward a stack.

“Fifty… Let’s see if yous got the guts… ’cause I sure ain’t got mine no more.”

Ivy’s eyes flicked to the chips. Her drink stopped swirling. She looked thoughtful. Then she smiled, teeth sharp in the soft light.

“Call,” she purred, dragging her stack forward.

Now it was me. I didn’t hesitate.

“Raise,” I said. “Hundred more.”

That got a reaction. Ivy let out a soft, surprised laugh, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The zombie made a sound between a cough and a wheeze, then shoved more chips in without a word.

The succubus leaned in a little closer to me, eyes narrowed like she was reading scripture in my forehead.

“Careful, vaquero,” she said. “You’re either very brave… or very, very stupid.”

“Why not both?” I replied.

She raised her glass toward me. And the river card came down.

Two of Diamonds.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. My pulse did a little two-step, but my face stayed flat as stone. The zombie didn’t react. Not sure he could. He leaned in slow, every vertebrae popping like bubble wrap, and stared at me. His clouded eyes scanned my soul like he was pricing it out for parts. Then, with the slow certainty of a man who’d buried better players, he pushed out a stack.

“Heh… gutsy. Gotta be gutsy. Alright, let’s see if you’re the real deal… or just another stiff at the table… Raise anotha’ hundred,” he rasped.

Ivy didn’t flinch. Just tapped the table and slid in her chips, eyes still burning copper and locked on me. Then she spoke.

“Raise,” she said, her voice a lazy purr. “One hundred more.”

I glanced over. She was smiling again, one brow raised, like she was asking a question I didn’t know I was supposed to answer. And then the zombie moved again. The creaking of his limbs echoed like old wood. Chips rattled as he pushed them forward.

“Tree hundred,” he said.

His hand shook faintly, and I heard it again—that wet, rattling sound in his chest. Like a bag of bones in a blender.

“I ain't got much left to lose, see? Lost my crew, lost my rackets, lost my skin, even. But I got this hand. And I’ll be damned, again, if I fold it now.”

I stared at the pot. Full house. Twos over sevens. I had him beat. I knew I had him beat. And still I hesitated. Not because of doubt. Because this wasn’t just a poker table. This was his turf. And I didn’t know what winning really meant in a place like this.

A normal table? You walk away richer or poorer. Here? You might walk away with a death curse. Or not at all. But this was still Vegas. And I didn’t come here to fold to a rotting wiseguy in a tuxedo.

“Raise,” I said, sliding my pile across the felt. “One thousand more.”

The room shifted. Slight. But real. Ivy choked softly on her drink, again. Covered her mouth with the back of her hand as she coughed out a surprised laugh.

“Oh, you really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

The centaur bartender paused mid-glass-polish and looked over, ears twitching like he smelled a bar fight about to break loose. Even Mr. Midnight cracked one glowing green eye from his cushion.

“Oh, my,” he purred. “Someone came to play.”

“Sadly, I fold.” Ivy declares while pushing her cards away.

The zombie didn’t blink. Didn’t even twitch.Then, slow as decay, his fingers slid forward.

"’Dats half ma stack. Let’s see if Lady Luck’s still sweet on me.”

He laid down his cards with the care of a man revealing a holy relic.

Jack and Eight. Two pair.

Damn good hand. Just not good enough. I turned mine over, one card at a time. Let the silence stretch.

“Full house,” I said. “Twos and sevens.”

The dwarf dealer grunted, gave a single nod, and raked the mountain of mismatched currency toward me. Coins. Bones. Bits and bobbles that shimmered like stardust.

Ivy clapped once. Then twice more. Her grin was wide, dazzling, and just a little feral.

“Well done, cowboy,” she said, her voice rich with delight. “You’re a graverobber now.”

The zombie didn’t flinch. Just slumped slightly in his chair with a long, rattling exhale, like something inside him had finally given up trying. I stacked my winnings, careful not to touch anything that might try to curse me.

Ivy leaned in close, breath warm against my ear.

“I’m starting to think you might be dangerous.”

I turned and gave her the same kind of smile that got me out of trouble back home.

“Still figuring out if that’s a compliment.”

Her eyes glittered like lightning.

Around us, the cards were shuffled again. The next few hands passed in a slow, muted blur. The pot sizes stayed modest. The energy stayed low. Like everyone at the table was circling, sniffing, waiting to see who would bleed first.

The succubus folded early most hands, like she was saving her strength for something bigger. Mr. Midnight won a decent sized pot with a smug stretch and a yawn that sounded eerily like judgment. The gnome grumbled through a hand, cursed in six languages, smoked a joint the size of a baby carrot, and still managed to lose with two queens to the voodoo priest’s straight.

“Cards got ghosts in them,” he muttered, chugging from his beer. “I can smell it. Cheatin’ little bastards.”

The centaur bartender clomped through the room, refilling drinks without spilling a drop. His movements were too graceful for a creature his size, and he didn’t speak, not a single word, but he watched the table with a bouncer’s eyes.

Ivy stayed quiet, still as a statue. She didn’t play unless she was the big blind, or unless no one raised. When she did play, she folded early. Always with a bored smirk and a lazy sip from her glowing drink. She wasn’t playing to win. Not yet. I couldn’t tell if that was strategy or pure showmanship. Knowing her? Probably both. Probably more. And I didn’t like it.

Not because she was unpredictable. Because she wasn’t.

She was waiting. Baiting. Letting the others settle. Letting me win a little. Watching everyone stretch out their tells like sunbathers in the open.

Then the next hand came. The one that flipped the table. I was small blind.

Queen of Clubs. Three of Diamonds.

Garbage. No bluff angle. Barely even worth pretending I had a plan. The voodoo priest moved first. Calm, confident, like the cards had spoken to him before they hit the felt.

“I raise,” he said, his accent curling around the word like incense smoke. He slid the chips forward with two fingers, as if he were making an offering instead of a bet.

The bald guy, still chewing that toothpick like it owed him rent, cracked his neck. He glanced at his hand, and called. Not a word. Just a low grunt and a stack of chips. Then the gnome. He squinted at his hand, made a sound like a kettle boiling over, and muttered something in Gnomish that sounded like someone cussing underwater through a kazoo. Then he raised.

Ivy folded. Didn’t even look disappointed. Just gave a lazy shrug and flicked her drink, sending little motes of light skimming across the surface. Her eyes slid to mine, unreadable.

I glanced at my cards one last time. Useless.

“Out,” I said, sliding them toward the dealer. “This one’s all yours, boys.”

I leaned back in my chair and watched. The dwarf burned the top card and laid down the flop.

King of Spades. Ten of Diamonds. Ten of Clubs.

Interesting. Could be trouble. Could be gold.

The voodoo priest bet first. Same calm smile. Same slow movement. Another fifty. The bald guy growled and called. The gnome waited. Tapped a finger on the edge of his tiny beer can. Smirked like a raccoon with a stolen cheeseburger.

“Let’s dance,” he squeaked, and raised. Again.

Then the turn hit. Ace of Spades. The voodoo priest didn’t flinch. Still smiling like he was already counting the pot. The bald guy started drumming his fingers on the felt, the toothpick now twitching between his teeth.

Then the river. Ten of Hearts.

Three of a kind on the board. If anyone was holding a ten, they’d just become a god.

The gnome didn’t hesitate. He shoved forward a pile of chips, some of which looked suspiciously like ancient gold teeth and one that might’ve been a shriveled toe. The voodoo priest took a long breath. Then called. The bald guy sat stone-faced for a beat longer, then tossed his cards down with a muttered curse. The gnome let out a noise that was part cackle, part goblin war cry. He flipped his hand.

Ten. Two. Four of a kind.

The table went dead silent. Even the succubus, who hadn’t blinked in twenty minutes, slowly raised her eyebrows and gave a low whistle.

The voodoo priest exhaled. Soft. Almost disappointed. Like he’d seen it coming and hoped he was wrong. He flipped his cards, pocket aces. A full house. Just not good enough.

The gnome reached forward with both hands and dragged the pot toward him, piling it with practiced speed and greedy precision. Every coin, chip, and rune-touched shard moved like it was part of some ancient accounting ritual. I glanced at the chip stacks. He was dominating now.

Ivy leaned over, drink still in hand, her breath warm against my jaw.

“He plays like a goblin accountant,” she whispered. “Dangerous combination.”

I kept my eyes on the gnome, who was now lighting another joint with a tiny blowtorch. He let out a series of coughs and snorts that somehow sounded smug.

“Time to tighten up,” I muttered.

Ivy smiled. Traced a slow circle on the rim of her glass with one finger.

“Or bluff harder,” she teased.

I didn’t answer.

It was Ivy’s big blind again, and for the first time in a while, she didn’t just match the ante, she raised it significantly. She slid a tall stack of glimmering coins into the pot with one delicate finger and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Feeling lucky?” I asked her, half-teasing, trying to keep the table light.

She looked at me.

“No,” she said. “I’m feeling due.”

My gut shifted. I glanced at my cards.

Six of clubs. Three of hearts. Off-suit. Trash. Worse than trash. I folded. Fast.

The gnome folded too. Which was strange. He gave Ivy a long, cautious look, then took a deep swig from his beer and muttered, “Nope. Nuh-uh. I like my soul where it is, thanks.”

That left three at the table were Ivy, the zombie, and the voodoo priest. The zombie creaked forward, bones ticking like a rusted metronome. His trembling fingers nudged his own stack into the center.

“Call,” he rasped.

Then the priest raised his drink in a slow, deliberate salute.

“All in.”

A hush fell over the table. Then Ivy  called without flinching. She didn’t even glance at her cards. The zombie stared at his like they were the last bit of truth left in the world. For a moment, he didn’t move, the silence stretching tight as piano wire. Then he reached for his chips.

All of them.

“You know what it’s like? Goin’ all in when your heart ain’t beatin’, your blood ain’t flowin’, and the worms been usin’ your ribcage for a goddamn subway? It’s not desperation. It’s freedom. Nothin’ left to lose but the dirt I came outta.”

The dwarf dealer stilled, his thick fingers hovering over the deck for a beat longer than usual. His bushy brows lifted. Just a touch. He burned a card, then laid the flop:

King of Hearts. Seven of Spades. Queen of Diamonds.

The zombie’s breath rattled like an empty bottle.

“Pushin’ all I got,” he wheezed, as if the words cost him something.

“Ya done did,” the priest replied smoothly. His voice was too calm now. His eyes had started to glow, a faint, ghostly white behind the dark paint of his skull mask.

Then came the turn. Ace of Clubs. And the river. Ten of Hearts. Five cards on the table. A straight sat there for anyone with the right pair.

The dwarf looked up. “Show 'em.”

The priest smiled and flipped his hand. Jack and King. Straight to the Ace. A damn good hand. He leaned back, confident, as if the game had already ended. The zombie’s shoulders twitched. Slowly, he revealed Queen and Seven.

Two pair. Strong, but not enough.

Then Ivy moved. With a smooth flick of her fingers, she laid her cards down: Jack and Nine. Another straight. To the King. Beating him by a single card.

There was no sound for several seconds. Just the low hum of magic in the walls, like the place itself was leaning in to watch.

The dwarf dealer gave a single grunt. “Lady Ivy takes the pot.”

The pile of trinkets slid across the blood red felt. The zombie just stared at the cards. Slack-jawed. Empty. His mouth opened once. Twice. He looked like he wanted to speak. To protest. But nothing came out. Then, slowly, painfully, he stood. The voodoo priest rose with him.

“Well now,” the priest said, voice low and smooth. “Ain’t that jus’ a damn shame.”

The zombie sagged, the last of his energy gone.

“No,” he whispered. “I don't want to go back…”

“You gamble for ya freedom,” the priest said, not unkindly. “An’ you lose. Ain’ no more to it den dat.”

A long, horrible silence swallowed the table. Then the zombie turned. Walked around the table like a man marching to the gallows. His spine cracked with every step. And when he reached the priest’s side, he bowed his head. Chains shimmered into view—ghostly, ethereal, made of green smoke and ectoplasm. They snaked around his wrists and ankles, linking him to the priest with the sound of a closing cell door. The priest placed one hand gently on the dead man’s shoulder and whispered something I couldn’t understand.

I looked away. Couldn’t watch. Because for the first time tonight, I saw myself in that corpse’s hollow stare. Caught at a table where the stakes weren’t just chips. Where the rules weren’t written in ink. And where the beautiful Fae sitting next to me was smiling just a little too much. Ivy turned to me with a satisfied hum, reaching for her drink. Her fingers tapped the rim of the glass in rhythm with the heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“You okay, Andrew?” she asked, that familiar smirk returning.

I nodded once.

“Yeah,” I said, lying.

“But I think I need another drink.”

Ivy raised a delicate hand, fingers flicking through the air like she was conducting a symphony. A Dryad waitress glided over—barefoot, serene, eyes like rain-soaked grass—balancing a tray with two shots of golden whiskey and a pair of tall beers that shimmered faintly in the club’s torch-lit glow. We each grabbed a shot. Slammed it. Then chased it with something that tasted like victory, danger, and an unpaid bar tab.

I leaned back, exhaled slowly through my nose, and knocked the table twice. Ready. Ivy mirrored me, her lips still damp from the drink, eyes gleaming.

The dwarf dealer gave a grunt and got to work. It was down to six now. Me, Ivy, Mr. Midnight, the bald man, the gnome, and the succubus.

Cards hit the felt.

I peeked. Pair of sixes. Could be worse. Could be better. Much like this table. Everyone called. No raises. The energy was weirdly chill. Like the eye of a very confusing, magical storm. Even the gnome didn’t fuss.

“Fuck it. I’ll see it through.”

The flop landed. Ace of Hearts. 3 of Spades. King of Clubs. I checked. So did the gnome. The bald man scratched his head and checked too.

The succubus leaned forward, elbows on the table, and purred, “Call.”

Then it got to Mister Midnight. Who had been lounging like this was all just a deeply amusing fever dream. He blinked once. Licked his paw. Then flicked it toward the pot with feline grace.

“Raise. One hundred,” he said in that crisp British drawl, smoother than a martini.

Everyone stared.

“You’re... raising?” I asked, brow furrowed. “Now?”

“Indeed,” he replied, lazily licking between his toes. “I believe humans call it a power move.”

The gnome groaned. “You haven’t played a hand in twenty minutes!”

“Which is precisely why I’m due, darling.”

The rest of us called. Honestly? We wanted to see how this circus played out. The turn card. 4 of Diamonds. More checks.

Midnight casually raised again.

“One hundred.”

“Are you bluffing?” the succubus asked, one brow arched like a challenge and a promise.

He flicked his tail. Smug as a devil at a purity rally.

“Madam, I always bluff. That’s the point.”

We all called again. At this point, it was less poker and more communal performance art.

The river. 5 of Spades. Low straight on the board.

Everyone checked. Except Midnight.

The damn cat stood up, stretched, and sat back down with regal precision. Tail curled neatly around his paws.

“One-Fifty more,” he said with the smooth confidence of a villain revealing the twist at the end of a heist movie.

We all groaned, but no one folded. We were pot-committed, emotionally if not financially. One by one, cards hit the felt. Pairs. Two-pairs. Ivy had a busted straight. The bald man had garbage. Gnome tried a queen-high bluff and failed with flair. I was left with my lonely little sixes.

Midnight yawned. Then delicately revealed a 2 of Spades and 6 of Diamonds.

Everyone blinked.

“Straight,” Ivy said, deadpan.

“Two through six,” the dwarf dealer confirmed, pushing the pot toward the feline with a grunt.

Midnight purred.

“I shall use this wealth to purchase an empire,” he said, neatly arranging his chips with one paw.

The gnome threw a card at him. “You little bastard. You always do this!”

The cat caught it. With his paw.

“I’ve been called worse.”

I took a long pull from my beer and muttered, “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Ivy laughed, shoulders shaking, eyes bright with mischief. She leaned over, nudged my arm with hers.

“See? Fun, right?”

I snorted. “Depends. Is he actually a cat?”

She shrugged, deadpan. “Used to be a warlock. Slept with the wrong goddess.”

I paused. “And now he’s…?”

“Now he’s neutered.”

I stared. Midnight flicked his tail.

The cards hit the table again. I didn’t even look at them right away. Still wiping foam from my chin. Still side-eyeing the damn cat, who was now licking a poker chip like it was caviar. I finally glanced down.

Jack and Ten. Off-suit. Could be worse. Probably would be.

I raised. Bold. Maybe stupid. But I’d been playing tight since the zombie incident, and I needed to remind this table that I wasn’t just here to fold and spectate. The succubus looked at me over her glass, one perfect brow arching like a dare.

“Feeling bold tonight, cowboy?”

“Just feeling lucky.”

“Hmm.” She called.

The bald man glanced up, sniffed once like he was checking for weakness in the air, then shoved in his chips with a grunt. “I’ll bite.”

Ivy folded with no expression. Just a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. The gnome passed too, still nursing a grudge. He flipped me off under with one tiny finger. So now it was just me, the succubus, and the bald man in biker denim.

The flop was a Nine of Hearts, Queen of Clubs, and Eight of Spades.

Straight. Just sitting there. Wrapped in ribbon. I didn’t react. Not even a twitch. Just gave the smallest smirk, like someone who found an extra fry at the bottom of the bag. The bald guy growled, hand hovering over his chips like it might bite him. Then he slammed them forward.

“All in.”

The succubus chuckled. Swirled her glass. “Well,” she purred, “let’s dance.”

She pushed her whole stack in with a single, smooth motion. Nails like daggers, smile like temptation.

I stared at the pile of chips. I had plenty to cover. But still, my fingers tensed. I hadn’t expected the trap to spring this well.

“Call,” I said.

The dwarf dealer didn’t flinch. But I swear I saw a flicker of something behind his beard. Curiosity, maybe.

The cards flipped. The bald guy had a Queen and Eight. Two pair.

The succubus had a Jack and Ten. My hand. Same exact cards. Different suit. We split the pot. She looked at me, raised her glass with a grin.

“Ay, look at us. Twinsies. Qué cute.”

I raised mine back. “Let’s hope Mom likes me better.”

Turn card was a Five of Diamonds. Useless for me.

River flopped a Two of Spades. Even worse.

The bald man stared at the board, jaw trembling. Then his eyes widened. He slammed a fist into the table hard enough to rattle the chips.

“NO!”

Then the shaking started. Not the nervous kind. The wrong kind. His back arched. Veins bulged. A low growl twisted into something... wetter. His shirt tore open down the spine as fur burst across his shoulders. Claws erupted from his fingers like switchblades.

The crowd stirred.

Somewhere behind me, someone whispered, “Oh, here we go.”

I scooted my chair back two inches. Then the centaur bartender looked up, eyes blazing.

“HEY!” he barked, voice booming. “NO TRANSFORMING DURING GAMEPLAY!”

The werewolf froze mid-shift fangs out, arms shaking, and pupils blown wide like moons.

And then… WHAM!

A beer bottle sailed across the room and cracked him right between the eyes. The werewolf yelped like a kicked puppy. Fur retracted in a ripple. Limbs snapped and shrank with a series of deeply unpleasant pops. He staggered backward, swaying, human again, dazed and half-shirtless.

“Sorry!” he called, voice cracking like a pubescent apology. “Just… got heated! It’s fine!”

He bolted for the bathroom, clutching the remains of his dignity and half a sleeve. The table was dead quiet. The dwarf dealer burned the next card like it was nothing, and the succubus casually sipped her drink, unimpressed.

Chapter Nine

Another hand. Another round of poor life choices in the shape of playing cards. We were down to five players: me, Ivy, the succubus, the gnome, and Mister Midnight—still perched atop his velvet cushion like a smug little emperor judging a kingdom of idiots.

The centaur bartender sent over another round of drinks without being asked. The dwarf shuffled with the speed and precision of a man who had seen every kind of cheating. The cards slid across the red felt with a clean, sharp shffft.

I finally looked down. Six and Ten. Off-suit.

Yawn.

Everyone was in, no raises. Just a casual pot. Stretching legs. Feeling out rhythms. The flop came. Three of Hearts. Eight of Diamonds. Queen of Spades. The gnome grumbled and tossed in a chip. I checked. So did the succubus.

Then the cat purred, long and low.

“This hand?” He tossed it down like it smelled bad. “An absolute bore. About as thrilling as the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Flashy, expensive, and full of guys pretending they weren’t terrified of losing.”

“Appreciate the history lesson, Whiskers,” I muttered.

“My name,” he said, flicking his tail, “is Mr. Midnight. Please don’t forget it again. It’s stitched into my cushion and History!.”

The turn card came. Two of Clubs. Still nothing for me.

“Fold,” I said, pushing my cards in.

“Fold,” the succubus echoed, at the exact same moment.

She turned to me with a little smirk, chin resting on the back of her hand. “Twinsies again.”

“You gonna keep saying that?” I asked.

“Only if you keep folding when I do.”

Then her bare foot casually brushed against my ankle.

The gnome coughed, pushed in a few more chips as the river hit. Five of Hearts.

“Let’s make it interesting,” he muttered. “I’ll see your twenty and raise ten.”

Ivy called, unbothered. She didn’t even glance at her pile, just slid the chips and trinkets in like she was buying gum.

The cat yawned, lazily stretching one paw. “Fine. I’m in. But if this story gets any longer, I demand royalties.”

“What story?” I asked, sipping my beer.

The gnome leaned back dramatically, pointing to the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

“The tragedy of my stolen cookie empire!”

Ivy arched an eyebrow. “Oh, this again.”

“Don’t you dare mock my fucking trauma!” the gnome snapped, practically foaming. “Back in the golden age of gnomish innovation, before everything went to shit, I crafted the first enchanted fudge swirl! It was divine! Legendary! Orgasm in cookie form!”

He paused. Eyes narrowed. Voice dropped like thunderclouds gathering.

“But then… he came.”

“Let me guess,” Midnight said dryly. “Pointy hat. Predatory smile. Corporate hellspawn?”

“Exactly!” the gnome barked, slamming a fist on the table. “That bastard Elveron! The one they now call the Keebler King! That sticky-fingered, sugar-smiling little thief stole my recipe, hijacked my brand, slapped a trademark on my pride and joy… and sold it to the humans for a cookie tree and a cereal mascot gig! Then he goes and changes his name to J.J. what a fucking joke!”

He growled. “They gave him a fucking jingle, Midnight. A jingle!”

“I thought you said the recipe was carved into a turnip,” Ivy said, deadpan.

“It was! And he stole the turnip!”

The succubus leaned in, voice like silk in summer. “Now you see why I fold early, huh? Can’t bluff against cookie trauma.”

I chuckled… until her foot slid further up my leg.

I shifted. “Are you always this friendly with poker rivals?”

“Only the cute ones,” she purred.

Across the table, Ivy tapped her nails on the felt. Light and rhythmic. But not casual. She didn’t look at us. Didn’t say a word. But something had changed.

The gnome flipped his hand. Two pair. Threes and Fives.

Ivy laid hers down. Queen and Eight. Two pair. Higher.

The cat revealed absolutely nothing. Complete bluff.

“Delightful waste of time,” he sighed. “But do carry on. I’m sure your next tragedy will involve mulberry jam.”

The gnome slumped in his seat, muttering dark gnomish curses. “DON’T MENTION JAM! I was this close to inventing Fig Newtons...”

Ivy raked in the pot without a word. But I caught the flicker behind her eyes. Just something cold. And watching.

The succubus was still smiling.

But Ivy? She’d stopped pretending not to care that she was flirting with me.

The dwarf dealer flicked out cards like he was dealing tarot, and for a second, we all looked just a little too eager to see our fates. I peeked at mine.

Two of Hearts. Two of Spades. Pocket twos.

Not great. Not terrible. Like a promise made by a drunk friend, it could go either way.

“Fold,” Mister Midnight declared from his velvet throne, not even glancing at his cards. “The energy’s all wrong this round.”

“Your face is wrong,” the gnome muttered.

“Oh, here we go,” I sighed.

“Your arrogance is a disease,” the gnome snapped, jabbing a stubby finger at the cat.

“And your posture is a war crime,” Midnight replied, licking his paw with theatrical precision.

The dwarf ignored them with the silent endurance of a man who’d watched this same argument since the Bronze Age.

The succubus leaned toward me again, voice low and syrupy.

“Still twinsies?” Her fingers brushed my knee, featherlight.

I started to answer…

Wham!

A sharp kick nailed me in the shin.

“OW!”

I looked across the table and caught Ivy’s eyes. She narrowed them, slow and deliberate, then turned to the table and shoved in a massive bet. The pot jumped like it had been electrocuted. Everyone froze. Then the gnome grunted and called. The succubus gave me a mock pout, like she’d been the one who was kicked, then matched it with a shrug and a smirk.

I stared at my twos. Whatever this was? I didn’t want a seat in the crossfire. Not with Ivy looking like she wanted blood.

“Fold,” I muttered, sliding my cards in and taking a long pull of my beer like it might protect me.

The flop. King of Diamonds. Four of Clubs. Two of Diamonds.

I stared. I had a set…

But there was no going back now. I was out. Ivy was in full shark mode. Whatever was going down, it wasn’t about the money anymore.

Turn was an Eight of Hearts.

Without missing a beat, Ivy slid another massive stack into the pot. Coldly.

The gnome grunted. “This is stupid,” he muttered… and shoved in everything.

My eyes widened.

The succubus tilted her head, gave a little huff. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

And in went her stack. The dwarf split the pot, side and main, and nodded for the last card.

River… Four of Diamonds.

Ivy exhaled. Just once. Then she pushed in another wall of chips, silent as a guillotine. The succubus narrowed her eyes. Then she went all in too.

I nearly dropped my drink. “Holy fuck,” I whispered.

Ivy smiled and it sent a wave of static down my spine.

“Call,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel.

Cards flipped. The succubus laid hers down like a trophy: King and Four. Full house.

“Damn,” I muttered. “That might win me back.”

Then Ivy turned over her hand.

Two Fours… Four of a kind.

The air around the table froze.

The succubus stared, mouth open. “Seriously?” she snapped. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

She stood.

“Ugh. Fine,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. Then she turned, threw a wink over her shoulder.

“Guess I’ll go find someone less complicado to play with, cowboy.”

She sauntered off into the smoke and shadows, hips swaying like she still had the upper hand. Ivy didn’t even watch her go. She just exhaled, calm and deep. Like a lioness settling down after a kill.

Then A sound from the gnome’s side of the table.

“I… I have a straight flush,” he said, blinking like the cards had grown in his palm.

He flipped them… Five through Nine of Diamonds. The room exploded with noise. Even Mr. Midnight sat up straighter. The gnome dragged in the main pot, hands shaking with a mix of awe and greed.

Ivy didn’t blink. Just took her side pot winnings and stacked them neatly. Calm and mechanical. She’d lost the pot. But she’d taken the player she wanted out. The succubus wasn’t just out of the game. She was out of the room. Ivy had her full attention on me again. Like I was the next hand she planned to win.

I sat there, nursing my drink, heart still pounding from the last hand, and thought.

Thank God I folded. And also… I’m probably next.

The cards hit the felt again with that same soft shffft, but I didn’t even look at mine this time. Ivy and I folded early, practically in sync, two quiet hands in a game full of claws and teeth.

Mr. Midnight stayed in. So did the gnome.

“This one’s mine, short-stack,” the cat purred, flicking in his ante with a single curved claw. “Careful you don’t get your beard caught in your own downfall.”

The gnome’s glare could’ve cut glass. “The only thing going down is your luck, you fuckin’ fuzzball.”

They spared like two old actors who couldn’t remember whether they were friends or lifelong rivals. The insults rose and fell like dueling banjos played by snarky siblings who’d been trapped in the same enchanted prep school for four hundred years.

Ivy sipped her drink slow, eyes on the table, but not watching it. Not really.

“Glad she’s gone?” I asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, glossy green hair slipping over one shoulder like ivy off a trellis.

“I don’t like distractions,” she said finally.

But something behind it was sharp. Honest. Like a truth she didn’t normally let out without gloves.

I studied her. The way her fingers curled around the glass. The way her eyes tracked the space between movements—like she was watching ghosts, not cards.

“You’re playing to win now,” I said.

She smiled.

“I always was,” she said. “Now I’m just not being polite about it.”

Across the table, Mr. Midnight let out a delighted, smug little meow and turned over trip aces like they were a wedding proposal. The gnome cursed and tossed his cards like they burned his hands.

“Again?!”

“I told you,” Midnight purred, licking the back of his paw. “Your luck left with your dignity. Probably hitched a ride with the succubus.”

The dwarf pushed the pot across the table. The clink of chips sounded like applause with attitude.

The gnome downed half his mug in one gulp and muttered something in Gnomish—probably a creative mix of curses, plagues, and comments about the cat’s parentage.

Mr. Midnight stretched luxuriously on his cushion, tail curling in smug satisfaction.

“Lovely little game tonight,” he said, all silk and superiority. “Don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer. I looked at Ivy and she smiled.

“I think,” she said,“it’s just getting started.”

The game rolled on. No major swings, just chips clinking, cards sliding, and personalities grinding against each other.

“Fold,” I said, setting down yet another forgettable hand. Jack-Seven off-suit.

“Fold,” Ivy echoed, as effortlessly graceful as someone who could bluff a dragon out of its hoard but didn’t feel like working that hard tonight.

Mr. Midnight stretched luxuriously on his velvet throne, paws flowing like ink across silk. If smugness had a national flag, it’d be him reclining in that exact pose.

“I raise,” he purred, casual as sin. “Because I can.”

The gnome groaned. “You raise every hand. It’s not a strategy if your strategy is just be aggressively irritating.”

“It’s working,” Midnight replied, not even glancing at his cards as he swiped a lazy stack into the pot.

The gnome shoved his chips in like he was throwing bricks at a window. “Fine. I’ll play. But if this ends with you flipping over another miracle paw pair…”

“Paw pair?” Midnight blinked, then smiled. “Oh. You mean like this?”

He flipped his cards with one claw. Two Queens.

The gnome screamed. Not yelled. Not shouted. Screamed. Full-body, vein-popping fury-noise.

“FUCK YOU AND FUCK YOUR FUCKING LUCKY ASS!”

I choked on my beer.

Midnight just smirked. “It’s the cushion. Imported velvet. Cursed by a very bored enchantress. Also, my ass is just naturally lucky.”

Ivy leaned toward me, her voice a whisper that tickled the edge of amusement.

“I like the gnome. He’s got emotional range.”

“He’s gonna have an aneurysm,” I muttered.

Next hand. Ivy stayed in this time, casually calling every raise from Midnight while sipping her beer like it was vintage wine and she was holding court. The gnome folded early and loudly, slamming his cards down like he was trying to file a noise complaint.

“I swear, the next time he wins a pot, I’m flippin’ the fucking table.”

“You can barely see the table,” Midnight said, not even looking up. “And your legs are too short.”

The gnome stood up on his chair. “Say that again, furball. I dare you!”

“I said,” Midnight drawled, “your legs. Are. Too. Short.”

The gnome turned a shade of red typically reserved for chili peppers.

The dwarf dealer didn’t even look up. “You flip this table, you clean the carpets.”

The gnome sat back down.

Another hand. Ivy won with a low straight. Midnight tossed his cards in with a dramatic yawn.

I leaned toward her, nudging her with my elbow. “You’re playing conservative.”

She gave a lazy shrug. “I’m watching.”

“Watching what?”

She turned her head, met my eyes with that slow, molten stare.

“You.”

My mouth went dry.

Across the table, the gnome shouted, “If anyone’s wondering, I’m fine. Just hemorrhaging fuckin’ dignity over here!”

“Fold,” Midnight said cheerfully.

The dwarf dealt again. Cards flew. Chips clicked. No surprises. Just the quiet, simmering tension of a table waiting to boil over. And I could feel the storm coming. Question is, would it hit me? Or just barely slip past me?

The next hand was a gut punch.The gnome folded the moment the ante hit the felt, throwing his hands up like a tiny prophet fleeing the apocalypse.

“I feel a great disturbance in the cookie force,” he muttered, then dug into a pouch of what looked suspiciously like enchanted sunflower seeds and colored prescription pills.

The dwarf dealer, face set like an ancient mountain, slid two cards in front of me.

I peeked. Pocket Kings.

Hot damn!

I nearly let out a whistle, but clenched it behind my teeth. This was it. The kind of hand you dream about. The kind that makes or breaks legends. Or gets them murdered.

Across the table, Ivy was already watching me. Calculating. There was a glint in her eyes I didn’t like. Or maybe I liked it too much. To her left, Mr. Midnight raised. A modest amount, but with the kind of feline confidence that said I could lose and still own this place. He was practically grooming his own ego.

I called. Calm and even. Let the waters stay still a little longer. Then Ivy pushed her entire pile forward.

“All in,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It slid across the table like a silk noose.

I choked on my beer.

Midnight gave a little trill of delight, tail twitching. “Ohoho! Delightful! Call.”

He was giddy. Freakin’ giddy. My pulse hammered. My cards felt like they were burning holes in the felt. Kings. Solid. Almost unbeatable.

My gut was whispering no while my pride was grinning and already leaning over the table with a cigar and a drink yelling DO IT, YOU COWARD!

I shoved my stack in.

“All in.”

The dwarf gave no expression, just nodded once. “Cards up.”

I laid mine down.

King of Spades. King of Hearts.

The crowd murmured. Midnight, still grinning, flicked his over:

Ten of Diamonds. Ten of Hearts.

Cute. Dangerous if he flopped a third. But manageable. And then Ivy. She didn’t flip hers. She turned them. Slowly, like she was showing me a secret.

Ace of Spades. Ace of Clubs.

The banshee froze mid-sip, a blood-red cocktail sloshing down her chest. The dryad waitress glided to a halt like her roots had snagged. The centaur bartender, who I assumed had seen everything, looked up and muttered, “Oh, shit.”

The table was silent. And then, under the table, I felt her foot… Sliding up my shin. Slow, warm, and intentional. Very fucking intimate. I tensed like a man about to walk into a burning barn, unsure if he should feel honored, terrified, or just incredibly confused. Her eyes met mine.

“Relax, cowboy,” she whispered, voice a velvet blade. “Enjoy the moment.”

Oh, I was enjoying it, alright. Too much. My brain was trying to do poker math and soul preservation while the rest of my body was screaming,

THIS IS PLAYTIME, RIGHT???

The dwarf burned a card, then slid out the flop. King of Diamonds. Jack of Diamonds. Seven of Hearts.

YES!

Trip Kings. My Kings. Like they’d been summoned by sheer force of will. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Stay cool. Don’t show it.

Across the table, Ivy’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I saw it. The tiniest flicker of surprise. Her foot was still climbing under the table. Up past my knee now and dragging along the inside of my thigh.

I was definitely not okay.

Then the turn dropped. Ace of Diamonds.

Ivy didn’t move. Her eyes lit up like someone had just handed her a crown. She had three Aces. I had three Kings. And suddenly the air felt very, very thin. My fingers drummed once on the table, just enough to stop them from shaking.

And then the river.

Queen of Diamonds.

It landed with the weight of prophecy. And from the seat to my right, I heard it. That soft, silken, evil little purr. Mr. Midnight rose to his feet on the velvet cushion like a smug little idol accepting the worship of lesser beings. His tail flicked. He gave a theatrical bow.

Then he pointed at his cards. Ten diamonds and Ten of hearts. I didn’t even need to look at the board again.

Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. All Diamonds.

Royal. Fucking. Flush.

Ivy blinked. Once. Twice. Then her smile, what was left of it, curled back into something dark and sharp enough to skin gods.

The dwarf dealer, unbothered as ever, cleared his throat like he was announcing a funeral.

“Royal flush. Mr  Midnight wins the hand. Lady Ivy, Mr. Cowboy… eliminated.”

I didn’t even move. Just sat there, back slumping into my chair like it had given up on holding me upright.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, staring up at the ceiling like maybe divine intervention was still an option.

Midnight spun a slow circle on his cushion like a ballerina possessed by a demon of sarcasm.

“Oh, the sweet taste of victory,” he purred, tail flicking. “You mortals really are just here for the flavor, aren’t you?”

I glanced at Ivy. Her jaw was tight. Her hands were motionless, and the expression on her face was murder. Wrapped in moonlight. I wasn’t sure who she was madder at. Him, me, or herself.

But one thing was clear, we were both out, and this night was far from over.

The room exploded several moments later. Chairs scraped back like a gun had gone off. Half the bar stood in a wave of disbelief. Someone in the back screamed in a language I was pretty sure hadn’t been spoken since Atlantis still had beachfront property. The centaur bartender actually whinnied and dropped an entire bottle of aged Elven brandy, the glass shattering like a gunshot. The energy in the Other Side went feral. It was, without a doubt, the most insane poker hand this twisted fever dream of a casino had ever seen.

I was still trying to remember how to breathe. Not just because I’d been slapped with a Royal Flush like a divine backhand of fate… but because Ivy’s foot was pressed against my dick. And she was rubbing it… vigorously.

My voice came out hoarse. “Holy shit… so... what now?”

I turned toward her. Our shoulders were touching. Her breath brushed my cheek like it had gotten tired of asking permission.

“We both got eliminated.”

Ivy didn’t look defeated. Not even close.

Her pupils were sharp, her smile sharper, that wild Fae gleam in her eye—somewhere between “let’s fuck” and “let’s kill everyone in the room.”

“I had the better hand,” she whispered, stepping closer. Her lips hovered inches from mine. “I win.”

I blinked. “Bullshit.”

That got a twitch of her lips. Not a smile. A warning.

“We agreed…”

“No,” I said, pointing a finger at her chest, trying very hard not to notice how her foot had not stopped moving.

“We agreed the last one standing wins the round. Not who has the best hand. You didn’t win. I didn’t win. We got eliminated at the same time.”

Across the table, Mr Midnight was busy cleaning his paw like he hadn’t just obliterated the gnome and won the game while we were arguing.

“You’re welcome,” he purred, not even looking at us.

I turned back to Ivy. “So either that’s a tie… which makes it three-two, me… or it’s a wash, and I’m still up two-one.”

Her eyes narrowed. That slow, lethal squint she gave before metaphorically setting someone on fire. Her foot finally slid off my crotch like a silk garrote going limp. But the silence between us wasn’t cooling. It was heating. Because we both knew what came next. We were out. Which meant neither of us could call the next challenge. And before we could so much as inhale to argue about it…

“Ahem,” came a deep, sin-soaked purr.

We both turned. Mr. Midnight, in all his smug, lounging glory, sat perched atop his cushion like a spoiled house deity. His green eyes shimmered like gemstones half-lidded with pleasure. His tail flicked lazily behind him.

“I may have a solution,” he said, drawing out every word like he was tasting them.

Ivy raised a brow. “You want to get involved now?”

He stretched luxuriously, like he had all the time in the world and a throne of secrets to nap on. “Only as a neutral party,” he said. “To settle your... dispute.”

I folded my arms. “You got an idea, or are you just sniffing our emotions like a perv?”

He let out a low, indulgent purr, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “Oh, but your emotions, darling… They’re practically aged. Tension. Frustration. Repressed lust. Petty revenge. Mmmm. A whole tasting menu.”

Ivy said nothing. But her jaw tensed.

Midnight cracked one eye open. “Luckily for you, I’m not just a pervert. I’m a pervert with exquisite taste in games.”

I groaned. “You’re gonna suggest something ridiculous, aren’t you?”

His smile could have stopped hearts. “Of course. That’s why it’ll work.”

Ivy and I exchanged a glance. She was already smiling. I was already regretting everything. But deep down, we both knew whatever he suggested, we were definitely going to have to do it.

Mr. Midnight flicked his paw with languid arrogance. Only a creature that slept eighteen hours a day and still judged your life choices could pull off. There was a puff of lavender smoke, a sound like a slot machine hitting the jackpot, and two scrolls poofed into existence. Complete with shimmering ribbon ties and just the faintest smell of ozone and smugness. The chime wasn’t celebratory so much as it was sarcastic.

Congratulations, you played yourself.

The scrolls hovered midair, spinning lazily, before fluttering down in front of Ivy and me with all the grace of magical subpoenas. Mr. Midnight, now standing dead center on the poker table, tail curled like a question mark dipped in attitude, beamed down at us.

“This,” he said, his voice velvety and sinister, “is your next test of skill, charm, creativity, and abject foolishness.”

I squinted. “A scroll?”

He lifted one paw and tapped it against his chin like he was humoring a particularly slow child. “A scavenger hunt,” he corrected. “You have two hours. The first to return with everything on that list, or more than the other, wins.”

Ivy snatched her scroll midair and unrolled it like she was checking a list of future victims. I followed suit and immediately felt like I was reading a fever dream written by a drunk trickster god with a flair for chaos.

THE LIST:

A flamingo feather.

A living statue.

A drink stolen from a bachelorette party.

One hundred hooker cards.

Innocence draped in depravity.

A casino chip won in a craps game.

A red rose from someone’s heart.

A sincere compliment from a cop.

A photo of you hugging Elvis.

The sound of laughter, captured at your expense.

I blinked. “Quick question,” I said, lifting a finger like I was about to order fries. “What the hell is innocence draped in depravity supposed to mean?”

Mr. Midnight grinned, flashing way too many teeth for a house cat. “You’ll know it when I see it.”

I looked back at the scroll. “You want us to get all of this in two hours?”

“Yes. By the stroke of midnight!”

“No magic?”

The air changed. Not visibly. Not obviously. Just... heavier. Like someone had pressed the supernatural equivalent of a dimmer switch.

Midnight’s eyes lost a little of their sparkle. “None,” he said flatly. “No glamours. No illusions. No hexes, blessings, veils, trances, glamor, enchantments, or bargains. No luck borrowed from fairy rings or souls-on-loan. Do I make myself perfectly, painfully clear?”

He jumped down from the table, landing without a sound, and circled us like a judge inspecting gladiators before a duel. His tail twitched once—sharp, decisive.

“If either of you so much as twitch a spell toward that list…” He trailed off. “You forfeit. No exceptions. No second chances.”

Ivy didn’t flinch. She just rolled up the scroll, slid it into her coat like it was a wedding invitation, and tilted her head at him.

“No magic?” she purred. “Easy.”

I stared at her. “That doesn’t bother you?”

She shrugged, then winked. “I’ve got other skills.”

Mr. Midnight purred like he’d just watched someone commit the perfect crime. “Oh, I know.”

He turned to me, tail swishing with an impish rhythm. “Tick-tock, Mr. Kowalski. The Strip is calling. And it doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I looked back at the scroll, still dangling in my hand like a bomb made of nonsense, then up at Ivy—already strolling toward the door, hips swaying like sin in motion, boots echoing against the marble like a countdown.

I sighed, shoved the scroll into my back pocket, and downed the rest of my beer in one long pull.

Vegas was about to get weird. Which, somehow, was saying something.

Then I bolted after her.

I ducked into the nearest alley, scroll tucked under my arm like a pirate’s treasure map rewritten by a drunk wizard on ecstasy. The alley reeked of stale beer, melted dreams, and cheap cologne—so basically, Vegas.

Pulled out my phone… One ring… Two…

“Yo?” Mike’s voice came through the speaker with all the clarity of a man who’d made every bad decision and was excited to do it again.

“Where are you guys?” I asked, weaving through foot traffic like a quarterback dodging drunk linebackers. A man in a hotdog costume screamed about the end times behind me. I chose to believe that was unrelated.

“Caesar’s. Larry just lost five hundred bucks in five minutes, and Tony’s trying to convince a showgirl to officiate the wedding.”

“Perfect,” I said, already speed-walking like a mall cop chasing a Segway. “Your friends are exactly the idiots I need.”

A pause.

“…what?”

“Listen… forget whatever you’re doing. I’ve got a scavenger hunt. Wildest shit you’ve ever heard. Flamingo feathers, living statues, stolen drinks, and hooker cards... ”

“HOOKER CARDS?” Mike shouted, far too loud.

“Lower your voice,” I hissed, passing a family with small children and matching I Survived Vegas shirts. “Yes. Hooker cards. And other nonsense.”

“What’s it for?”

“Your bachelor party,” I lied smoothly. “Obviously.”

There was a beat. Then…

“Oh HELL yes,” Mike said, the hype already detonating in his brain like fireworks in a whiskey barrel. “Are pants optional?”

“Firmly required.”

“Ahhh that’s probably debatable. We’re in!”

“Meet me in front of The Flamingo in fifteen,” I said. “Bring everyone. And wear running shoes.”

“Tony’s already shirtless. That count?”

I paused. Weighed the moral implications of honesty.

“It’s Vegas,” I said. “It might be a solution.”

He howled with laughter into the phone. “You got it, bro. Let’s get weird.”

I hung up and looked down at the scroll again, heart hammering in my chest like a drummer on an energy drink binge.

Somewhere out there, Ivy was already making this list her bitch—gliding through clubs and casinos like a goddess on a mission, probably seducing a stripper and stealing a bachelor party drink in the same breath.

Me? I had my boys. God help us all.

And Vegas? Vegas wasn’t ready.

Chapter Ten

Fifteen minutes later, I spotted Mike and the crew in front of The Flamingo, looking exactly like the spokesmen of intoxicated enthusiasm. And all of them looked ready to fistfight a thunder god if he disrespected their boy’s bachelor party.

“Gentlemen,” I said, striding up like I was about to lead us into a heist. “Tonight we’re gonna complete the greatest scavenger hunt in history.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve been possessed by Nicolas Cage.”

Brian looked wide-eyed at me. “Did you steal the Declaration of Independence?”

I didn’t blink. Just unrolled the scroll like it was a holy relic. They leaned in, curious. Then they read.

Nick might have been aroused.

“This list is legit as fuck,” he whispered, reverent. “Like Fear and Loathing meets Ocean’s Eleven...”

“You didn’t make this up?” Mike asked, looking at me.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “A highly specific species of bastard crafted this.”

“What’s the prize?” Larry asked, cracking his knuckles like we were about to invade Mordor.

I let the moment breathe.

“We’re up against a rival team,” I said, lowering my voice. “A team of strippers.”

All four men leaned forward in perfect, synchronized bachelor-party formation.

“Losers,” I added, “...have to… dance. Naked... For the winners.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mike whispered, “We’re gonna die trying!”

“No you’re not,” I said, grinning. “Because we’re gonna win.”

And then I started assigning roles like we were pulling a casino heist. A really dumb, extremely illegal, potentially cursed casino heist.

“Nick, Larry, and Brian. You’re on hooker cards. I want variety. No repeats. The weirder the better.”

Larry saluted. “I will collect them with honor and discretion.”

“You’ll collect them like Pokémon, and we both know it.”

“Gotta catch ‘em all,” Nick added, already jogging into traffic.

“Tim, Eric, and Derek,” I said, turning to Tim still nursing his gallon-sized margarita like a sacred relic. “You’re on laughter and a craps chip. Make someone laugh. Win a bet. You’re wearing Crocs, so honestly, you’ve already got a head start.”

Tim raised the fishbowl like a goblet. “I was born for this.”

I turned to Mike. “You and me? Flamingo feather and the rest.”

Mike lit up. “Straight up heist. I’m in!”

I nodded toward the side of the hotel. “They keep real flamingos in the garden out back. I saw them on the way in. We sneak in, grab a feather, and get out. Simple.”

“You ever tried to pluck a feather off a flamingo before?”

“No, but I once slow-danced Mrs Weatherford at a county fair.”

Mike blinked. “That sentence raised more questions than answers.”

“Welcome to my life now.”

We fist-bumped, turned, and the boys scattered into the neon haze like divine agents of chaos. Mike and I peeled off toward the gardens behind the Flamingo hotel. Hearts pounding. Adrenaline spiking. Zero clarity on what we were about to do.

We slipped around the back of the hotel like we were infiltrating a Bond villain’s lair—which, frankly, most Las Vegas properties qualify as. The Flamingo’s garden was weirdly serene for a city that treats subtlety like a crime. Low lights glowed from beneath carefully groomed hedges. Water trickled from decorative fountains. Somewhere, fake frogs croaked in unison. It smelled like roses and poorly concealed weed.

And then wouldn’t you know it?

Real live flamingos. Tall, pink, and gloriously feathered. Standing around like bored aristocrats at a garden party. Judgy, elegant, and somehow radiating the energy of the popular girls in a high school cafeteria.

“I’m gonna get that one,” Mike whispered, pointing at a particularly smug bastard fluffing itself beside a small waterfall. Before I could stop him, he dropped his margarita like a mic and charged. Straight at it.

“Oh goddammit,” I muttered.

The flamingo let out a screech like a bagpipe being strangled, flapped twice, and bolted. On foot. Full waddle. Like a tiny, angry velociraptor in drag. Mike chased it like his soul was on the line.

“FOR LOVE AND GLORY!”

I turned to follow and froze. Because there, across the garden, half-lit in pink neon and shadows, stood Ivy. She was hunting. The moment our eyes met, she cut across the grass like a panther on a warpath, heels silent, gaze sharp enough to carve bone.

She hissed, “You brought reinforcements?”

I held up both hands, like I wasn’t the one actively committing flamingo-related crimes.

“Hi.”

Mike ran past behind me, screaming, “I THINK HE POOPED ON ME!”

Ivy’s eyes locked on mine like she could smell the excuse forming.

“Mr. Midnight… didn’t say anything about having help,” she pondered.

“Exactly,” I said. “No magic. He said nothing about friends.”

Her nostrils flared slightly. Her jaw tensed like it wanted to bite something. Possibly me. Then she smiled. Not the fun kind. The kind that ends in lawsuits and fires.

“Fine,” she purred. “I’ll call in my backup.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You gonna summon a stripper battalion?”

Her smile turned sharp enough to draw blood. “The best in Vegas.”

Behind us, there was a splash. I turned to find Mike now standing knee-deep in a koi pond, holding a flamingo feather triumphantly like he’d just stolen the One Ring from Sauron.

“YOU CAN’T OUTRUN DESTINY, PINK BOY!” he screamed, soaked and grinning.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “This was such a bad idea.”

Ivy stepped closer, voice like velvet wrapped around a dagger.

“I’m thinking you’re more than just some dumb hick from a cow town.”

I motioned toward Mike, who was now wrestling with a garden hose for unknown reasons.

“Honestly, I think calling in the calvary is more of a crutch than a boon.”

She laughed wickedly and then spun on a heel, already pulling out her phone and whispering into it in a language that made my teeth itch. Whatever she was calling in, it was probably ancient and dangerous. And then she was gone, vanishing into the dark.

I looked back at Mike, who stumbled out of the bushes like a feral raccoon, holding a single, damp, flamingo feather in one shaking hand.

“Got it!” he yelled. “One down!”

I nodded slowly, pocketing the scroll again.

“We got this! Only nine to go.”

“Yup,” I muttered. “We’re screwed.”

“HEY!”

“STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!”

“PUT THE DAMN BIRD FEATHER DOWN!”

Those were the magic words.

I grabbed Mike by the collar and bolted. We tore out of the garden, hearts jack hammering, laughter on our heels. Mike clutched the damp flamingo feather like it was forged by Hephaestus himself, his feet slapping across the pavement. We burst through the casino floor. Slot machines chirped and blared like alarmed parrots. Tourists parted in confusion, a few raising their phones for video. A woman screamed as we nearly collided with her and her toddler-sized Pina colada.

“Watch it, ya jerk!”

“Sorry!” I yelled over my shoulder. “Emergency scavenger hunt!”

Security was behind us, their shouts echoing off marble columns and animatronic fountains. Closer now.

We slammed through a side door and exploded onto the Strip in a kaleidoscope of lights, heat, and utter madness. And immediately almost ran straight into a guy in a hotdog costume.

“END THE MAYONNAISE MONOPOLY!” he screamed, shaking a cardboard sign.

Mike didn’t break stride. “Hell ya, man! Fight the power!!”

I skidded to a stop near a gaudy faux wedding chapel lit up like a Christmas migraine, panting, lungs on fire.

“Where now?!” Mike gasped beside me, still clutching the feather.

I whipped out the scroll and scanned it like a bomb tech, looking for the next wire to cut.

“Next on the list… Elvis!”

“Like... real Elvis or…?”

I pointed down the sidewalk. “Vegas Elvis!”

A row of impersonators stood outside the chapel, posing for photos with tourists and vaping between performances. Sequins everywhere. Capes flapping. Sunglasses reflecting the collective poor decision-making of the city. Five of them. Ranging from young-ish Elvis to Elvis if he was Persian and ran a used car lot. We sprinted to the most convincing one. Mid-50s. Pompadour-like a war helmet. His eyes met mine from behind gold-rimmed shades, and I saw the weary calm of a man who’d seen too much and hugged too many.

“Hey, King,” I said, breathless. “I need a photo. Hugging. Deep hug. Full commitment. Preferably soul-melting.”

He blinked once. Lowered his shades.

“Twenty-dollars,” was his only response.

Mike opened his mouth.

“All hail the King, baby!” I yelled, grabbing Elvis in a full-body embrace before he could change his mind.

Elvis didn’t flinch. He hugged me back like a velvet-clad oracle who’d just met his chosen disciple. One hand on my back. Other hand, holding a cigarette with impossible dignity.

Mike snapped the pic. “Got it!”

I slipped Elvis some cash as we pulled apart.

“Thank you,” he said, tipping his glasses with reverence, “thank you very muuuuch.”

He lit the cigarette and disappeared into a puff of smoke and sequins.

“Next?” Mike asked.

I checked the scroll.

“Oh, it gets so much worse.”

I turned, scanning the crowd. Tourists, a drunk magician arguing with a churro cart vendor, Betty Boop yelling at Optimus Prime.

And there was a living statue.

Still as stone. Covered in silver from sandals to split ends. Wings on his back. A lyre slung across one shoulder like he’d just gotten kicked out of Olympus.

“Bingo,” I muttered, nudging Mike and nodding toward him. “That one’s coming with us.”

Mike blinked. “Wait, like... actually coming with us?”

I grinned. “It’s on the list.’”

Mike squinted at the statue. “I’m just sayin’. This has strong kidnapping vibes.”

“Yup,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We adjusted the course. The guy didn’t move. Just stood there in a full silver toga, expression serene like he was communing with the gods. He had the sculpted jawline of a romance novel cover and the posture of someone who had transcended back pain.

“Hey,” I said, standing in front of him. “We need you. Scavenger hunt… Talking cat… Possibly saving the world.”

Nothing.

Mike waved a hand in front of his face. “Hey, uh... statue bro?”

Still nothing. This dude had better self-control than a monk trapped in a strip club.

“Okay,” I said, rubbing my temples. “How much do you make in two hours?”

No response.

I pulled out my wallet and held up a crisp hundred like I was offering him access to a forbidden spell.

That did it. He blinked once. A slow, metallic blink like he was waking up from a thousand-year nap. Then, just barely, he nodded.

“Oh, thank God,” I muttered, slipping him the bill.

He didn’t speak. Just slid the cash into his toga folds and silently stepped off the pedestal. And followed without breaking character. Just stalked behind us like a golem. Every time we paused, he froze. Arms out. Head tilted. Perfect statue mode.

Mike stepped back, watching him set up again outside a liquor store.

“This is deeply unsettling,” he muttered. “I feel like we’ve befriended a Final Fantasy summon.”

A kid passed by, dropped a crumpled dollar into his toga without missing a beat.

“Statue guy’s already covering half the team budget,” Mike added.

“Good,” I said, pulling out the scroll. “Elvis? Check. Statue? Check. Flamingo feather? Check.”

Mike grinned. “What’s next?”

I squinted.

“A sincere compliment from a cop.”

Mike straightened like a soldier who’d just been called to battle.

“I was born for this.”

I sighed. “No, you weren’t.”

“Don’t ruin this for me, man.”

And off we went.

Me, Mike, and a literal statue trailing silently through the neon-drenched madness of the Strip. I tapped the scroll clutched in my left hand, still catching my breath from our recent sprint that had ended with us barely dodging a mall cops. The scroll vibrated faintly in my palm, like it was hungry.

“Next up…” I huffed, scanning the glowing runes, “A drink. Specifically, one stolen from a bachelorette party.”

Mike’s grin widened. “Oh, hell yes. I got this one.”

I glanced over my shoulder at our silent, glimmering plus-one. The statue didn’t blink. Just standing there, arms crossed.

“Right,” I muttered, rolling my shoulders. “Let’s go commit… light theft. With style.”

We rolled down the Strip, high on momentum and low on dignity, weaving past tourists, showgirls, and an unreasonably suspicious number of street magicians.

Like, fifteen on one corner… What's up with that?

Then we heard that unmistakable sound of estrogen-powered mayhem. The shrieking-laughter-fusion of a girl squad in full celebratory bloom. Laughter sliced through the air like glitter-coated ninja-stars. A thunderstorm of perfume, squeals, and too many sequins.

We had visual confirmation.

They emerged from the crowd like a tactical chaos unit, maybe eight or nine Chinese women in matching white sashes bedazzled within an inch of their lives. Towering pink cowboy hats perched on top like victory crowns. Strapped to their torsos? Inflatable novelty boobs, because of course. They wielded what I thought were magic wands until closer inspection revealed they were actually neon-lit dildos. Spears of debauchery. And in their leader’s hand was a glowing yard-long cocktails sloshing like the sacred liquid of Dionysus. All signs pointed to one thing.

Bachelorette party.

Mike practically salivated. “Oh, my God. It’s the unicorn.”

“We don’t even know it’s a bachelorette party.”

He didn’t look away.

“Doesn’t matter. That’s the drink. That’s the target.” He grabbed my sleeve like a man about to storm Normandy. “You distract. I snatch. Standard pincer maneuver. Go go go!”

I stared at him. “You’re asking me to waltz into a high-energy estrogen tornado wielding inflatable boobs? Do I look like I have a death wish?”

He didn’t blink. “You look like a man with a destiny.”

“God help me.”

I straightened my hat, ignored the suspicious new stain on the rim, summoned my inner cowboy and strode into the fray.

“Evenin’, ladies,” I drawled, hat-tip implied. “Y’all ever met a real cowboy?”

Pause… Then chaos.

Apparently “cowboy” was the cheat code that triggered maximum fangirl response. Screams exploded like confetti cannons. I was mobbed. Someone hugged me from behind. Another shoved a phone into my hand while simultaneously taking a picture with that phone. I think someone sniffed me. It was a blur. A sash was flung around my neck with a force that felt ceremonial. It said something in Mandarin. I hoped it meant “hot guy” and not “please sacrifice this man to the fertility gods.”

Then they pointed to their hats.

And… because I am weak, and dramatic, and somewhere deep inside me lives a small child… I yelled it with gusto.

“Yeeeeee-Haaaaaw!”

I don’t know why. It just slipped out, like a sneeze or a confession. And in that moment, I became a myth. They lost their goddamn minds.

“Ta hao shuai aaaaa!”

“Zhe niuzaiku wo yao!”

Behind the chaos, I caught a flicker of movement. Mike, sliding through the pink tide like a raccoon with a dream. He reached in and yanked the glowing drink right out of the bride’s unsuspecting hand. He spun on a heel and bolted with the speed of a man who had done this before. It took exactly two seconds for realization to dawn.

Then came the battle cry.

“HEYYYY!!!”

“SHUAI GE!!!”

“GEI WO ZHAN ZHU!!!”

And then full charge.

The glitter militia mobilized. Plastic boobs bounced. Neon dildos waved like magical girl swords of vengeance. The bride gave me a double thumbs-up mid-sprint, still grinning.

I stood frozen. Still wearing the sash. Still mid-selfie pose.

“…Well,” I said, blinking into the lens, “that went better than expected.”

Then I turned on my heel and sprinted like hell after Mike—down the Strip, past the statue guy still silently judging us, and into the night with an army of furious party warriors at Mike’s heels.

We regrouped behind a rundown souvenir shack just off the Strip. Mike stumbled in first, still clutching the stolen yard-long glowing blue drink. His shirt was stuck to him in places that shouldn’t be damp.

“Victory,” he panted, collapsing against a sun-bleached rack of novelty shot glasses. “Tastes like... blue raspberry and rum.”

“You had one job, Mike.”

He raised the drink, half surrender, half toast. “And I nailed it.”

“Yeah, and you also triggered a full-scale counter-assault by the Chinese Bridesmaids Legion.”

He grinned around his straw. “Small price for greatness.”

Then came our silver companion. He just appeared, gliding into the alleyway. The moment he stopped moving, he froze—arms mid-gesture, hands raised as if preparing to deliver divine judgment.

And then the cavalry thundered in.

Nick, Larry, and Brian rounded the corner at full sprint, breathing like they’d just run a marathon through the strip. Their high-fives were messy, sticky, and deeply victorious.

“Hooker cards acquired,” Nick gasped, slapping a rubber-banded brick of them into my hand like he was delivering the Dead Sea Scrolls. “One hundred unique. No duplicates. My palms are ruined.”

“They hit me with twenty at once,” Larry wheezed, eyes wide, holding up his hand like it had been cursed. “Just tits and phone numbers, man. Instant Vegas baptism.”

Brian nodded solemnly. “Not proud of how fast we got them… but I feel like a man now.”

“An unholy man,” I muttered, flipping through the stack. Damn… no holographics.

Tim, Eric, and Derek showed up at last, dragging their feet. One clutched a chipped casino token, the other held his phone aloft. A video was playing. On-screen, a stranger cackled uncontrollably while Tim, on camera, attempted to recite the alphabet while being taxed. It could only be described as Helen Keller speaking in Morse code.

“Got the chip,” Eric said, handing it over like it was radioactive. “Craps table. I won by accident.”

I blinked. “That’s... actually impressive.”

“I wish it wasn’t,” he muttered.

One of the boys took off to see if the coast was clear. Meanwhile, I crouched on the warm concrete and unrolled the scroll, its edges glowing faintly now. Gold light pulsed softly from the runes, rhythm syncing with the bass thudding from a nearby club.

Let’s take stock.

Flamingo Feather? Check. Still damp.

Polaroid with Elvis? Check.

Living Statue? Check. Still pretending to hold up the sky. Might actually be holding it up.

Bachelorette Drink? Check. Still glowing.

Hooker Cards? Check. Potentially enough to summon a succubus.

Chip from Craps Table? Check.

Laughter at My Expense? Check. Not my expense this time, though.

I exhaled, leaned back against the wall, and let the night settle around us.

Still missing three.

A Red Rose from Someone’s Heart.

A Compliment from a Cop.

And Innocence Wrapped in Depravity.

I checked the time. Twenty minutes left. No sign of Ivy. But I knew she was playing. Somewhere out there, in the shadows of the Strip, she was scheming and maybe even winning.

And if we wanted to beat her? We had to go faster. And we had to get weird.

“Alright,” I said, rising to my feet and brushing concrete dust off my jeans. “We’ve got two blocks, one Chinese glitter militia breathing down our necks, and three items left before the clock hits midnight. Anyone got a plan that doesn’t involve a felony?”

There was a long, thoughtful silence. Then Derek raised a finger.

“What if it’s a nice felony?”

Brian, our scout, came back in hot. He hunched over, catching his breath and dripping sweat.

“Alright, the cost is clear.” He wheezed, peeling his shirt off his chest like it was clinging for dear life, “No rubber boob ladies in sight. What’s left?”

I tapped the scroll. Its surface pulsed beneath my fingers, like a heartbeat growing slower.

“Something dumb. Possibly illegal.”

Tim’s grin lit up like a slot machine, hitting triple sevens.

“Finally!.”

We didn’t have time for subtle anymore. Fifteen minutes, maybe. I turned to the rest of the bachelor party.

“Alright, listen! We’re splitting up. You know the list. Three things.”

I held up a hand and ticked them off:

“One, Innocence Draped in Depravity... No idea what that means, but keep your eyes open.”

Eric grinned. “So... strip club?”

“Not everything is solved with a strip club.”

He raised a finger. “Counterpoint… so far it has been.”

I ignored him.

“Two, a compliment from a cop. Has to be genuine. If one of you ends up in jail, I swear I’m letting you rot ‘til brunch.”

Derek mumbled, “I’ve got a cousin on the force…”

“And three,” I said, lowering my voice a little, “a rose from the heart. Something real. Something offered freely.”

Brian blinked. “That sounds... surprisingly romantic?”

They looked at each other. Nervous but excited.

“Call Mike if you get anything. Don’t text. Don’t be clever. Just call. Got it?”

They all nodded, even Tim, shockingly. I thought he was asleep again.

“Good. We meet back at the Nexus before midnight.” I pointed. “Go.”

They scattered like the Scooby-Doo gang, leaving us in the glow of neon signage.  We power-walked down the Strip like men possessed. Me, Mike, our silent silver statue gliding behind like a forgotten Greek deity, and Mike’s glowing blue yard drink sloshing.

“I swear to God,” I muttered, scanning the crowd, “if we don’t find something fast, I’m gonna lose my mind. And possibly my pants.”

“Look,” Mike said, pointing ahead. “Tell me that’s not fate.”

I followed his finger.

Tucked between a vape kiosk and a churro stand like the universe was in on the joke. Was a rose bed. Perfectly rectangular. Manicured like it belonged at Augusta National Golf Club. Blood-red blooms, thick and velvety, gleaming under the streetlights. A soft glow clung to them like the lingering scent of an ex who still haunted your dreams.

“Looks real enough,” I said. “Don't think they are plastic.”

Two female cops stood right to the side of their parked vehicle. Right next to the roses. Matching reflective vests. Utility belts that looked heavy enough to take down The Joker. One was tall and pale. She had a jawline like a cinder block and arms that looked like they could work on a ranch. The other was all curves and olive-skinned mischief. She had a smirk that said I write tickets, but I also collect hearts. Her lipstick was a shade of red that made getting a speeding ticket feel like destiny.

“Well,” I muttered, “this should go great.”

“You got this,” Mike said, clapping me on the back like he was sending me off to war.

“I am using my cowboy voice.”

He nodded sagely. “Use it harder.”

I squared my shoulders, summoned every drop of rodeo-born charm I had left, and approached like a man who absolutely wasn’t about to ask two armed officers for emotionally symbolic flowers in front of a cop car.

“Evenin’, officers,” I said, voice low and casual, like I did this all the time. “Quick question. Might be the weirdest thing you hear all night.”

Both women looked up in eerie sync. Heads tilted. Eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses that reflected nothing but my imminent regret.

“If this ends with, are you wearing fishnets under those pants?” Said the big one. “I will end you.”

“No, ma’am,” I said quickly, palms raised in full de-escalation. “Respectfully. I’m on a magical scavenger hunt.”

They seemed interested to see where this was going. They let me continue.

“I need two things. One… a rose. But it has to be given. From the heart. And two… a sincere compliment. From someone in uniform. Ideally, before I end up zip-tied to a bench.”

The silence that followed would have smashed through a piñata, and probably arrested the candy afterward.

“There’s also a talking cat involved. And maybe a ritual. It’s a whole thing. I’m kinda overwhelmed, to be honest.”

The shorter one cocked her head and smirked.

“Careful, cowboy. Lines like that can get men into real trouble with me.”

Victory… but why does that voice sound familiar?

The big one sighed—long, slow, with an exhale that said this is above my pay grade and beneath my dignity, but with a hint of something else underneath. It was the exhausted respect people give to smart raccoons that keep breaking into their trash. You want to be mad, but damn if you’re not a little impressed.

“Not again,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose like I was a recurring headache with boots.

The shorter one, meanwhile, didn’t even pretend to be irritated. She stepped forward with the grace of someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was and how often the universe bent to her will. Her uniform was crisp, polished. The badge was real. But it didn’t matter. You could dress a wolf in pearls and call it a lady, but it’s still a predator underneath. She knelt, delicate, and plucked a single rose from the municipal landscaping. Crimson, glowing faintly in the neon haze, like it knew it had just become something important. Then she stood and held it out to me with all the reverence of a queen bestowing knighthood.

“To the weirdest, most strangely charming cowboy I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with,” she said, lips curled in a knowing smile. “And I’ve known a few outlaws in my day, cariño.”

Her voice rolled that word like smoke and silk. I took the rose with both hands carefully, like it might bite me. She stepped in closer. Just a hair. Close enough for her scent to hit me. Roses and leather. Smoke and candlewax. Then she lowered her sunglasses. And her eyes burned with a sultry, demonic fire.

It was the goddamn succubus. In uniform. On duty. The one from, what, an hour ago?

I blinked. “You’re a cop?”

She grinned, wicked and lazy. “You’re surprised?”

“Yes! You were just playing poker!”

She shrugged.

“I was on my lunch break. But never mind that, cowboy,” she said, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Don’t you dare tell Lady Ivy we helped you.”

Her smile widened all teeth and trouble.

“I enjoy having my tail.” She winked.

The taller one, Grimsson—R. Grimsson, according to the tag that was probably carved from the skull of someone who talked too much—grunted.

“Of course you know him already.”

I gave her my best shrug. “What can I say? I get around.”

She looked like she wanted to hit me with a citation for existing.

Across the street Mike was recording me on his phone.I turned, holding the rose in one hand, scroll tucked under the other arm. “That’s two more down!”

“One to go!” Mike shouted.

I turned to go, tipping my hat. “Thanks for the flower. And the compliment.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” said the succubus, M. Díaz, according to the name tag. “And if I catch you stirring things up again, cowboy… I’ll take you in myself.”

She leaned in, voice like warm velvet.

“And no… we won’t be going to the station.”

“I’m running out of time,” I said, flashing a dumb grin. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble.”

Her lip quirked. “Try not to get killed, cowboy.”

“No promises.”

I turned and jogged back to Mike, rose in hand, adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. My boots slapped the pavement. My grin was cocky. And yeah… I glanced back.

Diaz was still watching. One eyebrow raised. One corner of her mouth curved.

We crossed the street toward the Nexus, passing a party of college aged girls singing off-key and a guy in a hot dog suit arguing with a parking meter. Then the guys showed up. Tim and Larry came first, laughing too hard and covered in glitter.

“We found nothing,” Tim announced proudly.

“But we sat in a Lambo,” Larry added. “Valet guy was cool. No photos. Totally real.”

Eric and Brian stumbled up next. Brian was eating a pretzel sideways. Eric held a “Best Dad” mug.

“We don’t know where it came from,” Eric said.

Nick followed with a feather boa and lipstick on his ear.

“I kissed a clown lady,” he said. “Name was… Balloonio. HONK! HONK!”

Tim brought up the rear, dragging a traffic cone like a pet. “Found this.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Felt right.”

I heard a high-pitched shriek, somewhere between drunken delight and the bloodcurdling war cry of a glitter-fueled execution squad.

I turned.

Rounding the corner came the Chinese bachelorette glitter militia. Same neon dildos, raised high like unholy scepters of judgment. Eyes locked on Mike with laser-guided vengeance.

The drink thief.

“Mike,” I said, calm as a man about to be flattened by a sparkly war elephant, “don’t panic.”

Mike turned. Caught sight of them and froze. Like a deer in a spotlight.

The horde pointed. Collectively. Like synchronized witch hunters spotting a heretic.

“ZHAO DAO LE! ZHAO DAO LE!” one of them shrieked, a voice shrill with the power of ten tequila shots.

They charged. Pink hats bouncing. Dildos flailing. Plastic boobs squeaking in unison. Their screams were manic. The sound of a bachelorette stampede in its peak.

Mike screamed. A full-throated, from-the-diaphragm “oh no Mommy no” kind of scream. He shoved the glowing yard drink into my chest like it was an armed grenade.

“GOTTA GO!” he yelled, already bolting. “TELL MY STORY!”

The rest of Mike’s friends saw the incoming glitter tsunami, processed the threat, and didn’t even hesitate.

I was left standing. On the sidewalk. Still holding the glowing yard drink in one hand, rose in the other. A thick fan of hooker cards poking from my pocket like a cursed tarot. The faint smell of churros curling in the air like judgment.

I turned… jumped.

The statue god was still there. Still behind me. Still silent. Looming like the world’s most judgmental mime.

How long had he been standing there?

I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

“Come on, let’s go.”

I turned, gathered what remained of my dignity into a small, messy bundle, clutched the assorted magical chaos like it was all perfectly normal, and walked off into the night.

Toward the meeting point with Mr. Midnight.

One item short…

Chapter Eleven

The scroll led me. Not with directions, nothing that straightforward, but with a faint tug. A kind of magical breadcrumb trail that nudged me left when I should’ve gone right, then down an alley that smelled like burnt sugar and spilled beer. Eventually, it dumped me just off the Strip. The little corner store was wedged between a greasy diner advertising $3 foot-long hotdogs and a 24-hour emergency clinic that looked like it offered tetanus shots and Plan-B pills in bulk.

Not exactly the glamorous heart of Vegas. But the air buzzed with that weird, low hum—just enough to make my skin crawl in a way I was starting to associate with Fae-adjacent nonsense.

I pushed the door open. A little silver bell jingled overhead, sounding suspiciously like laughter. Inside, the place smelled like incense and old books. The air shimmered with energy thick enough to taste. Shelves lined the cramped walls, packed with items that definitely violated some kind of import laws. Bottled moonlight, screaming candles, a box labeled Emergencies Only that whimpered when I looked at it too long.

Atop the counter sat Mr. Midnight. Black as the space between stars. Tail swishing in perfect rhythm with some slow jazz only he could hear. His eyes caught the low light like twin emeralds stolen from a god.

Ivy was already here. Leaning against the counter like she owned the damn building, one knee popped, arms crossed over her perfect chest, a smirk stretched across her face like she’d just watched me prove her right. Her scroll was already out and her pile of items sat beside it. A teddy bear. A soft, worn, tan little thing with a crooked ear and one missing eye. Sat at the very top.

I slowed. My voice came out low, wary. “Don’t tell me…”

“You’re almost late,” Ivy said sweetly, her tone the vocal equivalent of a velvet dagger.

Mr. Midnight purred, slow and smoky. “Cutting it very close, Mr. Nowak. Let’s see what treasures you’ve collected in your little adventure.”

I moved to the counter, setting everything down like a magician preparing the final act. Flamingo feather. Casino chip. Red rose. Stolen bachelorette drink, now half-full and slightly sticky. Stack of hooker cards. Then I pulled out my phone. Showing a cat evidence of our debauchery. Elvis photo on my phone. Compliment from Officer Diaz. Laughter at Tim’s expense. Finally, I pointed to the living statue, who was now posing next to Ivy’s steampunk and gold counterpart.

“Innocence draped in depravity,” Mr. Midnight intoned, eyes narrowing. His voice curled like smoke around the words. “The last piece. Still missing, hmm?”

I nodded, grimacing. “Didn’t find anything that fit.”

Ivy clicked her tongue in mock sympathy. “Poor Drew. Always so close.”

Mr. Midnight said nothing at first. Then, he hopped off the counter with liquid grace, landing soundlessly. He circled the piles, sniffing at the items like a cat inspecting an offering.

Ivy stepped forward, smiling like a wolf in lipstick.

“I’ve got it,” she said sweetly.

With a lazy little flourish, she gestured to her pile of magical scavenger loot. Then her eyes dropped to the teddy bear. It was tan. Fuzzy. Big glassy eyes. A stitched pink heart on its belly. And then, slowly, Ivy slid her hands down the front of her dress. Her fingers hooked the waistband of a small, lacy black thong. She pulled it down—inch by slow, humiliating inch—until it pooled around her heels.  She lifted one leg, then the other, and stepped out of it like she’d done this exact move at a nightclub. She turned to the bear. And slipped the thong over its head.

Snug. Right across the teddy bear’s face.

It now looked like a fuzzy, sexually confused Bane from the Batman movie. Its dead black eyes locked with mine, and I swear—on magic, moonlight, and my last shred of dignity—I heard it whisper in my head: “Andrew. Your reckoning is at hand.”

I sighed. Shoulders slumped. “Jesus Christ.”

Mister Midnight let out a sound that could only be described as a gleeful yowl, halfway between a purr and a jazz trumpet, hitting a dirty note.

“With seconds to spare!” he purred. “And a complete list. Oh, you’ve both made daddy Midnight very happy.”

He flicked a paw. Every item vanished in a puff of shimmering smoke and bright colors. Little whispers of magic that tickled the back of my skull.

Poof.

I flinched, too shocked even to notice my phone was among the now missing items. Ivy didn’t. She just smiled wider.

“Congratulations Lady Ivy,” Midnight said, turning to her. “Victory is yours, my dear.”

The moment He crowned her the winner, Ivy’s grin widened. I stood there, trying to process the emotional gut-punch of losing to a teddy bear in a thong. She turned to me, slow and smug, winked, and whispered, “Told you I had other skills.”

I didn’t answer. Because I was still seeing that teddy bear in my head. And it was still judging me.

“Tied. Two apiece.”

Shit. That meant one thing...

A final challenge. Winner. Take. All.

I swallowed the knot, trying to take over my throat, and turned toward Ivy. My voice came out steady, though everything south of my heart was in full-blown panic parade mode.

“So… what’s the final challenge?”

She turned slowly, eyes sparkling like she’d just thought of three illegal things. Then she laughed. Genuine amusement. Like the anticipation was dessert, and I was the main course.

“Oh, Andy,” she said, brushing a lock of dark hair from her face. “You don’t get to know that yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she cut in, stepping closer and poking my chest with one perfectly manicured finger, “I get to choose the final challenge. And I’m not done cooking up something perfect.”

I opened my mouth to protest. She grabbed my hand before I could.

“Let’s walk,” she said, her tone light. “The Strip always gives me inspiration.”

Before I could think of a single excuse, she was already dragging me behind her, back toward the chaos. The bell jingled behind us as the shop door shut and I glanced back. The shop was gone.

Just gone.

In its place was a cracked, empty lot. Rusted chain-link fence. Faint smell of ozone. No glow, no shimmer. Just heat-warped concrete and the sound of distant traffic.

“What the…?”

“No time,” Ivy called, tugging my hand again. “Come on.”

I had questions. So many questions. But all I could do was follow. Back toward the Strip. Back into the lights, the music, the mayhem. Because Ivy was in control now. But then she glanced back at me with that wicked grin and, for one terrible, wonderful second I couldn’t help but smile back.

We stopped at a sidewalk bar where everything looked like nuclear coolant. Ivy ordered something blue and bubbly with a slice of starfruit speared through a glass straw. I pointed at the darkest thing on the menu, something with bourbon and no visible fruit garnish, and hoped it wouldn’t dissolve my insides. She took a sip of hers. Then stole mine without asking. She swirled it in her mouth like she was judging it in a wine tasting.

“Tastes like desperation,” she said, handing it back with a wink.

I took it, deadpan. Then leaned in and took a sip of hers.

“Yours tastes like diabetes and lies.”

She laughed and leaned against the railing overlooking the Bellagio fountains. The water erupted to the beat of an operatic remix of “My Heart Will Go On” from the Titanic movie. Jets twisted in tight spirals, steam rising like the whole thing might take off. One group of college students were pantomiming the scene with Jack and Rose floating on the door.

“I forgot Vegas could be fun,” she said, almost to herself.

That surprised me.

“I figured you’d think this whole place was beneath you,” I said.

She shrugged, eyes tracking the water as it pulsed in time with violins. “The Strip’s like us—flashy, fake, full of tricks... but underneath it?” Her voice softened. “There’s real madness, hunger, and magic. It reminds me of home”

I took a slow sip of my drink, trying not to stare.

“So, is that what you’re looking for?” I asked. “Home? Or just a way to win?”

She turned to me, and for a second there was no flirt, just her.

“Winning is nice,” she said. “But finding a place to call home?”

She smiled, sharp and satisfied. “That’s priceless.”

I groaned. “I liked you better when you were threatening to enslave me.”

“No, you didn’t.”

She was right.

We walked again. Past a guy dressed like Dr. Strange doing card tricks and the noise and people laughing like their world wasn’t unraveling like mine was. Eventually, we slowed again, drinks almost gone, standing in front of a fountain shaped like a giant martini glass. It foamed with glowing liquid, bubbling up in slow, hypnotic pulses of pink and green like a dream you’d regret in the morning.

I looked at her. “So… you got your inspiration yet?”

She turned, smiled, slow and sly, like a cat stretching in the sun after scratching something expensive.

“Oh, Drew,” she whispered, stepping in close. Her breath brushed my neck, warm and deliberate. “In such a rush?”

Then she grabbed my hand again.

“Come on,” Her grin spread like a challenge.

“Let’s have some fun.”

Before I could ask what she meant, she was already pulling me forward, weaving through the late-night crowd. We reached Caesar’s Palace, its looming Roman columns and glowing gold trim casting us in ancient opulence dressed up in a modern hangover. Las Vegas did drama well, but Caesars performed it.

Ivy didn’t hesitate. She pushed through the side Employees Only entrance, security and staff didn’t even blink. I think she may have glamoured them, or she owned more than just a strip club.

“I have a feeling,” she said over her shoulder as we moved through the swathes of plates, silverware, and dishwashing machines, “that the right kind of chaos lives in here tonight.”

“Of course it does,” I muttered. “Why wouldn’t we be going clubbing in the middle of this shit?”

She didn’t answer. Just grabbed my hand tighter and yanked me down a side hallway pulsing with bass and neon.

The nightclub opened up like a spell going off. Lights strobed like lightning. The bass hit hard enough to rattle bones. The air reeked of sweat, spiked cologne, champagne, and a few things someone’s lawyer would hear about in the morning.

It was all too much and exactly enough.

Platforms held dancers in glowing heels, twisting in time like electric serpents. LED snakes writhed up the walls, flashing green, red, gold. The DJ stood behind a console lit like a ritual altar, his horned headset making him look less like a performer and more like someone who summoned music from the underworld.

Ivy turned to face me, already moving with the rhythm. Hips swaying, smile lit from inside, eyes daring me to say no.

“You’re tense,” she said, pressing a drink into my hand I hadn’t realized she’d ordered. It was cold and smelled like expensive regrets.

Then she leaned in close, lips brushing the edge of my ear, and whispered. “Final challenge starts soon. But not yet. So you’d better make these minutes of freedom count. After this… you’re mine.”

Then she was gone. Vanished into the crowd like smoke in strobe light. Spinning, laughing, and dancing.

Lights stuttered and swept over the crowd in blinding flashes of blue, red, and ultraviolet heat. The dance floor was packed wall-to-wall with writhing bodies, slick with sweat, moving like they were trying to forget everything.

Ivy was in the middle of it all. She moved to the beat, hips swaying with serpentine grace. Her black dress clung to her like lust made of silk. She spotted me through the haze and smiled. A devastating curve of her lips that said, I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

I pushed through the crowd until we met; the music drowning out thought, leaving only instinct. She turned back against my chest, and pulled my hands down to her waist. Then she moved. She rolled her hips against me, body melting into mine like we were one single being.

My hands gripped tighter than I meant to, fingers digging into the curve of her thighs, and she leaned back, her head resting on my shoulder for just a moment. I had a mouthful of dark green hair, but I didn’t care. The lights spun, catching the glint in her eyes when she turned her head to look at me. That look alone could’ve killed me. The music drove deeper, a bass-heavy rhythm that throbbed through our chests. We kept grinding against each other like no one else existed. Her fingers laced with mine. Her breath brushed my jaw. I was lost in her scent. In the way her body felt against mine.

Suddenly, I didn’t care about the final challenge. I didn't even care if I won anymore.

I wanted her.

Just when I thought I couldn’t fall any deeper into her well, she pulled away. I blinked as the space between us opened like a wound, losing her body against mine more jarring than any punch I’d ever taken. My heart was still hammering. Every nerve in my body screaming don’t stop now.

Ivy turned, gave me a smirk that was pure wildfire, and grabbed my hand.

“Come on,” she said, breathless in a way that made it so much worse. “I need a drink before I ruin you completely.”

She led me off the dance floor, weaving through the sweaty mess of bodies like she was parting a sea. I followed, still dazed, half-drunk on bourbon and her smell.

The bar was quieter, sort of. Red lights cast everything in a haze of shadow and heat. Ivy flagged down the bartender with one raised finger and slid onto a bar stool. The bartender—a pale, shirtless man with mirrored sunglasses—didn’t ask questions. He just poured two shots of something dark and expensive-looking and set them down without a word. Didn’t even linger long enough to ask for payment.

Ivy raised hers. “To sexual tension.”

I clinked mine with hers automatically. “To sexual torture.”

We threw them back. It burned all the way down, but it grounded me just enough to find my voice again.

“So?” I said, placing the glass down gently. “Is this your victory lap, or are you going to tell me what the final challenge is?”

She turned to me, resting her elbow on the bar and her chin on her hand, studying me with those golden, predatory eyes.

“Soon,” she said. “I’m not quite finished enjoying myself.”

I exhaled slowly, biting back a laugh. “You’re evil.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing the edge of my ear.

“You like it.”

The music shifted. The heavy bass faded into something slower, smoother, but still pulsing. It was a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Closer to a heartbeat than a war drum.

Ivy just stood, grabbed my hand, and pulled me right back onto the dance floor.

The crowd had thinned, giving us space. Space I wasn’t sure I wanted. Because now there was no one to hide behind. Just me, her, and a beat that made my pulse hitch in my throat. She turned to face me, one hand resting lightly on my chest, the other trailing down my arm to lace her fingers with mine. Then she moved, slow and controlled, like a wave rolling against the shore. Her body pressed close, just enough to drive me insane.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said, her voice low.

“At dancing? I learned to Two-Step in kindergarten.”

She chuckled. “Of course you did.”

I gave a half-smile, trying not to burst from the feel of her hips swaying against mine. “You should meet me on Ten-Cent Wednesday at The Yellow Rose.”

“Maybe I will one day,” she said, spinning under my arm and then curling back into me.

I leaned in, my breath brushing her ear. “Aren’t you planning to enslave me after the challenge?”

She tilted her head back, laughing softly. “Oh, Andrew... if I wanted to enslave you, it would have happened already.”

“Comforting.”

“Besides,” she said, eyes catching mine again, “I’m enjoying this little game way too much. And you…” Her hand drifted slowly from my shoulder down my chest. “You’ve got potential.”

I chuckled, trying to focus. “Potential for what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just pressed closer, the heat between us now magnetic, the air charged like we were dancing in a thunderstorm.

Finally, she whispered, “For something very important to me.”

We kept dancing. And despite everything, I didn’t let go. She leaned in just far enough to look up at me eye to eye, her hands still tangled behind my neck.

“Are you always this intense, cowboy?” she asked, voice teasing.

“Only when I’m slow dancing with a woman who might ruin my life.”

She grinned, all teeth and fire. “Might?”

Her hips moved again, a slow grind against my crotch that stole the air from my lungs. My hands found the curve of her waist, then slid lower, settling on her hips, pulling her closer until there wasn’t space for doubt. My hands slipped under her dress and I was suddenly reminded where her underwear had gone.

“I don’t lose control often,” I said, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “But you, you’re like a goddamn storm.”

“Sweet talker,” she purred. “Tell me more about how I terrify you.”

“You don’t terrify me. Not any more.”

My hand reached further until I felt a touch of wetness.

That made her pause. I let my eyes linger on hers. Those swirling, molten gold irises lit up by the club lights. It was like being sucked into one of Jupiter's storms.

“I’m not scared about what you could do to me anymore.”

Her breath hitched. Not much, but just enough. She appeared human for a brief time. She masked it fast, with a smirk, but it was too late.

I saw it.

I moved a finger further inside of her. Ivy’s breath hitched and she pulled my hand away. Her fingers toyed with the collar of my shirt, dragging it down just a little, like she wanted to mark something there.

“You know this is still a competition,” she said, tilting her head, lashes lowering. “One of us walks away with the win. That’s when we’ll celebrate.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she echoed, laughing.

I leaned in until our foreheads brushed. “Maybe we both lose.”

She went quiet for a beat. Something vulnerable flickered there for just a breath. The briefest hesitation before the Fae seductress mask slipped back into place.

“Then we better enjoy it while we can,” she whispered.

Then she spun again—faster, more playful this time, dragging me with her into a looser, grittier rhythm. She rolled her hips, tossed her hair, turned her back to me and pressed close, her body moving against me harder.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

The music sank into a deeper slow, steady, and seductive rhythm. The kind of beat that pulsed through your spine and made you forget the world spinning outside the walls.

Ivy moved like she was the music. She pressed her ass to my crotch again, but this time there was no teasing. It was full grinding. Her hips rolled, dragging against me with maddening pressure, and I followed, our bodies locked in perfect rhythm. The sweat on her skin slicked against mine, every motion a slow, delicious grind. My hands gripped her hips tighter than I should’ve let them. My lips brushed her temple. She tilted her head just slightly, like she wanted me to kiss her… but not yet.

Not unless I broke first.

Her fingers slid down, one hand grabbing mine and dragging it across the front of her thigh, up the curve of her body. She guided it until my palm was flat against her stomach, her hand over mine, pressing.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, voice like velvet on bare skin.

“You’re trouble,” I muttered, breath catching in my throat.

I closed my eyes, jaw clenched, trying not to lose the thread of reality. All that existed right now was this.

“Ivy…” I breathed, her name rolling off my tongue like a confession.

She turned, chest to chest with me now, her arms wrapping around my neck. Our faces were inches apart. And just when I thought she was going to kiss me, when my whole body leaned toward hers…

She pulled back, smiling. That devil’s grin again.

“Let’s get another drink,” she said, playful and sweet like none of that just happened.

She turned and walked off the floor, hips swaying with the same slow rhythm, leaving me frozen in place and absolutely, completely wrecked. I followed.

Because I couldn’t do anything else.

The bar was cooler than the dance floor, but not by much. My shirt clung to me with sweat, and my heart still hadn’t figured out how to slow down. Ivy sauntered up to the counter, ordered us two more drinks, and leaned casually against it like she hadn’t just set me on fire in front of a hundred strangers. She sipped hers, eyes flicking toward me over the rim of her glass.

I downed mine in one go.

She laughed. “Thirsty?”

“Not for the drink.”

“Ooh.” She leaned in, elbow on the bar, chin resting on her palm. “Cowboy’s getting bold.”

I shrugged. “You said I had potential.”

She leaned forward until her lips nearly brushed mine, her breath warm and laced with whatever the hell she was drinking.

“You’ve got plenty of potential.”

Then she suddenly spun around, grabbed my hand, and tugged me off my stool again.

“Ivy…”

“Nope,” she said, her smile sparkling like a match about to hit gasoline. “Come on. One more round of fun before I end you.”

I barely had time to process that sentence before she dragged me straight into the VIP lounge tucked behind a velvet rope. The bouncer gave her a nod, like he knew her. He probably did. Everyone did, eventually. Inside, it was darker. Booths draped in red curtains. Music thumping slow and low, built for intimacy. Built for tension.

She pulled me to a secluded booth in the corner, slid in, and patted the space beside her like I was some kind of stray dog. I sat.

I shouldn’t have. But I did.

Babcia's voice had been quiet for a while now. Even she could offer advice for what comes next.

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out something small and metallic. A coin. Gold, ancient, covered in symbols I didn’t recognize.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A distraction,” she said. Then she flipped it through her fingers and slid it toward me across the table. “Call it. Heads or tails.”

I caught it without thinking. Flipped.

“Heads.”

It landed in my palm… tails.

I looked up. “What do I lose?”

She smirked. “Oh nothing. I was just testing something.”

Then, without a word of warning, she swung her leg over and straddled me right there in the booth. Every breath left my lungs like I’d been sucker-punched.

“Consider this… the warm-up,” she whispered.

One hand pressed against my chest—light, but firm. The other traced a line down my jaw, slow and deliberate, like she was etching her name into me.

I blinked, stunned. “This is a very aggressive lead-in to a final challenge.”

“This is part of the challenge,” she murmured, leaning in until her lips were a hair’s breadth from mine. “Figuring out what’s real… and what’s just me having fun.”

She kissed my cheek first. Then the edge of my jaw, just beneath my ear. She stopped there. Just hovered. Her lips were so close I could feel the heat of her breath, but not the contact. Letting it simmer. Then she pulled back. Just a little. Just enough to make me chase the space she left behind.

“Now,” she said, still seated on my lap, her body a furnace against mine, her hands burning holes through my shirt, “are you ready to hear the final challenge?”

I swallowed. My voice came out hoarse, like I’d just crawled out of the desert.

“God. Yes.”

Her lips brushed mine, barely. A whisper of contact. The ghost of a promise. And that was all I could take.

I surged forward.

Our mouths collided, and the rest of the world ceased to matter. My hands found her hips and gripped tight. Her fingers fisted in my shirt, dragging me closer as her body molded to mine. The bass of the club, the crowd, the neon haze. All of it fell away. All of it drowned beneath the thrum of blood and heat and need.

She pulled back, just a breath. Lips swollen. Breathing ragged. Eyes lit with something wild.

“If you kiss me like that again,” she whispered, “we’re not finishing the challenge tonight.”

I looked up at her, dazed and desperate.

“I’m okay with that,” I muttered.

Her mouth curved. Wicked and warm.

“I know,” she said. “Maybe I am too…”

“JAAAAAAKE! HEY THAT MY BROTHER IN THERE!”

Ivy didn’t move. Her forehead pressed to mine. Her breath still warm.

“DREW, BRO, WE BEEN LOOKIN… WHOA!”

We had an audience now…

Mike, Eric, Derek, Brian, Nick, Tim, and Larry. All drunk, loud, and incredibly terrible at timing. They were running interference on the bouncer while Mike slipped through.

Ivy nodded to the bouncer who stepped aside letting them in.

“OH SHIT!” Mike cackled. “Bro?! What?! Is this part of the scavenger hunt?!”

“Pretty sure he’s winning,” Brian said, eyes wide. “Respect. I thought I was the ladies’ man.”

“I need to get myself a cowboy hat,” Nick responded.

Ivy climbed off me slowly, smoothing her black dress with deliberate grace. She wasn’t angry. She was amused. Mischievous, delighted even, like the universe had handed her one last little joke before she finished the game.

Mike bounced over to me, way too happy.

“We’ve been trying to call you, man! But when it answers, all I hear is meowing and like a thousand people screaming in pain!”

I slapped my pockets. “Damn it. Mr. Midnight stole my phone!”

They stared.

“Don’t ask,” I muttered.

“So what’s the verdict?” Larry asked. “Do we get to see strippers, or do we have to be strippers?”

Ivy turned, smiling wickedly.

“What’s this now? What are they talking about?”

Nick gave a weak cheer. “Stripper time! Stripper Time!”

Mike pointed to Ivy. “Wait, are you one of the strippers?”

Ivy winked. “Darling, I run the whole damn house.” Then she looked at me. “What the hell are they talking about?”

I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Heh… heh… well, you see, I may have told them that the winner of the scavenger hunt has to strip dance in front of the other team…”

Before Ivy could fully process that, she grabbed my hand again and turned toward the exit.

“Come on, boys,” she called over her shoulder. “We’re going back to the Gilded Thorn.”

My stomach flipped.

The Gilded Thorn. The velvet-and-smoke fae strip club where I’d first met her. Where all this madness had begun. Mikey leaned in beside me, nudging my ribs with a drunken grin.

“Bro... best bachelor party ever. You are 1000% gonna bang that girl tonight.”

I groaned.

Not because he was wrong. But because he might be very, very right. And I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.

Chapter Twelve

The Strip at almost 2AM hits differently. The crowds thin out, but the weirdness gets bolder. The tourists turn into shadows and the drunks get louder. Vegas itself feels like it’s watching you.

We were a mess of laughter and staggered steps, moving down the boulevard like a parade no one asked for. Tim was giggling to himself while trying to teach Ivy how to dab. Mike was singing. Something that was supposed to be “Sweet Caroline” but came out sounding like a mating call for orcas. Brian had one arm slung around Larry’s shoulders and was arguing with a man dressed like Spider-Man about which version of himself could beat all three dragons in Game of Thrones.

I was walking hand-in-hand with a fae who kissed like war and walked like sin, wondering how I ended up drunk, exhausted, and heading back to the place where this whole thing started.

Ivy was radiant even in the dim street light glow, her heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement. Her long thick legs moved with grace. I was too buzzed to keep up with, and that mischievous glint in her eye hadn’t dulled one bit.

“You look like a man walking toward his execution,” she teased.

“Yeah, well,” I said, dodging a man dressed like Jesus handing out nightclub flyers, “we’re going back to the Gilded Thorn. Forgive me if I look slightly concerned.”

“Concerned?” She laughed, flipping her hair. “You should be terrified at what comes next. I am.”

I groaned. “That’s not helpful.”

She stopped walking just long enough to pull me into her side and whisper, “I promise you’ll enjoy it...”

The club wasn’t far now. I could see the soft green and gold glow bleeding out from the Thorn’s entrance, the gold-leaf sign above it practically humming with magic. It welcomed us back like a velvet glove around the throat.

Mike spun around and walked backward in front of us, grinning ear to ear.

“Yo! So when we get there, like… what’s the plan? Are we dancing first or drinking first?”

Ivy smirked. “You’ll know when it’s time to dance.”

Mike pumped his fist. “Dude, this is exactly how I wanted to end my bachelor party.”

I muttered, “I didn’t even want to be at your bachelor party.”

Ivy just squeezed my hand tighter.

The Gilded Thorn wasn’t the same place we left hours ago.

Not even close.

It loomed now—taller, wider, older. Like it had grown in our absence, stretching into the sky and pressing against the edges of reality. The facade we saw before had been a costume. This? This was its true form. Now it was a cathedral of vice and magic draped in shadow and gold. It pulsed behind the Strip like a second heartbeat. Every brick was slick with old glamour sloughing off, peeling away to reveal ancient stone and living roots that hadn’t seen daylight in centuries.

No more illusions. No more tricks to blend in.

The fae weren’t hiding from us anymore.

The velvet-red neon of the entrance burned brighter now, curling up the walls like fire. The red front double doors had changed too—taller, sharper, threaded with gold vines that bloomed with glowing flowers. They hissed softly as we passed, like they were exhaling.

Inside, the air was heavier, like lust fermented with blood and moonlight. The Thorn had woken up. And it remembered us.

The club exploded around us into color and chaos. Dancers hung from aerial silks, their bodies impossibly long, their skin marked with glowing silver ink that shifted like starlight. Music throbbed but it wasn’t coming from speakers—it was in the walls, in the air, and in my bones. It made your heart beat slower, your thoughts wander deeper, your defenses drop.

A pair of women with fox ears and tails kissed above the bar while a man in a feathered mask poured a glowing liquid over their bodies from a crystal decanter. The bartender, no longer disguised, had bark-like patches on her skin, yellow glowing hair, deer antlers, and eyes like melting gold.

Even the stage was alive. The floor moved, coiled with vines that curled around a Fae stripper’s legs as they moved in tandem with her wings.

Nick stopped in his tracks. “...Uh. Was it always like this?”

“No,” I said.

Mike took a long look around. “Dude. Is this hell?”

“No,” Ivy purred beside me, tugging my hand. “This is just the real Gilded Thorn.”

Tim was filming on his phone. Ivy didn’t stop him, and no one else seemed to care. She told me the video wouldn’t play back right, anyway.

She leaned into my shoulder, whispering, “Now the night gets interesting.”

I gave her a sideways glance. “It wasn’t interesting before?”

Her smile curved, slow and electric. “Not even close.”

The music dipped low; the bass thudding like a giant’s heartbeat. And then Ivy let go of my hand.

She turned to me with that familiar grin. Then she strutted toward the stage. The crowd shifted around her, parting like they knew exactly what she was going to do. Knew who she was. Some bowed their heads slightly. Others just stared, wide-eyed, mouths open. Even the other dancers paused mid-motion as she passed.

The house lights dimmed. The red velvet curtain shimmered. And the club’s DJ, now revealed in his true form—a tall, male Fae with skin like moonlight and yakuza-style tattoos that writhed with each syllable—stepped into the spotlight.

“Ladies, gentlemen, mortals and monsters,” the voice rang out, impossibly smooth and thunderous all at once. “Please welcome back to the stage… the mistress of mischief, the breaker of hearts, and the queen of this very den of sin…”

“LAAAAADY IVY!”

The lights hit, and the crowd roared. Ivy stepped onto the stage like she was commanding an army.

No glamour now.

Her true self radiated from every step. Massive faerie wings unfolded behind her, pink and violet streaked like storm-lit amethyst. They shimmered with every movement. Her amber eyes glowed—twin eclipsed suns, burning with power and intent. Her ears were pointed now and her skin gleamed with a soft green pearlescence, the color shifting and rippling like sunlight over windblown grass.

Then she danced and God help me, I forgot how to breathe. The music moved through her, hips rolling, legs sweeping wide, her hands dragging fire down her thighs as she spun, dipped, arched. The vines on the stage floor curled around her ankles.

The crowd was mesmerized.

Even Mike was slack-jawed, nudging me with his elbow. “Bro,” he whispered. “Brooooo. What?”

At the peak of the music, Ivy struck a final pose—arms raised, chest heaving, wings lit by flame and light. And the room erupted again. She held it for one heartbeat longer. Then she took the mic from the announcer, eyes glowing with wicked joy.

“Alright, my lovely little monsters,” she purred, voice silky and electric. “We’ve had a wild night so far. And now…”

She turned her gaze directly at me. My stomach dropped.

“…we’ve got a special guest performance.”

The spotlight swung. Onto us.

I froze.

“No,” I whispered.

“YES,” Ivy grinned. “Let’s hear it for Cowboy Drew and his lovely band of lost boys!”

The crowd went insane. Brian whooped. Derek was already pulling off his shirt. Ivy just winked. Mike clapped his hands together like a man about to enter battle.

“Alright, boys! Let’s get sexy!”

Nick was already shirtless, trying to tear off his pants with the kind of determination usually reserved for the NBA Finals.

Tim stood beside the stage, blinking up at the glowing crowd of otherworldly creatures of literal myth. “So, like… is this an anime con? Or did someone dose our shots with LSD? I’m not mad. I just need to know.”

“Dude,” Larry whispered, eyes locked on a fae woman with six eyes and a tail, “I think we died and this is purgatory.”

Eric nodded solemnly. “I heard about this on the Joe Rogan podcast. The Bohemian Grove.”

I grabbed Mike by the arm. “Listen to me. These aren’t cosplayers.”

He squinted at me. “Bro, we are so high right now. This is either the best party ever or we got abducted and this is the inside of a spaceship.”

“We definitely got abducted!”

“Good. Then it’s not just me wondering about that. Either way, you gotta commit. You made a deal with sexy Tinkerbell up there. Right?”

I looked at Ivy. She blew me a kiss.

The DJ threw on a throbbing remix of Pony by Ginuwine, and the stage lit up like a flaming runway.

Mr. Midnight made an appearance. He yawned from his perch. “Mmm. Delightful. Let the humans earn their shame.”

The crowd surged forward, cheering, stomping, howling. Nick stepped onto the stage first, muscular arms raised like a gladiator entering the arena. Mike followed, doing finger guns at the crowd. Tim tripped, recovered, and tried to moonwalk into place. The others followed suit.

Ivy, still front and center, turned her eyes to me.

“You coming, cowboy?” she purred into the mic. “Or are you gonna leave your friends to face the horde alone?”

The crowd laughed.

Someone yelled, “TAKE IT OFF!”

I groaned, looked up at the heavens—where, presumably, even Babcia was laughing at me—and climbed up onto the stage. Lights flared. Smoke rolled across the stage. The crowd lost its collective mind.

Mike ripped off his shirt and spun it like a lasso. “LET’S GOOOO!”

Nick was doing a split that defied physics and biology. Eric attempted a head spin, failed, then tried again with all the confidence of a man too drunk to feel shame. Tim was… well, mostly slapping his own ass and air-humping in rhythm.

The crowd ate it up. They were howling. Some were throwing glitter, or dollar bills. Others were throwing golden coins. Someone threw their bra.

It was not a human bra. Tim tried to catch it but was knocked over by the weight of it.

I caught sight of the dryad bartender with vines braided into her glowing yellow hair, fanning herself with a leaf the size of a hubcap. A pair of succubuses clinked goblets, toasting like they were watching their next meal being prepared. And a tiny winged creature—looked like a cupid-thing, acted like a biker—was yelling, “Show me your butthole!”

Ivy sat at the edge of the stage like a queen on her throne, legs crossed, golden eyes blazing. Her smile was pure wildfire. She wasn’t even trying to hide her delight.

Meanwhile, I was in the back, stiff as a 2x4, shirt on, hands doing an awkward side-step clap like I was performing in a cursed middle school talent show.

Mike noticed.

“Bro, come on! You’re the reason we’re here!”

Silence dropped across the Gilded Thorn like a velvet curtain. Ivy grabbed the mic, every inch the princess of madness she was. Her eyes locked onto mine with a smile so wide it could’ve been outlawed.

“Now that was adorable,” she purred, striding center stage.

I took a cautious step backward.

“No, no, no,” she said, finger wagging. “Don’t go anywhere, honey.”

Then she turned back to the crowd, lifting the mic with one hand.

“Ladies, gentlemen, fae and fiends… Please remain seated and hold onto your drinks, because the real show is just beginning.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

She raised her hand and pointed at me like she was casting a damn spell.

“From all the way in Amarillo, Texas… for one night only…”

I felt my soul leave my body.

“Give it up for the man, the myth, the booty with the badge… Cowboy Drew!”

Spotlight. Direct hit.

The crowd went feral. The boys were already shouting my name like I was entering a rodeo ring instead of a club owned by monsters. Mike threw my hat into the crowd like a bouquet. Someone tossed it back.

It landed directly back onto my head.

Perfectly…

Ivy tilted her head, smirking. Then she raised her fingers and snapped.

The DJ shifted the beat. Something older. Slow Hand by Conway Twitty.

This is gonna get me in trouble.

The crowd started chanting.

“Cowboy Drew! Cowboy Drew! Cowboy Drew!”

I sighed the sigh of a man who knew the fall of the city walls was inevitable. And I surrendered. I peeled off my shirt and tossed it into the crowd. A dozen women and one very aggressive leprechaun dove for it like brides at a bouquet toss.

The cheering exploded.

I stepped forward, rolled my shoulders, gave a weak little hip pop. Then a second one. Bigger. Then I gave in to the music.

I danced. God help me, I danced.

Mike high-fived me mid-thrust. Nick climbed the pole and accidentally slid down like a drunk firefighter. Brian started flossing. Derek twerked on a stunned goblin.

Ivy clapped slowly from her seat, the spotlight catching her in molten gold.

Just when I thought the nightmare was over, just when I had caught my breath, shirtless and sweating under the stage lights like some poor soul tricked into a Chippendales audition, the music stopped. I stood there—bare-chested, blue jeans slung low on my hips, boots scuffed from running from a flamingo, and now apparently the reluctant headliner of an infernal revue.

Ivy grabbed the mic again.

“Who wants to see him ride a horse?!

“Fuck. My. Life.”

So I danced like I was riding a horse. Badly at first. Mostly out of spite. But the beat picked back up, and the crowd egged me on, and soon I was rolling my hips like I was back on my horse at my ranch.

The crowd screamed. So I leaned into it. Hat tipped low. Slow hip roll. Thrust. Spin.

A group of dryads near the front fainted in sync like overheated church ladies. A gnome spilled his drink and just whispered, “This better not awaken anything in me.”

Ivy’s grin stretched wider as I stripped out of my jeans, left only in boxers and boots, pride in shreds, dignity on fire.

And then, mercifully, she raised her hand.

“Let’s give our volunteers a round of applause, shall we?”

The crowd exploded. We stood there in our underwear, drenched in sweat, barely holding it together while the fae screamed our names like we were rock stars.

I looked at Ivy. She looked way too satisfied.

Chapter Thirteen

We stumbled off the stage like Army Recruits limping back from a march. Half-naked, soaked in sweat, breathing hard, and held aloft by nothing but adrenaline and sheer chaotic commitment. A cheer rolled through the club like thunder. Before I could even make it to the bar, someone shoved a shot glass into my hand.

“Drink, cowboy!” a voice bellowed, slurred and full of reverence.

I downed it before my brain could veto the decision. It burned all the way down, like cinnamon-flavored gasoline. I blinked and came face-to-face with a topless female Minotaur. Seven feet tall, horns polished, and muscles carved like marble. Nose ring catching the strobe light like a flashbang. She leaned in, voice a smoky rumble.

“You ever been with a woman who can carry you and your horse?”

I shuddered. “Nope. And let’s keep it that way.”

Mike slapped my back. “BRO!” he roared, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. “We are LIVING right now!”

The boys were now scattered across the club like victorious war heros. Larry had the dryad bartender grinding on him with the gentlest care imaginable. Brian was mid-shoulder rub from a sylph who barely touched the floor, her laughter drifting like smoke. Derek was arm wrestling a troll, and very much losing.

I saw Tim sitting on one of the velvet chairs. Two Fae girls flanked him, fanning him with their wings like he was royalty. They were literally feeding him glowing cherries, and he loved it.

“DON’T GIVE THEM YOUR NAME!” I yelled.

He gave me a thumbs up in acknowledgement.

I found a booth near the edge of the stage and collapsed into it. The velvet was cool against my sweat-soaked skin. My pulse was still racing and my legs were jelly. Ivy arrived and slid into my lap like she’d been poured there. Liquid grace. All curves and dangerous intent, her skin warm against mine. She curled against me, humming low in her throat, her body a soft line of heat that made my nerves light up like struck matches.

“No more dances for you,” she murmured, her fingers trailing slowly up my bare chest. “I don’t share.”

“I noticed,” I muttered, flinching slightly as her nails found the spot where my shirt had once been.

She leaned in, her breath brushing the edge of my jaw, lips so close they left heat where they didn’t even touch.

“But the rest of you?” she whispered. “Absolutely worth keeping.”

My heart kicked in my chest like it wanted to leap out and offer itself to her directly.

I was drunk. Definitely drunk.

Every time I thought I’d outplayed her, survived her, maybe even won a little. She reminded me whose game this really was.

All around us, the party surged like a living thing. Shots poured like rain. Dancers flipped and spun from silk ropes above the crowd, their bodies bending like gravity had taken the night off. Laughter rolled through the room in waves. Somewhere in the distance, someone was definitely howling.

And through it all, Ivy stayed curled in my lap. Arms around my neck. Chest pressed tight to mine. Her thighs straddled me like I was the throne and she was born to rule on me. I wrapped an arm around her waist, careful. Trying not to overthink it. But in that moment, surrounded by glowing lights and mythborn madness, breathing in enchanted whiskey, with a Faerie princess draped across me.

I let myself enjoy it.

Ivy shifted in my lap. Her thighs tightened around mine, then her fingers traced lazy shapes on the back of my neck. In the darkness, her eyes shimmered with a faint, molten, and dangerous gold. She leaned in, close enough that her lips brushed my cheek when she spoke.

“You looked good on that stage,” she whispered, low and wicked. “Almost like you belong here.”

I huffed. Half-laugh, half-sigh. “I belong in a quiet bar with cheap beer and a jukebox that only plays George Strait.”

“Mmm,” she purred, dragging her fingers into my hair. “I would look good on you. Why don’t you try me on and see if it’s true?”

That's when I kissed her. Our mouth’s crashed into each other. My hands tightened into her hair. Ivy’s hips shifted, grinding down until every nerve ending in my body went white-hot. My hand found her waist and pulled her tighter. The club vanished. It was just her. Me. And the thunder in our chests. We only broke apart when someone slammed a tray of glowing green shots onto the table beside us and roared, “TO THE COWBOY!”

A cheer followed.

Ivy laughed, still brushing my lips with hers like she hadn’t decided if the kiss was over.

“Drink up, Andrew,” she said.

We each grabbed a shot. Downed it. Then another. The heat didn’t fade. Not even a little. By the time Ivy slid off my lap and tugged me toward the dance floor again, my head was spinning. She pulled me through the haze and light, deeper into the pulsing heart of the club. The music had shifted—slower now, thicker. A bassline you could drown in. Beats that rolled like lovers in the dark.

I stumbled slightly as we moved, caught between gravity and her grip. My boots didn’t know how to dance here, but she did. Her hands found my hips. Mine slid up her back, anchoring me to the only solid thing in a room that felt like it was spinning out of orbit. We moved together like we had before, but now it wasn’t for show.

It was raw.

“Ivy,” I mumbled, the word foggy on my tongue, my voice unsteady. “I think…”

“You’re not done yet,” she said, lips at my ear, voice low and firm like a command.

She grabbed my hand. Dragged me through the crowd like I was tangled in her stirrup, pulling me wherever she wanted. The music blurred behind us. We passed the bar, where a bartender handed me a flaming drink with no explanation. I sent it down on the next table completely baffled. We went down a hallway and turned the corner. She shoved open a sleek black door marked with gold filigree and unfamiliar symbols that shimmered faintly.

The second the door shut, the world calmed. Sound vanished. The pounding bass became a muffled pulse, distant and unreal. Inside, everything was dim and elegant. Heavy red velvet curtains, deep black leather chairs, and golden sconces shaped like twisted vines. The scent of incense and magic soaked into the walls. A massive antique desk loomed near the back, covered in an organized chaos of old books, scattered coins, and melted wax.

I leaned against the wall, panting slightly. Sweat cooling on my skin.

“So…” I said between breaths, “what, you brought me here to…”

She stepped in close. Pressed a finger to my lips.

“Shhh,” she whispered.

Her breath was warm. Her smile was not. She turned. Walked over to the door and waved her hand, a soft click sounded announcing a spell had been cast. Then she turned back.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure what this room was for anymore.

Ivy strolled across the office with a sway in her hips that made it physically impossible to focus on anything else. Her fingers trailed along the desk as she passed it. She leaned over, opened a drawer, and pulled out a tiny glass vial. It was full of something that looked like a kaleidoscope having a glitter-based religious experience. Gold and electric blue dust shimmered inside like bottled starlight. It swirled lazily, like it had thoughts of its own and none of them were innocent.

“This,” she said, turning back to me, eyes already gleaming like a promise, “will get you back on your feet.”

I blinked at her, still catching my breath. Shirtless, half-lost in the warmth of velvet shadows and whatever shot had last tried to assassinate my liver.

“If that’s coke,” I wheezed, “I’m out. I’ve done it a few times. Hated it almost every time.”

Ivy laughed.

“Oh, Andrew,” she purred, producing a crisp hundred-dollar bill from somewhere that made my brain skip a beat. She rolled it with the ease that said I’ve done this at royal courts and after burning kingdoms to the ground. “This isn’t coke. This is Pixie Dust. Naturally harvested. Perfectly safe.”

“Safe?”

“Just don’t do more than one line.”

She laid out two glowing lines across her desk. The powder shimmered like it was catching light that didn’t exist. A warm cosmic highway laid out on oak. Then she leaned down. And snorted it like it was her birthright. Her back arched. Her eyes snapped wide. Gold flared through her pupils, veins of cerulean shimmer threading through the amber like fireworks under glass. She straightened with a breathless moan, eyes dilated into stars.

“Not going to lie… it burns,” she said. “Reserved for endings. Or beginnings, depending on how one breathes it in.”

She extended the rolled bill between her fingers, almost idly.

“A final indulgence, perhaps. Are you willing to take one last reckless choice before the end?” Her eyes gleamed. “You have made quite the impression on me, after all.”

I stared at it, then at her. There was something in her expression, way too composed. And her eyes lingered a fraction too long.

I reached out for the bill.

“Fuck it.”

A half-laugh slipped out of me. She tilted her head, just slightly, as if she already knew what I’d choose.

It hit like unicorn lightning. Just a hot rush of magic that exploded down my spine like a glitter bomb laced with divine energy. It was painful. My heart slammed once, hard enough to wake the dead. Then my lungs turned to champagne. My vision crystalized. My fingertips buzzed like I’d just stuck them in a bucket full of fairies.

I felt good… I felt great!

“Holy shit,” I gasped. “I can taste colors.”

Ivy clapped her hands, eyes alight with wild joy. “There he is! Andrew Peter Nowak, reborn!”

I looked down at my hands, fascinated. She stepped in, brushing a thumb across my cheek. Her touch sent waves through my bloodstream.

“Elaria.” she whispered, eyes gleaming with something ancient and cruel and affectionate all at once. “I want to hear you say it.”

I blinked. My brain short-circuited. The drug’s effect pulsed stronger with every second, a heartbeat of cosmic euphoria pounding behind my eyes.

“Elaria.”

I grabbed her because she was the only thing that felt real to me right now. My lips found hers and we made out like time had been suspended just for us. Her hands in my hair, mine on her waist. When we finally pulled apart, she said nothing. She just held my gaze. Amber eyes, glowing low like coals stirred to life.

I felt a feeling of accomplishment swell in my chest, or maybe it was the Pixie Dust, either way this felt right.

“That’s all you get for now. If you want the rest of my name you'll have to complete the next challenge.”

Elaria grabbed me by the hand and led me back towards the door. I saw fractal patterns in the wood grain. By the time she opened it and pulled me out of her office, I was gliding.

Full-blown, no-holds-barred fae magic scorched the air now. The club had shifted again with the drug's effects. Reality was bending at the edges, like magic was thickening in the air—mixing with perfume, heat, and the soft thump of bass. Dryads and succubi danced on vines that now glowed in pulses to the beat.

“Okay,” I whispered, blinking at a room that felt like it had been reprogrammed while we were gone. “What the actual fuck.”

Elaria kissed me behind the ear.

“The night is just beginning,” she whispered.

“DREW!”

Mike slammed into me like a golden retriever possessed by tequila and questionable life choices. His pupils were saucers. His grin was feral.

“BRO, WHERE’D YOU GO?! YOU MISSED THE DANCING TREE LADY!”

I blinked. “What?”

“DANCING! TREE! LADY!” It gave Larry a lap dance. He cried, then she cried. It was beautiful.”

Before I could even process that image, Nick sprinted by, wearing only an enchanted disco ball helmet and a loincloth.

“THIS PLACE IS THE AMAZING! CAN I JOIN THE ILLUMINATI?!”

Pixies dive-bombed from the chandeliers, hurling glitter bombs and shrieking songs in a language I didn’t recognize. Someone sprayed enchanted foam into the air that shimmered like collapsing stars.

A table caught fire. Everyone cheered.

Elaria pulled me into the chaos, grinding against me like we were performing a mating ritual for an audience of gods.

I kissed her once more.

She bit my lip, hard enough to feel like a promise. Then leaned in close, voice slipping through the noise.

“Still standing, Cowboy?”

I grinned, breath ragged, heart slamming. “Barely. I’m seeing some pretty weird shit right now.”

She cupped my face in both hands. Then pulled back, her smile turned sharp.

“Look at me.”

I stared into her eyes.

“Are you ready for one last challenge?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She stepped away. And behind her, the floor opened.

Not figuratively. Literally.

The entire center of the club split wide, revealing a spiral stone-forged staircase lined with molten brass and glowing runes.

The club erupted into cheers.

Ivy looked down at the staircase. Then back at me. Eyes glittering.

“Time for The Rite of Three Kisses.”

Chapter Fourteen

The stone beneath my boots thrummed with old power. The ancient magic made my molars buzz and my gut wondered if maybe that last tequila shot was a bad idea. The chamber had gone silent. Everyone was watching.

Elaria stood near the steps, radiant and dangerous, the very picture of a divine trap. Her bare feet touched the stone as she began the descent. Her and her voice rang out, clear and commanding.

“This chamber lies at the crossroads of both our realms,” she said. “Sacred ground. A place where the veil is thin and truth finds form. There are many such places like this, and this one is the youngest.”

She raised her hand. Magic flared around her fingers like northern lights. They shot forward leaving her finger tips and began to light every torch lining the walls.

“Tonight, we honor a Sacred Rite. One attempted many times before but never completed. A challenge forged when a Fae woman and human Man first danced beneath the moon. The Rite of Three Kisses.”

We reached the bottom of the staircase. I looked around gazing at the vast emptiness before me. It looked ancient and brand new at the same time. Less like a ruin and more like a temple.

The crowd made their way in behind us. They reacted in two halves. Mike and his dude-bro battalion howled like it was a WWE match. I saw one of them chest bump a dryad. She head-butted him in return. Meanwhile, the supernatural side let out a melodic cheer, something between an elven war song and an all-boys church choir.

The DJ teleported his entire rig into the middle of the chamber with a sound like a dubstep thunderclap. His speakers lit up with glowing runes, pulsing to a rhythm only otherworldly bass could summon. He threw on his shades.

“Y’all ready for the RTK!?” he shouted. “Let’s goooooo!”

The music hit, tribal drums mixed with club synth and the occasional pan flute. Somehow, it worked. I didn’t have time to ask questions. Elaria was already striding toward me, all wings and power and purpose.

“I’ll keep it simple,” she said. “If you complete the Rite of Three Kisses with me, you win this challenge and get my full name.”

She stopped just inches from me. Close enough that her magic clung to the air.

“If not…” she whispered, her fingers grazing mine, “we’ll both be dead.”

“Wait… what?!”

Her golden eyes glittered. “I’m raising the stakes. If you don’t want to go through with the Rite, you forfeit. Simple as that.”

She stepped closer. A little too smug.

“And then? You’re mine.”

I blinked. “What.”

“I need a new male dancer,” she purred. “And a cowboy-themed one would be spectacular.”

My eyes narrowed. “Or?”

“Or,” she said, and the heat dropped from her voice, “you help me do what has never been done before… complete the Ritual of Three Kisses. But if we fail... we die. Both of us.”

I stared at her. “You’re gambling your life on me?”

“I’m confident we’ll succeed.”

She reached out and grabbed my hand. Hers was firm, warm, and pulsing with energy.

“Do you accept?”

I sighed. “Fuck it. Honestly, I was expecting something like this for the finale. Just not you going all in with me.”

I paused. “This isn’t some summoning ritual, right? We’re not calling Cthulhu or whatever?”

Her grip tightened.

“The Rite of Three Kisses was meant to be the foundation of lasting peace between the Mortal and Fae realms,” she said, serious now. “Its stones were laid millennia ago. But the Rite has never been completed.”

“And now?”

She looked at me with a calm resolve, and for the first time—despite the green skin and Faerie wings—Elaria looked human.

“Now our worlds are on a collision course. Together,” she said, “we might be able to stop it.”

“What happens after the ritual?” I asked, not letting go of her hand.

Elaria’s gaze didn’t waver. “Magic that has lain dormant since our world’s first touched will begin to awaken again. Slowly, it will strengthen the old bridges, calm the tensions threatening to erupt and consume us both.”

Her voice dropped, softer now, earnest in a way I wasn’t used to from her.

“I will be free of a commitment I did not choose for myself. And so will you.”

She stepped closer, her wings catching the light like stained glass in motion.

“We’ll both be free. And equal.”

I stared at her. Waiting for the catch. The claws hidden in the velvet. I thought for a long moment, turning it over in my head like a puzzle I hadn’t quite solved. There had to be a loophole. There had to be. It seemed too good to be true. But then I looked at her again. The vulnerability she wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. Why would she put her life on the line?

If I forfeit, I'll be the new addition to the strip club’s line-up. Also she could probably just force me to do it anyways.

If we fail the “Rite”, nothing will matter. We both will be dead.

If I succeed, we bring Peace to both our worlds. Or so she says.

I only have one option.

“I accept,” I whispered.

And the magic stirred. Light bloomed and two ribbons spiraled from around us. Twin strands of living magic, one gold and the other soft, silvery white. They unfurled at once, dancing through the air like twin serpents, weaving between us with fluid, hypnotic grace. They circled our bodies, never touching, never tangling, and always in motion. One dipped low, tracing my legs. The other skimmed across her shoulder. They shimmered, weightless and glowing, twisting together in elegant arcs like a dance choreographed by the wind.

They met with a soft spark of magic and a sound like a sigh, the two ribbons twined together, finally one. And they wrapped around us. Around our waists, a slow, deliberate binding. Around our wrists, coiling gently, linking her to me with a few feet of shimmering slack. Not tight but connected. Then the ribbon pulsed, once, like a heartbeat between us. Signaling the bond was complete.

“...This feels like a bad idea,” I muttered.

“Only if we lose.”

A portal ripped open in the wall behind her. Trees. Glowing moss. A path that twisted in ways that didn’t respect the concept of geometry.

“The First Kiss lies in the Fae realm,” she said, smiling sweetly.

I stared into the portal.

“I barely made it outta West Texas,” I said. “Vegas already feels like Mars. Now I’m leaving the realm?”

“Brave little cowboy,” she purred. “You’ll do fine.”

“I don’t even have underwear on.”

“And neither do I…”

The crowd lost it. Mike shouted something about “ride the snake” and took a shot straight from a waitress tray.

“I… hey, wait… ” I stammered as Elaria pulled on the ribbon, the thread tugging my arm with a magical yank that no mortal man could fight.

I stumbled forward. Right into the portal. And just like that, I left Earth behind, dragged into Disneyhell.

The air hit me first, sweet and sharp, like someone had spiked springtime with cupcakes. The portal spat us out onto a mossy path that shimmered with a soft green glow. Trees taller than buildings twisted toward the sky, their bark glowing faintly like they’d swallowed stars. Fireflies the size of pecans blinked lazily through the air, and somewhere in the distance, something laughed like it had never been sad a day in its life.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Oh hell no,” I said.

Elaria didn’t even look back. She was already six paces ahead, tugging the ribbon between us.

“Keep up, cowboy! The forest is shy. If we stand still too long, it’ll move around just to mess with us.”

“Shy?” I looked around. “This place feels like it’s staring at me.”

“It is.”

“Oh. Good.”

The ribbon tugged harder. “Drew,” she called, dragging out the vowels. “You’re supposed to walk.”

“I am walking. I’m just… marveling.”

“At a tree?”

“At that tree,” I said, pointing. “It smiled and waved at me….”

“It does that if it likes you.”

“That’s not comforting, Elaria.”

She turned, walking backwards with that infuriatingly graceful stride, letting the ribbon stretch between us like a leash. “You’re adorable when you’re overwhelmed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed.”

“You’re gawking at leaves.”

“They’re glowing!”

She reached me in two steps, face just inches from mine, her voice a playful whisper. “You know… you can gawk at me, too.”

“Yeah, I’m trying not to get turned into a frog,” I muttered.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said, brushing a glowing leaf off my shoulder, “that only happens if you kiss the wrong girl.”

“And you’re the right one?”

“You haven’t turned into a frog yet...”

I swallowed and took a careful step forward. “You’re enjoying this.”

“You are too.”

Then she tugged the enchanted rope, pulling me along like an unruly kid at Walmart. The path ahead shimmered, trees shifted positions like dancers taking their mark. Stones whispered riddles I couldn’t quite hear, like someone muttering secrets behind a wall. A small wooden sign twisted itself into view with scratchy lettering.

“ENTRY AHEAD: ONE PATH. TWO SOULS. STAY TOGETHER OR LOSE YOUR WAY.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” I said.

“It’s not supposed to be. It’s just instructions.” Elaria smiled. “Fae design everything like it’s a riddle. We think it’s charming.”

I stared at the sign, then back at her. “You guys ever heard of plain English?”

“We invented poetry, darling.”

I turned my eyes back to the shimmering trail.

“You sure this is safe?”

“No.”

She reached out and took my hand, no ribbon magic this time. Just warm fingers curling around mine.

“I’ll guide you. You just have to trust me.”

“I did that once already. That’s how I ended up here.”

“And yet…” she said, brushing close enough for her lips to graze my cheek, “you haven’t run. It’s not like you haven’t had more than enough chances to.”

I looked at her. Really looked.

“I don’t run,” I said. “I get stubborn.”

“Perfect,” she whispered, giving the ribbon a tug again. “You’ll need that.”

We stepped through the archway of shifting trees, and the forest swallowed us whole. The path narrowed until it wasn’t a path at all, just a ledge overlooking a wide chasm. Below, there was… nothing. Not dark, just absence of anything. Like the world had decided to take a break and left this part unfinished.

I leaned forward and squinted. “Is that bottomless?”

“Only if you fall,” Elaria said, chipper.

“Again with the comforting.”

She gestured ahead. There were thick, twisting vines that glowed with that same Fae bioluminescence of Elaria's skin. They hung from trees that arched over the chasm. They swayed gently, too evenly for there to be wind.

“Have you ever watched Tarzan?” she asked.

“I ride bulls, not vines.”

“Same principle. Except if you miss, you don’t get trampled, you get erased from existence.”

“...Cool. Cool cool cool.”

The ribbon between us shimmered, reminding me that, yeah, we were still magically leashed together. It pulsed like it was excited.

I took a breath. “Okay, what’s the move?”

Elaria walked to the edge and stretched one arm high. A vine curved down like a snake recognizing its handler. She gave it a tug, and it purred.

“Of course it purrs,” I said.

“You ready, cowboy?” she asked, flashing a grin. “We have to swing together. If one of us hesitates or moves too fast, the ribbon might snap.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Snap off?”

“No, snap us back together. Then we’ll probably fall Into a endless void where we will either cease to be or in freefall for an endless eternity.”

“Fantastic.”

She tossed me the vine, and I caught it.

“We jump on three,” she said. “Together.”

“Fine. One… two…”

She yanked the vine and launched herself.

“THREE!”

“DAMMIT, Elaria!”

The ribbon yanked me forward like a cartoon idiot. I barely managed to grab the vine, legs flailing as I crashed into her midair.

“Hi there,” she said sweetly, her body pressed to mine as we swung in perfect, terrifying harmony over the void.

“You said three!”

“I lied.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Her breath ghosted across my ear. “I hope not. That would really ruin the mood.”

We hit the other side with a jolt. I landed flat on my back, Elaria somehow perfectly balanced on her feet like this was her version of a light jog. I untangled the magic ribbon from my arm. I sat up, panting.

“This thing’s gonna choke me by the end.”

She offered her hand, smug as hell. “That’s the spirit.”

The second I stood up, a gust of wind ripped past us, sharp and sudden. My hat flew off. Right into the chasm. I watched it twirl, tumble, and vanish into the abyss like some dramatic Mexican soap opera death. I just stood there, stunned, hand still half-reached toward the sky.

“…No.”

Elaria turned, saw my face, then looked down into the void. “Oh. That sucks.”

“It was the hat,” I muttered. “The hat, Elaria.”

“Andrew,” she said, grinning, “we’re in a magical forest filled with things that literally grow their own accessories. I’m sure we can find you a tree that can grow you another hat.”

“My dad gave me that hat….”

“You sound like someone writing love letters to their laundry.”

I didn’t answer. I don’t think it’s something a Fae could understand.

Eventually, we moved on. Well, she moved. I got yanked along by the stupid, enchanted ribbon again. I didn't have much time to brew because we reached the next part of the course.

“Mushrooms,” I said flatly.

“Very bouncy ones,” Elaria replied, hands on her hips like this was her favorite video game level.

The path ahead was a series of massive mushrooms. Each one the size of a trampoline, red and white spotted caps wobbling gently with the breeze. They pulsed like they had heartbeats, and I was not a fan.

“I’m not jumping on mushrooms.”

I looked at the nearest mushroom. It quivered.

“This feels wrong.”

Before I could protest more, Elaria took a running leap, landed on the first mushroom, and launched upward like a magical cannonball. She laughed the whole way up. I didn’t have much time until the ribbon jerked me up with her.

I took a breath. Backed up a step. Ran. And instantly regretted everything. The mushroom flung me straight into the sky. I passed Elaria midair.

“Why is it so much stronger for me?!” I yelled as I rocketed past.

“Because it doesn’t like complainers!” she shouted, spinning like an acrobat.

Then I started falling. Fast. The ground rushed toward me, and there was nothing soft in sight. Just dirt and roots and the vague outline of my own grave.

“This is it,” I whispered. “This is how I die. Splatting in fairyland. Without my hat.”

I hit.

Like plopped. Gentle as landing on a pile of fresh laundry. I blinked. My ribs still worked. My spine wasn’t jelly. No broken bones. Just a face full of moss and pride.

Elaria landed next to me with her toes touching the grass first. The other leg was raised in a graceful ballerina-like pose, not even winded. Of course.

She burst out laughing. “Oh gods, your face! You looked like you were about to meet your maker.”

“I was!”

“You forget,” she said, brushing herself off, “this is the Fae realm. Gravity’s just a suggestion.”

I sat up, covered in glitter spores and shame. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I warned you. I told you not to complain.”

We looked up. A tall cliff loomed ahead, the mushrooms leading the way like stairs for the demented.

“Ready to work together this time?” she asked, offering her hand.

“Can’t you just fly me up?” I said while grabbing it.

“No, you're too heavy. And I can't use magic, remember?”

I groaned. “Fine.”

We leapt. This time, in sync. And slowly, bounce by bounce, curse by curse, laugh by laugh, we made our way to the top. We landed together on the final mushroom, which gave one last defiant, boing!, before launching us onto solid ground.

Well, mostly solid. I face planted into a bed of moss. Elaria, naturally, landed like she’d just stepped off a fashion runway again.

“I think I’m getting worse at this,” I grumbled, spitting out a leaf.

She knelt beside me, eyes glittering. “You’re just more memorable about it.”

“Great. Put that on my tombstone.”

The wind at the top of the cliff was cool and gentle, carrying the faint scent of lilac and something I couldn’t name but immediately associated with her now. That smell you never forget but can’t bottle.

I looked out over the landscape we’d just crossed. Glowing mushrooms, bottomless chasms, and glowing vines. Somewhere below, my hat was probably still spinning in the void.

“I miss that hat,” I muttered.

Elaria’s voice was softer now. “You looked good in it.”

I turned to her. She was closer than I expected, close enough I could see the starlight dancing in her eyes. The faint shimmer of magic at the corner of her smile.

“I still look good without it,” I said.

“You do,” she agreed. Then added, “But it was charming. Very grumpy cowboy. Now you're just very grumpy.”

She laughed.

I shifted slightly, not away. Just enough to notice how close we really were. “You always drag men into surreal forest obstacle courses, or am I special?”

Elaria tilted her head. “Very special.”

I raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed.

“I don’t do this kind of thing. I never in my life thought I would.”

The bridge ahead looked deceptively peaceful from a distance. Wooden planks, thick rope railings, mist rising around us like silk. The waterfall beside us thundered down into the chasm below, its roar filling the air like applause from an invisible audience.

I took one step onto the bridge. It groaned under my weight, dramatically, like a stage actor.

I glanced at Elaria. “This thing gonna hold?”

“It’s Fae-forged,” she said, stepping beside me. “It’ll hold. Probably.”

“Probably,” I muttered. “Love that.”

Halfway across, something changed. The air grew still. The mist thickened.

Boom. Boom. BOOM…

Three massive trolls emerged from the mist ahead, like they’d grown from the stone itself. They slammed down onto the bridge in front of us, blocking the way with a giant, mossy bulk.

I stumbled back. “Oh, come on.”

Behind us, the planks curled upward, twisting and snapping into jagged thorns. The way back was gone.

“We have rule,” rumbled one of the trolls in broken, gravel-thick English. He had a squash-shaped nose and shoulders like boulders.

“Bridge not free,” said another, his three eyes glowing dimly.

“You cross with secrets?” growled the third. One of his fists was significantly larger than the other, and it seemed absolutely fine with it. “Then you fall with lies.”

Elaria stepped forward, her expression tightening. “Judges of Truth.”

“Yehhh,” said Squash-Nose. “Very smart Fae girl. You know what come next.”

The trolls shifted, placing massive fists down and shaking the entire bridge. The waterfall behind us boomed.

“You answer question,” said Three-Eyes. “About you. No trick. We ask what live in soul.”

I looked at Elaria. “Tell me they’re bluffing.”

She shook her head once. “They’re not.”

“If I answer wrong…”

“If either of us answers dishonesty, we fall,” she said, voice steady. “Together.”

The ribbon shimmered like it knew. Fae magic didn’t care about fairness.

“Questions… from heart,” said Hammer-Fist. “You lie? You die.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Just a casual death bridge. No pressure.”

The trolls began to argue in guttural tones, occasionally switching languages I didn’t understand. Bits of broken English came through:

“Ask why he fear touch…”

“Ask what she feel when he smile…”

I cleared my throat. “I’ll go first.”

They stopped. Turned.

Elaria blinked. “Andrew…”

“I volunteered,” I said, louder. “Ask your question.”

The trolls leaned together, whispering, three stone heads huddled like malicious schoolchildren. The bridge swayed gently under our feet, mist curling around our legs like it was listening.

“Ask him what lie he tell to brother.”

“No, what pain he keep in chest.”

Then Squash-Nose grunted. His eyes locked onto mine, stone gray and unnervingly sharp.

“You,” he rumbled. “What is truth you hope no one ever believe?”

I felt the rope around my wrist pulse, like it was listening too. Elaria stilled beside me. Her eyes flicked to mine, then down to where our hands almost touched.

The bridge was silent. The waterfall was muted now. I stood there, heart thudding against my ribs, thinking about how many times I’d told that lie. That I was fine alone and didn’t need anyone. That solitude wasn’t just a choice because it was safer. I looked straight at the troll.

“…That I’m better off alone.”

The words didn’t echo, but they didn’t need to. The trolls went still. Elaria’s eyes widened, just slightly. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something. But she didn’t. She just looked at me. The ribbon between us pulsed again. More bright this time.

The trolls nodded.

“Truth,” said Three-Eyes.

“Deep truth,” muttered Hammer-Fist.

Squash-Nose leaned back. “You may live. For now.”

The bridge creaked forward, more of the path revealing itself behind them.

But I barely heard it. Because Elaria was still looking at me. That soft, unreadable expression on her face. She didn’t smile. But she reached out, just a little, and her pinky brushed mine. And I didn’t move away.

With a groan, their heavy bodies shifted as the trolls turned from me to the glowing ribbon that still bound us. The waterfall thundered beside us again. The mist rolled thicker now, coiling around our ankles like smoke.

Then Squash-Nose leaned forward again.

“Next truth,” he said, thick tongue wrestling with the words. “One of you… must speak.”

Three-Eyes added, “Volunteer step forward. No hiding.”

I opened my mouth. But Elaria beat me to it.

“I will go next,” she said, firm and clear.

My head turned sharply. “Elaria…”

She held up her hand. “Trust me.”

Even the trolls looked a little surprised. The three of them hunched again, mumbling in that broken, ancient cadence.

“Ask her why she fake being happy.”

“No, ask about mother. Ask about her oath.”

“Ask what she fear he see in her…”

Squash-Nose rose higher, looming shadows draping across his rocky face.

“What truth,” he growled, “would you die to keep buried?”

Silence.

Elaria stood still. She didn’t answer. Not yet. She looked at the trolls. Then slowly she turned to me. Our eyes locked. The mist hung heavy around us. Elaria’s gaze stayed locked on mine, even as her fingers trembled slightly where the ribbon touched her wrist.

The trolls waited, silent now. Watchful. Their job wasn’t to pressure, only to listen and judge the truth.

Elaria’s lips parted, and at first, no sound came. Then, softly, like she was confessing to the wind.

“…That I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone without trying to control them.”

The steady, endless waterfall was the only sound, as if it was the only thing here pretending it hadn’t heard a forbidden secret.

Elaria stood still. Her chin high. Her eyes unblinking. But I could see it the way her jaw clenched. The way she braced, like the truth, might slap her back.

I didn’t speak, or try to soften it. Because damn if I didn’t get it.

The trolls finally moved, slowly, like stone coming back to life.

“Truth,” said Three-Eyes, his voice almost gentle.

“Painful truth,” murmured Hammer-Fist.

The mist thickened as the trolls rumbled again.

“One more question,” said Hammer-Fist, smacking his lips. “One more truth.”

“We choose last pick.” said Squash-Nose. “Who has more to hide?”

Three-Eyes lifted his hand. “The man goes again.”

Elaria inhaled beside me, already opening her mouth to speak. But I reached out and took her hand. She froze.

“I’ll do it,” I mumbled. “I want to.”

Her eyes locked on mine. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, slowly she nodded.

I stepped forward.

The trolls leaned into another huddle, murmuring in languages I couldn’t place. A few guttural laughs. One sounded like it choked on a rock. Then Squash-Nose straightened and stared straight through me. His voice rumbled low, deep in my chest like thunder underground.

“What thing you love in them… but fear they see, and hate?”

The world went silent. Even the waterfall. I didn’t look at the trolls. I didn’t look down at the ribbon or at the planks or at the nothingness below us.

I turned. And looked at her. Elaria. Fae princess. Liar. Trickster. Firestarter. But not now. Now she was still. Watching me like I might disappear if she blinked.

The ribbon between us hummed.

“Their need,” I said. “They try to hide it behind pride or snark or silence, but it’s there. A quiet ache to be wanted.”

The bridge creaked. I didn’t stop.

“I love it because I feel it too. Because I know what it means to look like you’ve got everything handled and still feel like something’s missing.”

The trolls leaned in.

“And I know,” I said, “if they ever saw that part of themselves, really saw it… they’d call it weakness. And they’d hate it. Try to kill it. Just to stay in control.”

The words landed. Elaria didn’t move. But something in her face, something fragile, cracked open.

The trolls stepped aside. One by one.

“Truth,” said Squash-Nose, softer now.

“Real truth,” murmured Three-Eyes.

Hammer-Fist gave a slow, solemn nod. “Go. Bridge is passed.”

The path beyond shimmered into view. Clear. Solid.

I turned to Elaria. She didn’t say anything. Not right away.

“…Andrew.”

She just reached out, took my hand and held on.

“We did it.”

“You know,” I said, voice low, “I’ve been told I’m damn hard to control.”

That broke something in her face. Not a smile. Not quite. But something lighter. We crossed the bridge together.

It had been a steep, winding climb, full of more magical nonsense than I’d ever care to see again. The air was thin up here. Shimmering with golden mist, wind whispering secrets through the rocks. The trees had vanished, replaced by sky and stone and silence.

And at the peak stood a single altar. Cracked with age, but still pulsing faintly with power, like the heart of the mountain lived inside it. Elaria and I approached together, our footsteps slow, careful, synced without trying. The ribbon between us tugged one last time, as if urging us forward. We both reached out and touched the altar at the exact same moment.

Magic surged.

A warm rush of energy wrapped around us like sunlight on skin, and the ribbon shimmered bright gold for a second, curling between our wrists like it was holding its breath. Then it grew taught and shortened the distance between us. Pulling her just a bit closer to me.

I looked at her, breathing hard.

“I gotta say,” I muttered, “That was almost fun.”

Before I could finish, Elaria grabbed the ribbon with both hands, yanked hard—l and pulled me straight into her. She kissed me. No warning. Just lips on mine, warm and certain. The world spun. And suddenly we were back in the stone chamber.

The music crashed back into existence. The crowd erupted. Humans on one side whooping, cheering, clapping like I’d just won a rodeo championship. Supernaturals on the other side letting out a melodic howl of approval, throwing petals, sparks, confetti—or, in the case of one satyr, underwear.

Mike was screaming at the top of his lungs. “YEAH, BABY! THAT’S MY BROTHER-IN-LAW!!”

Chapter Fifteen

The kiss had barely ended before the room exploded. Music blasted through the chamber. The DJ stood behind his glowing setup with his arms raised and cloak billowing dramatically despite there being no wind whatsoever.

“LADIES AND GENTLECREATURES!” he roared, voice echoing over the sound system. “WE GOT A COMPLETION, A CONSUMMATION, A FULL-ON FIRST KISS RIGHT HERE! THE FIRST IN HISTORY!”

The crowd went wild again. The dryads started a conga line. A gnome fell off a table from excitement and was immediately picked up by a troll like a proud uncle.

I blinked. Still dizzy. Still tasting Elaria on my lips.

“That’s it?” I asked, turning to her. “That was the final challenge?”

Elaria’s smile turned feline. “Oh, honey… no.”

The music shifted, the bass dropping into something smoother, more ethereal. The lights dimmed slightly as the DJ raised one hand, his voice suddenly more reverent.

“And now,” he said, “the second part begins! ARE YOU READY!!!!”

The chamber quieted, breath held as the magical tension coiled again. He pointed dramatically. Straight at us.

“WELCOME,” he cried, “TO THE GARDEN OF MEMORY!”

The stone wall behind the altar split open like the world cracked with gentle hands. Vines, glowing with soft green light, curled out. Flowers bloomed in fast-forward. A breeze that smelled like forgotten spring drifted through. A new portal.

Elaria’s grip on my wrist tightened.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

She didn’t smile this time.

“Memories.”

“Yours?”

“Ours.”

The crowd fell silent, watching. I looked at the portal. Then at her. Together we both took a step forward. The air changed just like before. Only now it was warm and cool at the same time. The portal closed behind us with a soft sigh, and we stood in silence.

And before us was impossibility.

Gardens, yes, but not like anything I’d seen on Earth. Paths wound upward along vertical planes, then bent sideways without breaking. Stairs led nowhere, then looped back into themselves. Water ran uphill through golden aqueducts before falling gently into pools that reflected stars not visible in the sky. The place stretched out like a tesseract wrapped in vines, endless and enclosed all at once.

Plants were everywhere. Some vines were vibrant and pulsing with life, flowers blooming in slow, rhythmic pulses like they were breathing. Others were bare, brittle. Dead, but still clinging. Tangled around statues with no faces, cracked mirrors, empty benches facing nothing.

Elaria stood beside me, quiet. Her gaze swept across the surreal landscape.

“What is this place?” I asked.

Her voice was soft. “It’s… the inside of our heads.”

I frowned. “You wanna run that by me again?”

She walked forward, fingers brushing the petals of a nearby flower, blue and burning with a faint magical light. The further we walked, the quieter the world became. The strange geometry of the garden began to settle, the spiraling paths and impossible arches fading behind us like a dream losing form.

Ahead, the air thickened with stillness.

We stepped into a small clearing, a perfect circle of white grass surrounded by silver-barked leafless trees. The trunks curved inward, their branches meeting high above in a woven canopy, glowing faintly like starlight caught in crystal.

In the center of the grove grew three flowerbeds, arranged in a triangle. Each was filled with blooms that pulsed with magic. One glowed bright gold. One was dull, gray, and thorned. The last flickered, on the verge of dying for one second. Alive and vibrant, the next. Their petals whispered when the wind moved through them.

Then a voice rose from the trees. It spoke not from above or below, but from within, a whisper in my bones, a memory in my blood.

“This is your grove. Where truth takes root, and memory bears fruit. Each of you must choose three. One to Share. One to Steal. One to Give.”

The flowers and grass around us stirred.

“Share your pain. Show them the moment that shaped your deepest wound.”

“Steal their fear. Without words, without permission, you will walk the shadow they tried to hide.”

“Give your joy. Offer the memory that made you feel most alive. You will live it together. And then… you will forget it.”

Elaria didn’t move. Her gaze lingered on a bloom trembling with silver light. Her lips parted like she might speak, but she didn’t.

I looked at the flowerbeds. Each bloom shimmered faintly now, calling to us. Some I recognized instinctually, whispers calling to me from the back of my mind whenever I focus on a specific flower.

The wind rustled through the trees again, and this time, the voice was only for me. Or maybe for both of us.

“Share your Pain.”

I stood beside Elaria in the soft white grass, the strange stillness of the sacred grove pressing in from all sides. Even the air felt fragile here—like if we spoke too loud, the entire place might shatter into light. Her eyes stayed on the flowerbeds, unreadable.

“So,” I said softly, “how do we do this?”

She was quiet for a beat. “Together. But… one at a time.”

“Take turns?”

Elaria nodded, then stepped toward the flower beds, bare feet whispering across the white grass. I followed. Her eyes were fixed, searching. The flowers rustled softly, as if they felt us coming. I crouched, fingers hovering over several options. One looked like it had once been a rose. Another like a child’s drawing of a dead daisy.

Then I saw it.

I reached for it. The thorn bit deep, sharper than I expected. A sting of blood welled up bright against my skin. It felt heavy in my hand.

“This one might be kinda boring,” I whispered.

My voice cracked a little.

“But it was the worst night of my life.”

The petals began to fall. Not all at once, just the edges at first, curling outward like they knew what was coming. Like they were running from it.

“It was just a Sunday.”

The memory bloomed.

We were on the couch, me and Mike. Back when he was still small enough to fall asleep with his head on my shoulder and not be embarrassed about it. His hair smelled like pepperoni pizza and grass. Super Troopers played on DVD. The movie had ended an hour ago, but the menu kept looping. That same stupid revving engine, gunshots, and police radio chatter playing over and over like a joke that had stopped being funny an hour ago. We’d rented it from Blockbuster that afternoon. Grabbed a pepperoni pizza from Luigi’s. Waited for Mom and my stepdad to get back from Dallas.

They said midnight. Maybe earlier.

Mike wanted to wait up. Made it to about eleven before he crashed, curled up under my Dad’s old quilt. I remember thinking he looked like a burrito with limbs. I tried to stay awake too. I wanted to be the one who greeted them. Help carry in their bags. Tell them I’d remembered to feed the dogs this time. But I dozed off somewhere around the third rewatch and the last slice of cold pizza. The menu kept spinning. Looping into the dark.

Then the phone rang. That big beige landline on the kitchen wall. With the long, tangled cord that always caught on the counter.

I woke up slowly. Confused. The clock on the end table read 2:07 AM.

Mike stirred but didn’t wake. I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Sergeant Delgado with the Abilene Police Department. Am I speaking to the legal next of kin for Ashley and Brian Callahan?”

“…Yeah. I’m their son. Andrew. What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry to inform you there was a motor vehicle accident earlier this evening involving your mother and father. Their vehicle was struck by a semi truck that crossed the center line on Highway 283. The other driver was suspected to be under the influence.”

“What? Are they…”

“They were both pronounced dead at the scene, I’m really sorry, son.”

Silence.

“They were coming back from Dallas. They were supposed to be…”

“I understand. I wish I had better news. But I want you to know it was quick. There’s no sign they suffered.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

“Are you there?”

My throat locked up. I just stood there, still holding the phone like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Hello? Are you somewhere safe right now?”

“…Yeah. I’m here.”

“Do you have someone with you? A relative or friend?”

I nodded before I remembered he couldn’t see me.

“…Yes. My… brother and grandmother.”

“I’m very sorry, son. If you need help making arrangements or someone to talk to, we can provide resources.”

I didn’t answer. I just stood there. The call went on, but I didn’t hear much after that.

Babcia came in, my grandmother. Small, but built like iron. She wore a faded pink robe, matching slippers, and that old paisley scarf she tied over her hair at night.

“Andrzejku,” she said softly, narrowing her eyes. “Who is calling? What’s wrong?”

I looked up at her. I couldn’t form the words.

She took the phone from my hand. Her voice was calm at first. She spoke in Polish, her comfort zone. Then she shifted into the careful, halting English she’d spent years forcing herself to learn, one sentence at a time. But whatever the sergeant said to her, she understood. Her knees buckled. Just gave out. She dropped the phone and crumpled to the floor right there in the kitchen doorway.

Mike started crying then.

I didn’t. I just stood there, staring at the receiver as it spun in slow circles on the tile. The plastic scraped the grout every time it turned.

And in the background, Super Troopers kept playing. That stupid engine. Those fake gunshots. That police radio chatter on a loop like the universe hadn’t noticed we’d just lost everything.

It used to be my favorite movie. Now I can’t bare to watch it ever again.

The last petal crumbled to ash in my palm. I looked up.

Elaria hadn’t moved. But her eyes shimmered. Her lips parted like she might speak, but she didn’t. She just stood in the golden light with her hands clenched at her sides, as if the memory had taken root in her too.

Because now it did.

The memory faded like smoke. We were back in the grove. The flower was gone.

Elaria just looked at me—eyes wide, glassy, like she was seeing something she didn’t expect. Her fingers tightened around the memory bloom she’d chosen earlier. It was dull. Petals like old ash.

A terrible memory, no doubt.

But she didn’t hand it to me. Instead, she knelt. And with a slow, shaking breath, she set the flower down in the grass. Then turned away from it. And picked another. Shriveled and blackened at the edges. Covered in jagged thorns. She held it like it might crumble in her palm. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She stepped toward me, bare feet silent in the grass, and pressed the memory into my hand without a word.

I looked down at it. Felt the cold through my skin. She was silent for a long time. Then her voice, low and distant.

“My Coronation as Princess of the Summer Court.”

Elaria's gaze stayed fixed on the flower, not on me. The petals shimmered, then bloomed with light, and the memory began.

It started in splendor.

A grand banquet sprawled beneath a canopy of ancient trees, their leaves shimmering with moonlight and magic. The forest grove pulsed with life. Lanterns of glowing fruit hanging from the branches, casting soft hues of emerald, gold, and violet over the revelers below. Fireflies drifted like falling stars, and the ground glowed faintly beneath the moss, alive with some quiet, ancient enchantment.

It was a feast of balance.

Summer and Winter mingled. Two opposing courts playing nice, for now. Fae of sun-kissed skin and laughter like wildfire danced beside pale figures wrapped in frost and silk, their eyes of starlight. Laughter rang like chimes caught in a breeze, underscored by music that seemed to rise from the very trees themselves. Harps strung with silver hair, hollow gourds that sang when touched, and a flute played by something with more fingers than notes.

And Elaria stood at the center of it all. Not as she was now, but younger, barely more than a teenager. Her moss-green hair was cropped short, tousled in wild waves, crowned with a halo of living blooms and delicate blue icicles that glittered like frozen tears. A child of both courts. Summer’s warmth and Winter’s chill stitched into her very soul.

Her gown shimmered like dew before dawn, shifting from deep green to glacial silver as she stepped through patches of dappled moonlight and torch-glow. Fabric flowed around her like mist caught in a dream. And her wings, smaller than they’d one day become, still pulsed with the same vibrant hues I’d only glimpsed before. Purple and pink, glowing like twilight, caught in motion, impossibly elegant.

At first, it was perfect. The kind of perfect that only lives in fairy tales and lies. But then the rhythm shifted. The harmony soured by degrees. Harp strings twanged too sharp. Violin notes dipped too low. Laughter echoed too long, then cracked. A pair of dancers twirled faster, their grace unraveled into something feverish.

Eyes turned toward Elaria. Stares that lingered. The flowers in her crown wilted. One by one. The icicles melted, slushing down her temples. Somewhere near the dais, a goblet tipped. Red wine spilled across the marble like blood.

Elaria stepped back. The circle had already closed. Figures surrounded her.

Their masks grinned, wide and wrong. Burning eyes gleamed through slits that were too narrow. Fingers shimmered with rings, nails sharp and glassy. Glamour clung to them like oil, like skin that didn’t fit right. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came.

Then they reached for her. One hand. Then another. Her gown tore at the seams. Silk shredded like paper. The sound of it ripping was louder than the music. She screamed and her wings flared, glowing with panic. But they only laughed. Dozens of them. Dozens of hands. Until there was nothing left but skin.

She tried to say no. She tried to beg. But no one listened.

At the far end of the hall, her mother and father watched from their thrones. Their expressions serene. Detached. As if this, too, was part of the script. Another ritual. Another season. Just a daughter breaking under tradition, like sunrise cracking across a frozen lake.

The forest grove faded. The music stuttered, slowed, and died. Elaria stood in the garden again. Still looking down at the flower. Watching it decay into nothing.

“My Coronation as my mother's successor. Held in the Court of Frost and Flame. The Summer court hosted. The Winter court attended.”

A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips.

“They poured the wine early. Laced with something meant to dull the mind. We called it snowfruit—sweet, gentle, and quiet. It makes your limbs soft. Makes you forget how to say no.”

Her voice didn’t break. But her hands did. The petals of the bloom crumpled slightly under her grip. It dropped to a whisper.

“After that night she said I became worthy of being her proper heir. The first step before I became a player on the grand board of Fae politics.”

She looked down at the flower in her hand.

“But I remember it as the night I stopped being a child. That was when I saw my mother for who she truly was.”

The bloom wilted completely in her grip, its petals collapsing inward like a breath held too long. Then crumbling to dust between her fingers. Dust on the wind.

I didn’t speak. Because there was nothing to say that would make it better. No words that could stitch up the wound still bleeding behind her eyes.

I felt her pain like it was carved into my own brain now. The memories lived in me now. I felt their hands on a body that wasn’t mine. Fingers on my throat. Lips on my breasts. The wine in her story wasn't an exaggeration. It numbed, dulled, but not enough. The worst parts still made it through. And when they did, the rage inside me came with it.

I reached for her. Because arms were all I had. I pulled her into me and we just held.

The voice rang out, louder this time. Heavier. Like stone grinding against bone.

“Steal their fear. Without words, without permission, you will walk the shadow they tried to hide.”

A chill scraped down my spine.

“So… what, we just pick one?” I asked, my voice sounding too human in this place. Too small.

“Yes,” Elaria said softly, nodding once. “One of the flickering ones.”

I followed her gaze to the patch of strange flowers a few feet away, if you could even call them flowers. They shimmered in and out of focus, stuttering like bad video feed. Glitching between bloom and decay. Petals turned black and withered, then suddenly whole again, vibrant and trembling.

“I guess I’ll go first again,” I muttered.

I stepped toward them, each footfall muffled by the thick moss carpeting the grove floor. The closer I got, the more wrong they felt. Each one pulsed in rhythms that didn’t sync with anything living.

I looked down. Picked a flower that flickered hardest, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be alive or forgotten. My fingers brushed its trembling petals. They were warm. Damp with something that wasn’t dew. And then I plucked it. The stem gave with a whispering snap, and for a heartbeat the world shivered.

I turned, walked back to her. My hand extended, the flower nestled in my palm. She reached out. I placed it in her hand, and whatever fear she thought she’d buried began to bloom.

The vision bloomed like a memory that didn’t belong to me.

A castle of living wood and woven light rose into the sky, endless and impossible. A single colossal tree, thick as a mountain and old as the stars. Its bark was etched with glowing runes that pulsed like the heartbeat of the world. Its hollow trunk opened into cathedral-sized chambers, while branches cradled bridges, balconies, and spiraling towers wrapped in mist. Palaces bloomed from flowering vines and sunlit glass.

Inside the main hall, golden light filtered through the canopy above, casting long bars across polished bark and rich silks.

The Court was in session.

Fae nobles lounged on thrones carved from petals and hammocks strung from moon-thread. Some looked bored. Others predatory. The floor itself pulsed faintly beneath their feet—living roots, twitching as if they were listening. The walls shimmered with Elaria and flowers that turned toward the speakers like eavesdropping schoolgirls.

At the far end, beneath a hanging crown of crystal and thorn, stood the throne.

Titania, Queen of Summer, was standing with Elaria. She was younger here. Not much. But enough to notice. Her wings were smaller. Her stance, just a little more rigid. And her eyes still held something fragile, not innocence, but hope.

The kind that’s about to be crushed.

They were arguing.

Titania stood, tall and blinding, her golden wings catching the light like wildfire ready to leap. She had tricked her. That much was obvious.

Elaria had competed against sisters, and she’d won. Fought harder, reached higher. She earned this moment and this title.

And now it was being twisted into chains that bound her.

Elaria stood stiff, fists clenched so tight her nails broke skin. Magic crackled around her body.

“I will not become you.”

Titania didn’t blink. Her answer came cold.

“This is what you asked for,” she said. “You fought. You won. You chose this path. And now you scorn the prize now that you won?”

“You lied,” Elaria said, louder now. “You never told me the price.”

“I never lied,” Titania said. “You will take my place just as I took my mother’s. That's what I told you. That is the truth, daughter.”

Something inside Elaria shattered. Her wings twitched. The light bent around her, warped by emotion she couldn’t name and didn’t want.

“I WILL NOT BECOME YOU!”

Titania’s reply hit like a bell rang from the heavens.

“You cannot escape your fate. You are bound to it now. You will be the Queen of Summer.”

And that’s when Elaria broke. Her eyes burned with grief. With fury. Her gaze swept the hall like a blade, daring anyone to speak to her.

No one did.

“I’ll find a way,” she hissed. “Even if I have to tear down your crown to do it.”

And then she was gone. Her wings snapped open, blazing like fire unleashed. She shot through the hall—past the nobles, past the vines, and past the throne she bled to reach..A daughter fleeing from the court she was meant to inherit.

The vision cracked, splintering like a mirror under a scream, and shattered.

Elaria looked away. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. There was too much steel in it for that.

“You refused your mother’s crown?”

She nodded once, slow and deliberate. “It’s more than just a refusal. She lied to me. They all did.”

Her gaze drifted to the trees, unfocused.

“My mother’s time is ending. Everyone knows it, even if they don’t say it out loud. The crown would’ve passed to me… I earned it. But what they didn’t tell me… what no one ever tells…”

She paused, voice catching.

“...is that the crown doesn’t just sit on your head. It consumes you. The moment I wore it, piece by piece, I would begin to change. My thoughts, my body, even the way I thought. It would all become hers. Slowly. Until there was nothing left of me. Just her...”

Her lips twisted.

“It’s always her. Over and over. A cycle. A prison with a throne.”

I stared at her for a long beat, the truth of it coiling in my chest. The pain of it. The impossibility.

“I get it,” I said quietly. “It’s not just a choice. It’s a sacrifice. You said no to being erased.”

“Not erased… added. Like some fucking collection.”

I offered a small nod. “Go on,” I said. “Your turn.”

She looked up at me. Her eyes shimmered, and for a heartbeat, she was just a girl in the woods with too much on her shoulders and no one left to trust. I reached up and gently brushed a single tear from her cheek. Her expression didn’t change. But her eyes lingered on mine for half a second longer.

Then she turned.

She plodded toward the edge of the grove, past the gleaming flowers and toward the darker brush. Where the petals looked withered and forgotten. Her hand dipped into the tangled green, and when it rose again, she held a flower.

It was brittle. Dead. Its stem blackened, its bloom curled in on itself like it was trying to disappear.

Elaria turned it over in her fingers. Studied it. Then she walked back to me, calm. No words. She placed the flower in my hand.

And once again, the world shattered.

Color bled out. The trees warped. Gravity shifted. I was falling, flying, unraveling.

It was summer.

The kind of West Texas heat that made the dirt hum and the pavement sweat. The kind that stuck to your skin and filled the air with the smell of dust and dry grass.

I was maybe ten, twelve at most. Riding bikes with my friends, racing down the alley behind the houses, kicking up little trails of gravel like we were being chased by something big and important. We had Batman toys strapped to the handlebars—cheap ones, paint peeling, but we treated them like gold. We yelled about villains and explosions and whatever cartoon we’d watched the night before.

Then she came around the corner.

My Babcia. My grandma.

She walked slowly, deliberately, boots crunching in the loose gravel. She carried a giant burlap sack over one shoulder, and in her hand—like a warrior from some strange other world—a wooden stick with a knife duct-taped to the end.

She used it to cut open trash bags. To spear aluminum cans. To dig through piles for plastic bottles like they were treasure. It was her job. The only one a woman like her could have here.

Self-employed. Scavenger.

She took the aluminum cans she found and turned it into money. Decent money, actually. Enough to help keep things going between settlement checks.

She trudged through the heat like it didn’t touch her. Shoulders hunched but unbroken. That old frame wrapped in sun-bleached clothes and stubborn dignity.

My friends spotted her first. Laughter started low. Then louder.

“Is that your grandma?”

“Dude, she’s like… digging through trash!”

“She got a spear!”

I wanted to disappear.

I felt it rising in me, hot and ugly. The shame. I was angry at her. Not for what she was doing, but for doing it where they could see. So selfish, I thought. Didn’t she care what this made me look like? What it made them think of me?

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t defend her. Didn’t tell them that she was strong. That she did what she had to. That no one else was walking alleyways in that heat just to make sure there was something in the fridge when we got home.

I stayed quiet. Tried to laugh with them at her expense. Tried to fit in. And the whole time, I hated myself a little more with every can she picked up.

The memory cracked. Faded. The alley disappeared, and I was older again. But I still felt the heat. Still smelled the dust. Still saw her silhouette—burlap sack, spear, and all—walking away from me.

Not knowing I was pretending to laugh at her.

Elaria looked confused—head tilted, eyes searching mine like she was trying to piece together a language she hadn’t heard before.

I reached out and took her hands in mine.

“This,” I said quietly, “was my weakest moment.”

She didn’t speak. She just listened.

“I didn’t hit those boys. I didn’t say a word. I let them laugh at her and I stood there like a coward.”

My voice cracked a little, but I didn’t look away.

“Her whole life… it revolved around us. Around me and my brother. She walked those alleys in the blistering heat, hauling bags of cans and bottles like it was just part of her day. She did it without complaint. Without shame.”

I let out a breath, slow and shaky.

“And I couldn’t even defend her honor.”

I looked down at our hands.

“She probably wouldn’t have cared. If I told her what those boys said, she’d just laugh. Maybe call them little goats or pigs in Polish and tell me to go get an ice cream sandwich from the freezer.”

“But it stuck,” I said, quieter now. “It got in me. Like a splinter I couldn’t dig out. A little cancer that grew with me.”

I looked back up.

“The older I got, the more I thought about it. That moment. How I just stood there. How weak I was.”

I squeezed her hands.

“So I made a promise. Not out loud, but one I meant.”

“I swore I’d never let what people say decide who I am.”

I swallowed.

“I’d be like Babcia. I’d care about the people I love, and no one else. If I had to, I would walk through the dirt and heat. With my head up.”

Elaria didn’t say anything at first. But her hands gripped mine tighter.

The voice returned, gentle and steady.

“Now, a memory to give. A piece of yourself for them to carry. What they take, they will remember as if it were their own. And you will forget.”

I opened my mouth, but Elaria held up her hand.

“I’ll go first,” she said.

Her voice was calm again, clearer than before. Something lighter behind her eyes. Not healed, but open. She turned away and wandered to the flowerbed, stepping softly through the grass. She moved slower now. Not with caution, but reverence.

I watched her fingers glide over the blooms—passing by thorns, faded colors, old wounds.

And then she stopped.

She reached for a bright flower—vivid, alive, pulsing with a soft green light. Its petals shimmered like wings in motion. She smiled. Not the sly, cocky grin she wore like armor. Something softer. She plucked the bloom and walked back to me.

“This,” she said, placing the flower gently into my hand, “is the happiest I have ever been.”

The bloom pulsed once warm and the world tilted.

Elaria was just a child. No older than five or six. Her moss-green hair was short and wild, her wings still translucent and small, twitching with the restless energy of something not yet tested. She stood with her siblings—princes and princesses of the Summer Court—at the highest terrace of the great tree-palace. The world sprawled out below them: sky and wind and a thousand feet of open air.

This was the Day of First Flight. Below, the court watched. High above them all, Queen Titania stood with her arms crossed, saying nothing. Just watching.

The children jostled for position, wings fluttering. Laughing. Daring each other. Pride burned in their golden eyes and fire-lit veins. One by one they stepped forward—taunting, goading, trying to push each other into being first.

But not Elaria. She stood frozen at the edge. Trembling. Her knees locked. Her throat closed. She looked down and saw forever, and it looked back. The laughter turned. The teasing sharpened. Whispers reached her ears, each one a needle.

“Coward.”

“She’s not like us.”

“She’ll never fly.”

Titania’s gaze didn’t waver. But one eyebrow lifted, just slightly.

That was enough.

Elaria’s fear twisted into something else. Her fists clenched. Her tiny foot stomped down on the polished bark. She couldn’t let her mother see her as weak. Weak children were overlooked. Weak heirs never wore crowns. She had to show them. Her mother. Her sisters. All of them.

She would be Queen.

Elaria’s breath caught in her throat, but her body moved before her fear could catch up. She took off running.

The other children fell silent. Their laughter died mid-breath. Heads whipped around as Elaria stormed past them. Bare feet pounding against the ancient bark, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the stillness. She didn’t look back. She reached the edge of the great branch, the ancient platform carved by wind and time, and leapt.

The wind howled around her, tugging at her dress and hair, shrieking in her ears. She plummeted. Faster. Her wings fluttered. For one heart-cracking moment, she was falling. Just falling.

Then they caught.

With a burst of shimmering light and instinctual strength, her wings stretched wide and curved into the wind. The fall became a swoop. The fear became flight. She climbed, cutting through the air, weaving between drifting blossoms and glowing wind-creatures that scattered like fireflies.

She danced.

I felt it, her heart pounding with pure, unfiltered joy. Her laughter echoed as she spun through the sky, a green-and-purple blur against the twilight.

Behind her, one by one, the other children leapt. Inspired. Awed. Chasing the trail she blazed for them all. She had led them.

First, boldest, and bravest.

When she finally touched down on the landing bough, her breath was ragged but triumphant. Her wings still hummed with power. Her eyes sparkled.

Queen Titania stood waiting, a rare smile curling her lips like sunrise over frost.

“Well done, my daughter,” the Queen said.

Elaria beamed. Lit from within.

The memory dissolved. The wind faded. And I was left staring at the empty air where she had been flying moments before

I blinked, and I was back—back in the garden, surrounded by blooming flowers and glowing pollen drifting like fireflies through the air. Elaria sat beside me, her knees hugged to her chest, wings drawn in close. The look on her face was somewhere between peace and longing. She was trying to hold on to the last pieces of the memory before it faded forever.

Maybe it had already. I was about to find out for myself.

But I could still feel it. The wind in my hair. The weightlessness in my gut. The rush of air as my wings caught me and pulled me into the sky.

Her memory… but I felt it like it was mine. Like I was the one who flew for the first time.

And it hurts. Because the best moment of her life—the most vivid, most cherished memory—was making her mother smile and proving her siblings wrong.

Just that. Just a sliver of approval from those who gave so little of it.

I looked at her. She deserved something more. Something brighter.

I swallowed hard and reached for the best memory I had. The one thing that meant the world to me. The moment I knew I wasn’t alone. When my father took my hand without asking, and made the darkness feel less suffocating. It wasn’t big or dramatic or grand. But it was mine.

And now it would be hers.

The idea of forgetting it stung. Burned, even. But the thought of the joy it might bring her… that eclipsed the pain.

She gave me the sky. I’ll show her what it feels like to be loved.

I took a breath and turned away.

I knew the one I wanted. I found it, tucked beneath a shade tree, simple and steady. A golden bloom with soft brown edges, like leather worn smooth with time.

I plucked it gently. It was warm in my palm.

I turned back to Elaria. She watched me quietly, hands clasped in front of her like she already knew this one would be different.

“I want you to have this,” I said, offering the flower.

I placed it in her hand. The petals glowed. And she was there.

Riding boots too big. Brand new hat was way too big and crooked. The saddle was worn but well cared for. The early Texas morning sun spilling over the pasture like pancake syrup, warm and golden.

My dad stood beside the old grey horse, Kazmir. A calm and steady horse. Smarter than most people I’d ever meet.

“You don’t have to force him,” my dad said, crouching beside me, his Polish accent like gravel. “You show him you trust him, and he’ll trust you.”

I was nervous. Holding the reins like they might bite. His hands wrapped around mine. Rough and always warm.

“You don’t have to be brave,” he said. “If you fall, you get back up. That’s what makes a cowboy. Never give up.”

I swung up into the saddle, heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

Kazmir didn’t bolt. He walked. Then trotted. And then I was riding. Wind in my face. Sun on my back.

Dad whooped from below like I’d just lassoed the moon. Proud. He jumped on his own horse and took the lead, just far enough ahead to let me feel like I was in charge, but close enough to catch me if I fell.

We rode down the trail, the world a blur of golden grass and sunlit dust. Every step was a memory I didn’t know I was making. His horse clopped along beside mine, the rhythm steady, like a heartbeat.

I bounced a little in the saddle and looked over at him. “Do I look like a cowboy now?”

He chuckled—deep, rich, and rough around the edges. “You look like a boy in boots too big, hat all sideways.”

I grinned proudly anyway.

Then I got serious. “Papa?”

“Mmm?”

“How do you be a man?”

He scratched his chin like he was buying time, then glanced at me sideways.

“You take care of people smaller than you. You get back up when you fall. You don’t break your word. And you treat horses, women, and babcias with respect.” He looked straight ahead, thoughtful. “And if someone tries to hurt your family, you hit them so hard their grandchildren limp.”

I giggled. “Like a cowboy.”

He nodded. “Like a good man.”

There was a long beat of quiet, just the leather creaking and the soft sound of Kazmir’s hooves.

“Do I have to go to school?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious.

“But I wanna be like you. Work hard. Do real stuff.”

He gave a sigh that sounded half proud and half exhausted.

“I work hard so you don’t have to. I break my back so you can use your brain. Be a doctor. Or an engineer.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I hate doctors.”

He laughed again. “Fine. Be whatever you want. Cowboy, astronaut, superhero. Just be good. Be kind. Be strong. That’s what matters.”

I nodded, like that was the greatest truth I’d ever heard.

The sun dipped lower, gold turning orange, and my head started to bob. Without a word, he reached over, strong arms lifting me off my saddle and into his lap. I curled against his chest, cheek pressed to the faded fabric of his shirt, hearing the thump of his heart.

The ride back was slow. Gentle. I drifted in and out, clutching him like he was the whole world. And for a little boy, he was.

Just a week later, he was gone. But in that memory, there was no loss. No grave. No goodbye. Just a boy and his dad. Riding through the light.

Elaria stood completely still. Tears welled in her eyes, but not from pain. From wonder. She reached for my hand without thinking and held it tight.

“You gave me something so pure,” she whispered.

“Something true,” I said.

She nodded. Voice trembling. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even in the Summer Court.”

“Then remember it,” I said. “Feel it.”

And she did. And for the first time, maybe… she understood.

“So you shared what hurt. And stole what hid. And gave what shone. And thus, in root and bloom, you are now free to share the second kiss.”

Elaria looked up at me. She was bare, unguarded, and radiant in a way that had nothing to do with magic. And then she kissed me.

The golden ribbon flared again. And shortened so we were only separated by a foot or two. The garden sighed. The world tilted and fell away.

Light cracked through the stone chamber as we reappeared—center dais, arms still wrapped around each other. The air pulsed with residual magic, hot and wild.

The crowd exploded. Music blasted from the DJ’s tower. Fireworks (or maybe actual fairies) popped overhead. A dwarf fell off a balcony. A nymph shouted something scandalous.

Mike screamed like a man possessed.

“YEEEAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

He and the boys charged the edge of the dais, hyping it like I’d just won a championship belt.

“BROOOOO! THAT KISS WAS LIT!”

Kyle was double-fisting goblets. Brian was crying. Tim tried to climb a gnome for a better view.

Chapter Sixteen

The glow faded beneath our feet just as the DJ suddenly jolted back to life behind his booth, flicking switches with flair like nothing weird had just happened.

“LADIES, GENTLEFOLK, AND SHAPE-SHIFTERS OF LEGEND! WE AIN’T DONE YET!”

I just stood With Elaria In the middle of the chaos. The center remained empty—a wide, perfect circle of space untouched by revelers.

The DJ raised both hands. His voice echoed across the walls like a god announcing judgment.

“THE FINAL KISS BEGINS NOW!”

Lights dimmed everywhere but the center. Elaria’s fingers slid into mine, cool and steady.

I looked at her. “What is it this time? Dance-off? Duel?”

Her smile was unreadable.

The DJ raised both hands, rings glinting in the amber torchlight, and his voice boomed across the ancient stone chamber like some nightclub deity announcing Ragnarok.

“ARE YOU READY?!”

The crowd roared. A mix of fae, fangs, and folks who should’ve been fictional pressed in from the shadows. Dryads in crop tops, vampires nursing cocktails full of red that definitely wasn’t tomato juice, a werewolf in a trench coat two sizes too small. Even a few humans, clearly too buzzed or enchanted to realize they were out of their depth. All of them circled around the glowing ring now etched into the floor—a perfect spiral of sparkling energy. The lights, what few there were, dimmed everywhere but the center. The air went tight.

Elaria’s fingers slid into mine.

“So… what is it this time? Dance-off? Duel? Gladiator pit? ‘Cause just so we’re clear, I left my sword, helmet, and breakdancing skills at home.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t one I could read. It had all the elegance of a predator mid-pounce. Not malicious, just inevitable.

Then came the Music. Low and pulsing. Drums that sounded like a heartbeat wrapped in silk. Strings that hummed like wind through the trees. A rhythm that came from beneath the stone.

Elaria let go of my hand and stepped backwards away from me. The crowd melted into silence, breaths held. Her hips swayed like a branch bending under moonlight. Her arm lifted, fingers drawing something invisible in the air. Then she turned to look at me, eyes blazing.

Your move.

My boots felt three sizes too heavy. My shirt is suddenly way too hot. I sighed and looked toward the DJ, who had way too many piercings and exactly zero mercy.

“Come on, man,” I said, lifting a hand. “You gotta give me somethin’ I can work with. This woodland heartbeat crap? It’s like trying to line-dance to whale song.”

The DJ raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded.

A beat later, the music shifted. Low guitar twang. Slow steel pedal slide. A remix of Neon Moon slid into the chamber like smoke curling under a saloon door.

I muttered, “Well… this’ll have to do,” tugged my hat down just a hair, and stepped into the circle.

The crowd leaned in and Elaria was grinning. I stepped forward and took her by the waist. My hands found their place like they’d always known the map.

Elaria moved with me, pivoting sharply, her bare feet slapping onto the stone. Her next step was firm. Shoulders lifted, chin angled, eyes flashing with something wild and dangerous.

The crowd made no sound. Dozens of eyes watched in absolute silence. Fae, human, and everything in between. All were spellbound, like the dance was a long foretold prophecy.

Elaria continued to move like a storm and I followed. My boots scuffed against the stone, finding a rhythm in her breath. My hands met her hips again. Her skin was cool and electric beneath the thin fabric. Every shift, sharp then soft, guided me. Her body spoke in a language I didn’t know I knew, but somehow understood.

She wasn’t leading, and neither was I. We were just two notes in the same song, harmonizing.

Elaria spun suddenly, fast and fluid. She reached the end of the enchanted ribbon and returned like a yo-yo back to me. Her palm landed on my chest, firm and steady. Right over my heart. She looked up at me. The fire was still there, feral and cunning. She dropped her hand. And stepped back. Slowly.

Will you chase me?

I didn’t hesitate.

One step. Then another. Until we were in sync again, bodies brushing, circling, orbiting some force between us. My hand found the small of her back. Her fingers glided along the edge of my jaw, tracing me like a question she wasn’t sure she could ask.

Magic bloomed at our feet.

Glyphs, faint at first, began to glow brighter with every shared heartbeat. With every breath that passed between us. Ancient symbols pulsed with life, golden light crawling up from the stone like smoke drawn toward a storm. The song reached its peak. Then the glyphs erupted around us—brilliant, blazing, and alive with power.

A swirling wind caught the golden light and lifted it in a spiral around our bodies, a cyclone of spell and sound and soul.

The crowd started losing it. Chairs overturned. Goblets shattered from enthusiastic toasts. Mike was on Nick’s shoulders, shouting “KISS HER!” like it was the Super Bowl.

The entire world narrowed to the space between us. Her breath was soft against my lips. Her eyes locked on mine.

Waiting.

I stepped forward to kiss her. Magic exploded in a column of light around us, shaking the stone. The very bones of the realm seemed to ring like bells. The kiss ended slowly. Our chests rose together. Fell together. Hearts crashing like thunder in a summer storm. The glow around us faded into soft pulses, trailing up toward the domed ceiling like fireflies rising into the stars.

The chamber stilled for a breathless moment.

Then…

“YOOOOOOOOO!”

The DJ exploded back to life, fireworks bursting from the corners of his tower, music dropping into a victorious, bass-heavy anthem.

“THAT’S IT, FOLKS! WE HAVE A COMPLETE RITE!”

The crowd went wild again—standing ovation, wings flapping, fists pounding on tables, and goblets raised high.

“WE ARE WITNESSING HISTORY, FOLKS! THE FIRST HUMAN-FAE MARRIAGE EVER!” the DJ roared.

I blinked.

“Wait, what?”

“JUST ONE MORE THING REMAINS!”

I turned to Elaria slowly. She looked… smug. Glowing, Gorgeous, and Smug.

“All that remains,” the DJ intoned, now with that dramatic mystical echo again, “is for each to speak the other’s true name, and swear their vow of unity…”

“WHAT?” I choked.

“...to complete the marriage rite and claim one another eternally!”

I whipped my head toward Elaria, eyes wide. “Marriage?!”

She gave me that look. The one that said I warned you, even though she absolutely did not.

“You didn’t say anything about marriage,” I hissed. “You said this was about bringing peace.”

“Marriage is used to broker peace in both our cultures.,” she said sweetly.

“You said it was a challenge!”

“It is. A very meaningful one. Was it not a challenge?”

“It was! But meaningful doesn’t mean it's ok to lie!”

The DJ kept hyping the crowd, oblivious, or just ignoring my entire meltdown.

“ALL THAT REMAINS… IS THE VOWS!”

I turned in a slow, stunned circle as the entire chamber leaned in with sparkly eyed anticipation.

Mike yelled, “BRO. BRO. DON’T SCREW THIS UP.”

I turned back to Elaria. She was waiting. Smiling. Like she’d just checkmated me in a game I didn’t know I was playing.

The crowd roared, the DJ hyped, the lights spun gold And Elaria pulled me in.

Her fingers slid up to my collar, tugging me down just enough for her to look me in the eye. All the spark was gone now. The performance, the posturing, it melted away. What was left behind was just her.

“I didn’t plan this,” she breathed, just loud enough for only me to hear. “None of this was supposed to mean anything.”

My breath hitched. “Sure doesn’t feel like nothing.”

She smiled. But it was sad.

“When I started this, I was just playing with you. There was something about you. You’re different. I Wanted to see what kind of man you were.” Her fingers traced the edge of my jaw. “I thought I’d break you. Or maybe charm you. Trick you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Classic fae.”

She laughed, quiet and breathy.

“But then you didn’t break. You didn’t scare. You didn’t run.” Her voice dropped. “You saw me.”

She swallowed, something flickering behind her eyes.

“And I think I fell in love with you somewhere between the midget mud wrestling and the bull ride.”

I blinked.

She leaned her forehead against mine, her words barely more than a whisper.

“I tricked you, Andrew. But because this is the only way. The only way I can be free of my future as my mother. But I would never trap you, not like she did to me.”

“Elaria…”

“You won,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Three-two. You beat me back in the office. Earning a freedom you already had by snorting a line of Pixie Dust.”

The way she phrased it. Are you willing to take one last reckless choice before the end?

Clever… but still. I always had the upper hand on her, she just didn't know it.

“And now…”

She reached down. Took my hand.

“I give you my full name. Freely.”

My heart thudded once. Twice.

“If you speak it,” she said, “and say your vow… we’ll be married. No more tricks. Just… us. And neither of us will ever have to be alone again.”

She hesitated. Then added, almost too quietly…

“But if you don’t…”

She took a step back.

“I’ll still keep my word. You have my name, and I have yours. That makes us equal.”

I didn’t breathe. She kept going.

“If you walk away… You’ll never see me again… not as myself. I can’t guarantee what I’ll do when I become my mother”

She smiled again, soft and sad. Her eyes locked on mine.

“I want this more than anything.”

The crowd had quieted, lights had softened, and magic held its breath. Her hands were shaking just enough for me to notice. Then looked me in the eye and said it, clear and strong, her voice echoing like a bell ringing across worlds.

“My name is Elaria Solthrone. Crown-Princess of the Summer Court. Daughter to Queen Titania of the Radiant Throne.”

The words shimmered in the air like a song carved into sunlight. The silence that followed was heavy. She stared at me, eyes glazed over.

I blinked. Then raised one brow.

“Do I have to say the whole thing?”

Elaria let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding, half relief, half frustration.

“Yes,” she said. “The full name is what binds us together!”

I stared at her for a beat then laughed.

“Really?”

“Yes!” she said, laughing too now. “Gods, you’re impossible!”

I nodded, then stepped forward slightly. “Okay. Well, then.”

I straightened my shoulders. Took her hands in mine. And said it.

“My full name is Andrezj Peter Nowak.”

She blinked and then She laughed. Full and bright, unguarded. A sound like summer wind dancing through leaves.

“You…” she started, then stopped. “Wait. That means…”

I grinned. “Yup.”

“You knew I was a Fae from the beginning?”

“Yup. I had some suspicions but I wasn't really sure until the private dance. I knew I was safe by not giving you my real legally binding name. Which became a habit living in a cow town where people can barely pronounce Olive Garden. And honestly, a part of me was interested to see if my grandma's stories were just bullshit.”

“So we’re even. No more tricks right?” She asked.

“Clean slate.”

We kissed. This was heat and magic and breathless need, built up over every recent truth and every unspoken thing revealed between us. Her hands fisted in my shirt. Mine tangled in her hair. The world fell away except for her lips on mine.

Somewhere beyond the magic and the moment I heard.

“WOOOOOOOOO!!”

Actual whooping.

Mike’s voice: “YEAH THAT’S MY BROTHER!”

A goblet shattered. Someone started chanting.

We broke apart, laughing against each other, our foreheads pressed together as the golden light swirled low and warm around our feet. The chamber leaned in. She took a breath. And spoke my name.

“Andrew Peter Nowak. I vow,” Elaria said, her voice just for me, “to walk beside you… not ahead, not behind. I vow to challenge you, fight for you, and fuck you stupid whenever I damn well feel like it.”

The magic sighed through the air like a satisfied exhale. She looked up at me—eyes wide, raw, no tricks, no thrones, just her.

So I said it.

“Elaria Solthrone, Crown-Princess of the Summer Court. Daughter to Queen Titania of the Radiant Throne.”

She smiled through glassy eyes. And I finished it.

“I vow to be there when things get ugly. When you want to run, and when you don’t know who you are. I vow to keep pace with you… through fire, through magic, and through all the weird supernatural shit I still don’t understand.”

The golden light surged. A pulse. A hum. Our lips were gone.

Just gone.

Sealed over with smooth, perfect skin. Like they’d never been there to begin with. Every way to breathe… gone.

I couldn’t inhale. Neither could she. And we had just spoken the vows. Panic hit like a hammer to the chest.

Elaria’s eyes went wide, terrified. Her hands flew to her face, nails scraping helplessly at the skin that shouldn’t be there. Her chest rose in jagged, frantic spasms. A desperate, primal gasp—but no air came. I felt the same. Like drowning. Like my lungs had been stitched shut from the inside.

We did something wrong. That was the first thought. The loudest one.

The vows had felt right when we spoke them. But now? Now we were choking in silence and magic and terror, and every second screamed that we’d made a terrible mistake.

Elaria followed, collapsing beside me, still clawing at her face. Her eyes found mine. Fear. Fury. Shame. She looked like she wanted to scream. Like she already thought this was her fault.

And maybe it was mine.

A story from long ago drifted into my head. Babcia’s voice had returned from her hiatus.

"When I was girl there was boy. Handsome boy, strong back, no brains. Was supposed to chop wood, feed chickens. Instead, he follow pretty girl into woods. Said she smile at him like spring after long winter. He don’t ask questions… just follow. Next next, he say he gonna marry her. They find him. Laying by old tree. Smooth face like baby doll. I ask midwife what happen. She say… he kiss wrong girl, some kiss is curse, not love. But I ask my mama too. She say... it happen 'cause love not true. If love was real, kiss would fix it.”

Could it really be that simple? Could it be that cruel?

I reached for her hands, she let me take them. Her fingers were cold and trembling. Mine weren’t much better. I leaned in. Pressed my face to hers. Sealed skin to sealed skin. Where our lips used to be. It felt like trying to kiss a scar. Like trying to breathe through wax paper. Everything in my body screamed no, but something older whispered yes.

The skin sizzled. A soft hiss, like a burning fuse. Just the quiet sound of undoing. Flesh gave way. Skin dissolved. Our mouths unlocked like puzzle pieces fitting together. And we gasped. Air tore into our lungs, sharp and electric. It felt like being born again. Like lightning and fire and mercy all at once. But neither of us pulled away.

Our kiss was raw. Desperate and furious.

We clung to each other, mouths moving like we were afraid to stop. Like the moment we did, it would all go wrong again. Teeth, lips, breath—we drank from each other like parched sinners. The golden chain between us jerked tight, like it agreed. It burned along my ribs, searing hot.

Around us, the Fae and humans, who moments ago were silent during our torment, suddenly erupted. Laughter. Cheers. Firelight dancing in their hair. The music swelled like thunder, drums and strings and magic spinning into the sky.

The golden chain evaporated, falling around us in a swirl of warm, sparkling dust. It soaked into our skin, into our bones, into whatever we were now.

The last of the Three Kisses had been completed.

Chapter Seventeen

The chamber erupted in applause. The glyphs embedded in the stone flared like camera flashes from an overeager paparazzi, searing arcs of faelight that danced across the walls, then faded, leaving the floor gleaming like a thousand obsessive-compulsive dwarves had buffed it.

Then came the music.

The DJ slammed both palms onto his runed turntables. The sound that followed wasn’t anything you’d find on Earth radio. It was part ancient battle chant, part EDM rave, and all chaos. Like someone gave LSD to an entire forest and told it to dance. Lights burst from the ceiling like magical fireworks. Flower petals rained down from above.

Tables blinked into existence with loud, satisfying pops, like champagne corks fired by the gods of catering. They’d multiplied like horny rabbits, now covered in roasted meats, glowing fruits, strange desserts that smoked and giggled, and enough booze to kill a troll (and it probably would). Goblets clinked themselves together in celebration. A chocolate fountain taller than two of me gurgled seductively in the corner, and I swear I saw sentient brownies doing cannonballs into it.

Mike exploded out of the crowd like a golden retriever on Red Bull and college debt, nearly tackling me in a beer-scented hug.

“BRO!” he gasped. “YOU’RE MARRIED TO A FAE PRINCESS. YOU’RE BASICALLY A DISNEY PRINCE.”

“Please don’t say that out loud,” I muttered, just as he crushed me in a bro-hug and shoved a goblet into my hand that immediately started refilling itself. It tasted like cherries.

I turned toward the commotion and yeah. There she was.

Elaria was already standing—no, posing—on a table, hoisted up by a gang of Fae men with toned abs and glowing wings. They were singing something in an ancient language that sounded halfway between a blessing and an invitation to do something wildly inappropriate. They showered her in flower petals and figs. Her wings fluttered in delight. She looked radiant. She caught my eye. Winked.

And just like that, I forgot that ten hours ago; A faerie princess locked me in a bear trap. Now I am married to her.

Elaria raised her goblet in a mock toast from across the room. Her lips curled into that sly, sultry smirk that always made my heart skip like a scratched record. A petal landed on her collarbone. She didn’t brush it off.

I raised my drink back, half in surrender, half in love.

Across the floor, the party hit full tilt.

Mike’s friends, six drunk and drugged up frat demons who had somehow survived this night with nothing but protein powder and unearned confidence, were already mingling.

“Mingling,” in this case, meaning they were absolutely, unequivocally in over their heads.

Eric, shirt halfway unbuttoned and sunglasses on indoors like an idiot, was trying to out drink a pair of dwarves. He didn’t realize they were drinking a brew strong enough to burn the hair off your chest. One dwarf was politely letting Eric win. The other was taking bets on how fast he’d vomit.

Derek and Tim had wandered into a corner where a group of vampire babes were lounging like models. They were definitely flirting. The vampires, I mean. Derek had bragged about his bench press, and one vamp leaned in, purred something about how “strength is so... mortal,” then licked his cheek.

Derek hasn’t blinked since.

Nick, the self-declared ladies’ man of the group, was dancing with what he thought was a really pretty woman with glowing eyes, long red hair, and shimmering silver tattoos.

“Bro, it’s the chick from earlier,” he whispered to Larry, “she’s got, like, ethereal energy now or something.”

Larry squinted.

“That’s a banshee, dude.”

“A what?”

Before Larry could answer, the banshee threw her head back and laughed—a high, crystalline sound that cracked a nearby glass and made three gnomes duck for cover.

Larry turned to run. Nick showed no fear.

Brian, meanwhile, had somehow started an arm-wrestling contest with the topless Minotaur woman.

“I got twenty on the meathead,” someone shouted—probably a gnome.

“Which one?” another voice called back.

Mike returned, breathless, carrying three glowing cocktails and a smile that said I just made poor decisions and I’m about to make more.

“Dude. This is the best bachelor party ever. I just played beer pong with one of the goat legs guys. His name’s Carl.”

I blinked. “Carl?”

“Yeah. Solid dude. Nearly won us the game single handedly. I’m a little too fucked up right now.”

Elaria glided up beside me, barefoot now, petals caught in her hair. She looked different now. Softener. She handed me one of the pretty drinks she was carrying. Then leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Your brother’s friends are adorable,” she purred. “I give them twenty minutes before someone gets hexed or wakes up married to a succubus.”

“One of them already asked a banshee for her number,” I said.

She grinned. “Which one?”

“Nick.”

“Oh, that sweet summer child. She’s gonna eat him alive! Not literally, but it should be entertaining.”

Behind us, someone shouted, “DO IT, TIM! FOR GLORY!” followed by a deafening crack and a chorus of oohs.

“Do I want to know?” I asked.

Elaria glanced over my shoulder.

“Nope.”

We clinked glasses and took a drink.

Around us, the madness bloomed. The DJ dropped the bass hard enough to shake the stones. Frat boys danced with nymphs. A succubus walked by, totally naked, glittering like a disco ball and absolutely unbothered.

This was Fae Vegas. This was our wedding night. And honestly? It was perfect so far.

Elaria and I were caught in the riptide of supernatural congratulations. Eventually separated by the crowd. Every time I caught sight of her across the way—radiant, laughing, eyes hunting for mine—someone else intercepted me. She smiled. Took a step toward me and vanished behind a curtain of forest nymphs waving silk fans and shouting something about “fertility blessings.”

I tried to follow. But some Viking guy grabbed my shoulder, reeking of beer and pride, and insisted I “honor the moment” by drinking from a horn of ale.

One sip of the warm, bitter stuff was all I could stomach. I shook it off, squinting through the crowd.

Caught a flash of Elaria’s green hair. She was trying to duck past a cluster of dryads. She looked at me then—just a heartbeat of eye contact across the madness. Her expression? Exactly how I felt.

Get me the hell out of here.

Just a few hours ago, I thought she was going to kill me. Or bind me. Or trick me into thirty years of eternal servitude, cleaning centaur stables with my toothbrush.

Now?

Now I was pissed, because I just wanted to spend five damn minutes with my wife.

Wife.

That word hit weird every time it echoed in my skull, like someone had replaced my brain with a bingo cage and spun it hard. But before either of us could move, a trio of Unseelie nobles blocked my path with wide grins and serpentine eyes. One of them started reciting a poem. The other two harmonized. I think it was a curse. I nodded politely and prayed not to be turned into a decorative frog.

We kept trying. Kept weaving, dancing, and clawing our way through the never-ending conga line of supernatural well-wishers. Every second stretched like elastic, fraying at the edges of my patience. I just wanted to see her. To figure out what the hell this was, this thing between us that had gone from enemies to soul-bonded lovers in less time than it takes to sober up.

Finally, we got to each other again. Elaria’s fingers laced with mine through the crowd like fate threading through the eye of a needle. She pulled me through a break in the crowd, her fingers like silk and static against mine. We slipped past a velvet curtain and ducked into a shadowed alcove tucked behind an old carved pillar. The music muffled, the lights softened, and for the first time in hours, the madness didn’t follow us.

We didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, breathing. Her hand still in mine. Her thumb traced lazy circles against my knuckle, and mine tightened around hers like it was the only real thing in this glitter-drenched dream. She leaned against the cool stone wall, wings twitching with every slow inhale. I leaned next to her, thumbs hooked on my belt, sweat still drying on my temple. Her eyes found mine—those golden galaxies flickering with light and mischief.

Finally, she asked, “How are you doing?”

I huffed a tired laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was on a ranch in West Texas yesterday. Fixed a busted fence. My dog almost caught a jackrabbit. I had six beers by myself while watching Forrest Gump. Now I’m married to a fae princess. At the bottom of a magical strip club.”

“Quite the upgrade,” she teased, the corner of her lips curling up.

“You say that,” I said, “but I still smell like a horse.”

She laughed softly, leaning her shoulder into mine. “You smell like sweat, metal, and smoke. It’s… rugged.”

“Oh, well. Rugged. That’s just civilized speak for unshowered.”

We both chuckled. The quiet between us settled again, more comfortable this time. Her hand didn’t leave mine. Neither of us wanted it to.

“Everything moved so fast,” I murmured, more to the floor than to her. “I didn’t even know your real name until a few minutes ago.”

“And now you’ve got it carved into your soul,” she whispered.

I looked up. “That sound romantic or ominous?”

She smirked. “With us, I think it’s always both.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I squeezed her hand.

After a moment, her expression turned a little more serious. Like a teacher about to walk a student through their first dangerous attempt.

“Andrew,” she said, “I know you’re smart. You tricked me, after all.”

“Still proud of that one.”

“Good,” she smiled. “You should be. But this world? Fae society? It’s… layered. Traps are laced in every word, every favor, every smile.”

Her fingers slid up my arm. Not possessive, protective.

“Don’t say thank you. It can be taken as a promise of debt.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay. What about you’re welcome?”

“Worse,” she said. “That can imply obligation. Which they love.”

I stared at her.

“Don’t eat or drink what’s offered unless you trust the source. And never, ever agree to accept anything without knowing exactly what you’re agreeing to.”

“Great. I’m a cowboy in a legal minefield.”

“You’ll manage.” She smiled, softer now. “I’ll help. But... be careful. They’ll test you.”

“Because a human married a Fae?”

“Yes. Because you married me. A princess,” she said, voice quieter, “and because you’re important to me now.”

Something warm settled in my chest. I looked at her—at this luminous, infuriating, impossibly beautiful being who turned my world inside out in under twelve hours—and said the only thing that felt right.

“I’m in this. All the way.”

She exhaled, her forehead resting against mine.

“Good,” she whispered. “So am I.”

Just as her forehead brushed mine—right at that perfect, quiet, cinematic second, where the room goes still and the music fades and you forget the rest of the world exists…

“THERE YOU ARE!” Mike burst in, red-faced and sweating, wearing a glitter-covered cowboy hat that did not belong to him. “BRO! WE FOUND THE DEMON KEG. IT DISPENSES FIREBALL WHISKEY!”

Behind him, his friends stumbled in like a human landslide, hooting and hollering, shirtless, flower-crowned, and riding the edge of blackout.

Eric had somehow acquired a pair of dragon wings and was flapping them violently while yelling, “I AM THE DRAGON KING!”

Nick had a hickey and scratches on his shoulder. “Bro,” he slurred, “I think I’m, like, engaged now. To a banshee.”

Tim stumbled by holding a glowing joint and inexplicably wearing a gnome on his shoulders like a toddler. The gnome was drumming on Tim’s head with two tiny wooden ladles.

Derek slid in like a used car salesman doing parkour, double-fisting cocktails and vibrating with excitement. “The banshee taught us a drinking song! It ends in screaming!”

“Everything in Faerie ends in screaming,” I muttered.

Elaria sighed beside me, equal parts amused and resigned. “Your brother’s friends are fitting in well.”

“Honestly, this is better than I expected,” I said.

“ERIC’S IN A TRASH CAN!” Larry announced from the hallway. “AND IT’S FULL OF HONEY!”

From somewhere deeper in the party.

“AND THERE’S A FERRET IN IT! A MAGICAL FERRET!” Eric yelled. “It talks! It told me I have unresolved issues with my dad!”

Mike grabbed both our arms like a best man possessed. “You guys have to come back out. There’s a fairy-chick doing keg stands. A real fairy! Just like your wife! It’s beautiful.”

Elaria tilted her head at me. “Are human wedding as rambunctious?”

I rubbed my temples. “Only the good ones.”

She laughed and pulled me to my feet. “Come on, husband. Before someone declares war over beer pong.”

Mike was already halfway back through the curtain, yelling, “SOMEONE FIND THE DRYAD, SHE PROMISED TO TEACH US TREE DANCING!”

This was insane.

The moment we stepped back into the main chamber, it was like walking into a mushroom trip set to a bassline. Somewhere overhead, glowing will-o’-the-wisps were dancing in synchronized formation to the beat.

Mike was already back on the dance floor, chest-bumping a Fae man who was surprisingly good at the worm.

Eric ran past wearing a ceremonial wooden crown sideways on his head and screaming, “I AM THE FOREST KING!”

“No, you’re not!” a forest nymph shouted, pelting him with candied dates. “Not yet!”

Elaria grinned, her wings twitching with excitement. “Well?” she asked, looking at me like I was the last sane man at an insane circus. “Are we just watching?”

“Hell no,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “We’re in this now.”

We hit the floor like a storm.

Elaria lit up in the middle of the crowd, dancing like the Fae princess she was. Every move she made turned heads, every laugh sent a ripple of magic into the air that made the hair on my arms stand up. When she twirled back toward me, pulling me into her rhythm, it felt like I was caught in a gravity well made of mischief and perfume.

The cups refilled themselves every time someone blinked. The table started to float. Someone summoned a tiny frost elemental to keep the drinks cold.

At one point, I ended up in a dance-off with a werewolf in a tuxedo shirt. I don’t want to brag, but I did a move I hadn’t pulled out since senior prom and the crowd went nuts. Probably because I dislocated something. Still worth it.

Elaria was lifted onto the bar by the dryads, now leading a chant in Sylvan that made all the glasses hum in harmony.

Mike and Larry were trying to organize a conga line with dwarves and trolls and a very judgmental goose.

Tim reappeared, riding on the back of a hellhound, wearing a horned helmet and holding what looked like a glowing turkey leg. “A GIFT FROM VALHALLA!” he screamed as he disappeared into the crowd.

A bubble of pure joy burst in my chest as I spotted Elaria across the dance floor again. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes gleaming, wings fluttering with abandon. She was barefoot, black dress sparkling like the inside of a geode, and when she saw me, she beamed.

I danced. I drank. I laughed until my ribs hurt. Elaria jumped into my arms at one point, kissed me so hard the world tipped, and then dragged me into a spinning Faerie circle where we all floated for a second, literally floated, before dropping back down into cheers and applause.

Someone opened a portal to a realm filled entirely with sentient balloons. Larry leaped in and, several minutes later, he returned. He won’t talk about what happened there, but when he came back, he had pieces of rubber in his hair and a thousand-yard stare.

But eventually, miraculously, the music mellowed. The lights dimmed to a soft, golden glow. The crowd shifted like a tide coming in, everyone gathering near the crystal archway.

Mike stumbled up onto it, wearing a sash made entirely out of cocktail napkins and a crown of nachos someone had magicked into place. He held a goblet in one hand and a microphone in the other.

“Okay!” he yelled, voice echoing too loud, causing the banshee to wince. “Okay. Everybody shut up.”

He swayed.

Someone in the crowd yelled, “SPEECH!”

“YEAH,” he slurred. “Speech. SPEEEEEECH! That’s what I’m doin’. Let me do it.”

Elaria and I stood hand in hand, watching my idiot little half-brother try to piece together something resembling a sentence.

He looked right at me.

“Andrew’s my brother,” he said. “And he’s always been the guy who didn’t fall for bullshit. Like... y’know, he once told a buddy of his that lightning could strike the same spot twice. He proved it… With a pitchfork… But… That’s not the point. The point is…”

He turned to Elaria, blinking like he’d just remembered she existed.

“...he doesn’t do things unless he means them. So if he married you? That means you’re real special… And reeeeeal… smart. And scary hot.”

The crowd laughed.

“And Andrew?” he added, pointing the mic back at me. “You look at her… like… like she’s the only woman you’ve eeeeeever seen.”

My throat went tight.

“And I think that’s what love is, you know?. Like... knowing the world’s crazy but holding onto someone?. So… yeah. I love you, bro. Don’t screw it up.”

He dropped the mic and fell backward into the arms of the tuxedo wearing werewolf, who gave him a gentle lift and carried him off like a toddler.

The crowd clapped, hooted, and stomped their feet. Then the dryad bartender stepped forward—elegant in her fitted green dress, bare feet slapping softly on the stone floor.

“I’m not good at speeches,” she began, her voice low and melodic. “But I’ve worked with Elaria for twenty years. I’ve seen leaders with less fire and warriors with less will. And I’ve seen the way she looked at him the second they walked out of that private dance room.”

There was some polite chuckling. Elaria blushed just slightly, eyes cast down, smiling.

“She never does anything halfway,” the dryad said. “And she never chooses lightly. So if she chose you, Drew… it’s because you’re brave enough to face her storms. And kind enough to stand with her in the quiet that comes after.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. Even the dwarves stopped drinking long enough to nod solemnly. The dryad looked directly at us.

“You two? You’ve got the makings of something rare. Real. I hope the worlds you come from never forget that.”

She stepped back. And for a moment, everything went still.

Elaria’s hand found mine again. Tight. Her eyes shimmered like starlight over deep water.

“You okay, cowboy?” she whispered.

I smiled. “Yeah. I think I might be better than okay.”

She leaned in. I leaned closer and when our lips met with just enough pressure to mean everything.

Cheers, howls, magical fireworks blasting from every corner of the chamber. Glitter erupted from the ceiling. Dryads screamed. The fire-breathing bartender lit the air in a dramatic arc. Someone in the back shouted, “BEST. WEDDING. EVER!”

We didn’t stop kissing until we were both laughing, caught in the noise and heat and magic of it all.

Then it happened. The music didn’t stop. Not at first. It warped. The beat slowed, stretched—like it was suddenly underwater. The air thickened on the dance floor, heat rippling up in waves that shimmered with magic. Then the laughter faltered. The lights flickered. The floor began to hum.

It started as a shimmer, just a lazy swirl of energy, like someone had stirred the air with a spoon. Then it twisted, cracked, and split open like reality was paper being peeled back. The very air boiled, a sound like a thousand locust wings rattling in unison. A swirling mass took form. It was brilliant and blinding, gold and violet and deep forest green.

Guests scattered. Some screamed. Others laughed like it was just another wild party trick, like maybe the DJ had summoned something for the finale. A pair of goblins placed bets. Larry dropped his drink and ran for the chocolate fountain.

But I didn’t move. Because Elaria grabbed my hand. Tight. And for the first time tonight, maybe the first time ever, I saw fear in her eyes.

Genuine fear.

Her wings flicked once, a nervous tic, before folding tightly behind her. She stepped closer to me.

“Elaria,” I said, “what is…”

“They’re here,” she whispered.

And then, out of the light, two shapes formed.

A man and a woman.

The room went silent.

The first figure towered, wrapped in a living cloak of ice, the aura of frost clung to him like cologne. His eyes glowed the color of an ancient iceberg. Icicles crowned his head and each step he took left a trail of snow in his wake.

Oberon The King of Winter.

Beside him, light condensed into a figure of pure elegance and terrifying beauty. Her skin shimmered like mother-of-pearl, her hair flowing gold with streaks of silver moonlight. Her gown was made of midnight, stars sewn into the fabric like they were torn from the night sky. Flowers bloomed and withered at her feet with every step.

Titania The Queen of Summer.

The room practically bowed around her. The air thickened. Magic coiled tighter. Even the fire in the floating torches dimmed.

Elaria stood stiffly beside me, chin high, grip unrelenting on my hand. She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t speak, either.

This wasn’t a party anymore.

Chapter Eighteen

The silence was suffocating. Then, one by one, the guests dropped. A ripple of motion spread across the chamber as every being—fae, vampire, troll, nymph—bowed low, some kneeling, some pressing foreheads to the floor. Even the dwarves who moments ago were drunk on stone-aged mead suddenly looked reverent, heads lowered like worshippers in a temple.

Mike and the frat boys blinked, slowly catching on.

“Is… is this, like, a group thing?” Larry whispered.

“Just do it,” Brian hissed.

They bowed—awkward, half-crouched, hands all over the place like a YMCA flash mob. But even their chaos didn’t break the spell in the room.

I started to move, knees bending out of instinct more than anything. Elaria’s hand snapped onto my arm.

“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp. Urgent. Almost a hiss.

I froze.

Her nails dug in—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor me. Her eyes stayed on the two figures ahead, but her whisper found its way into my ear with the precision of a dagger.

“Do not bow. Not to them. Not like this.”

I didn’t ask why. Something in her voice wasn’t just fear. It was a warning.

Titania’s gaze landed on me first, piercing and measuring, like a scalpel peeling back every word I’d ever spoken. Her expression didn’t change. Her eyes flicked down to Elaria’s hand in mine. Then back up to me.

Oberon, beside her, exhaled through his nose. No anger. Like blizzard winds roaring through an ice canyon.

“You’ve made your choice, daughter,” Titania said at last, her voice like a thunderstorm wrapped in silk. “So be it.”

Then, slowly, she turned to Elaria. And that’s when the tension deepened.

“I expected rebellion,” Titania murmured. “Even foolishness. But I did not expect marriage.”

“I didn’t expect to fall in love,” Elaria replied, proud and steady, even as her wings trembled ever so slightly. “But here we are.”

Titania’s eyes slid back to me and somehow, that silence grew louder. She stepped forward, the crowd still bowed, the air pulled so tight with tension it felt like a bowstring. Her gaze swept the room like a blade. When she spoke, her voice was clear, cold, and sharp as the snap of winter branches.

“Well, well… how clever you must think yourself, daughter.”

Elaria stiffened beside me, her fingers still locked in mine. She said nothing.

Titania continued, voice coiling with a dark, amused undertone.

“Using this chamber. This rite. One lost to time, buried beneath years of neglect and mistrust. A ritual once meant to unify the Fae and the mortal realms in harmony… and now used to tether yourself to a man who smells of cattle.”

She circled us slowly, the scent of lilac and cloves trailing behind her.

“Do you think you’ve outplayed me?” she asked softly, eyes on Elaria now.

Still, Elaria didn’t respond. Just held my hand like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Titania’s attention slid to me, and now she looked truly curious, like someone inspecting a strange and stubborn insect.

“You, mortal,” she said, “have completed a ritual failed by many others before you. A rite designed by both our peoples to bridge two worlds.”

She leaned in slightly.

“Do you even know what you’ve done?”

“I mean,” I said, “I figured it was either eternal love or a very elaborate prank.”

Her lips twitched, Only slightly.

“Your wit is sharper than your manners,” she said. “You amuse me. I’ll allow this insolence for now.”

Oberon stood silent, a statue with eyes like ancient deep blue icebergs, saying nothing, yet somehow making it clear that I was being measured, weighed.

Titania paced again, casting her words like spells.

“This union is unprecedented And ancient beyond your comprehension. I see now what you hoped to do, Elaria. A clever move.”

She turned back to us.

“But Faerie honors its rituals,” she said with a sigh, as though the laws themselves were a tired beast she was obliged to obey. “And what is bound here… is bound.”

The pressure lifted slightly, like a storm cloud that decided not to rain just yet.

“You are no longer my heir.”

The moment hung heavy in the chamber, the magic of her words echoing through the walls and the very bones of the rite we’d unknowingly awakened. Then, finally, she looked at Elaria one last time. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Enjoy your little rebellion, daughter. But remember, your bond only keeps you from taking my place… for as long as he lives.”

Titania turned with the grace of a storm in retreat, her gown flowing like night itself. Oberon followed, a quiet mountain of ice and snow, eyes never leaving me as he passed.

Then, just as they reached the swirling portal of light and wind, Oberon pivoted. His hand shot out, impossibly fast, and snatched the giant glowing turkey leg straight from Tim’s hand.

Tim made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup. “Dude!”

Oberon sniffed the meat once, gave the barest nod of approval, then turned and walked into the portal with the greasy leg still in hand.

Titania paused just long enough to glance over her shoulder, the tiniest look of annoyance breaking her mask of regal apathy.

And then they were gone.

The portal spiraled closed behind them with a sigh of displaced air and glittering petals, leaving behind only silence.

Elaria exhaled, finally.

“You made her smirk,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “But I think I also made her want to kill me.”

“Possibly, but I don’t think it was a threat. I think it was a warning.”

“Alright,” the DJ muttered from his booth, rubbing his head like he just survived a tax audit. “Let’s pretend none of that just happened.”

He dropped the needle. The beat kicked back in. Not quite as loud, not quite as wild—but steady. Like a heartbeat starting again after a near-death experience. The lights came back up in a slow pulse of color. The drinks began pouring themselves again. Somewhere, the chocolate fountain gurgled in approval while animated brownies did cannonballs inside of it.

The crowd began to unfreeze. One by one, beings stood back up, looked around, and shrugged in that universal “Well… Vegas” sort of way.

Derek clinked glasses with a vampire.

A goblin shouted, “LET’S GET NAKED!” and three centaurs immediately cheered in agreement.

Mike stumbled over, eyes wide. “Bro. Did the ice dude just mug Tim for a turkey leg?”

“Sure did,” I said.

Elaria, still holding my hand, shook her head in disbelief, then leaned against me with a soft laugh.

“We just made history. Come with me.”

The music still pulsed in the distance—faint through the stone walls—but we’d found our way back to the quiet alcove. The same one we’d stolen a moment in before everything spun sideways.

Elaria sat beside me on a curved bench made of twisted roots and stone, her wings folded neatly, her moss-green hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her makeup had faded a bit, and the petals in her hair were wilting—but somehow, she looked even more beautiful like this.

We just... sat. Let the stillness settle around us like an old coat.

Finally, I asked, quietly, “Will you tell me what’s going on now?”

She turned toward me. Her face didn’t shift into mischief or seduction. She didn’t smirk. She didn’t dodge. She just nodded.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I will.”

A pause.

“My mother… Titania… She's not immortal. Not in the way people think. Her body, her soul—it endures, yes. But only because of a ritual older than Faerie itself.”

I frowned. “You mean like… reincarnation?”

“Something like that,” she said, voice almost a whisper now. “When it’s time, the crown is passed on to the chosen daughter. What I didn’t know was that my mother’s soul came along with it. I wouldn’t just become queen, Andrew.”

She looked at me then. Not with fear. But something close to mourning.

“I would become her. Completely. Her memories. Her power. Her mind. Her soul. I wouldn’t be me anymore.”

The words hit like a punch. I sat back slightly, heart knocking around in my ribs.

She looked away.

“That’s the fate waiting for me,” she said. “That’s the destiny my mother’s kept pushing me towards since the day I was born. As it’s always been for every daughter of the line. One soul passed down. One name. One throne.”

My mouth was dry. “So you only married me… for freedom.”

Her head turned back to me.

“No,” she said, voice trembling. “I married you because I love you.”

She reached out, cupped my cheek with a hand that was steady despite her words.

“And because this is the only way I could stay me. The only chance I had to choose a different path. To be free.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s a hell of a thing to lay on someone you met yesterday.”

She smiled.

“I didn’t expect to love you,” she said. “Honestly. I was never trying to hurt you. I saw you upstairs just sitting there turning down all my girls. Like some stoic gargoyle. I felt like it was a challenge. I was just gonna show you a good time, party, then drop you off naked somewhere with your memories of the night erased.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to mine.

“But I fell in love with the man who never bowed. The man who made my mother smirk. And gave me his fondest memory. I want this. You. Us. Real.”

I closed my eyes. Held her hand to my chest. And realized I’d wanted nothing more in my life than to be with Elaria.

Our fingers were still laced. Her forehead pressed to mine, her breath warm and steady. The truth hung between us like a vow, still raw and echoing in the ancient stone.

“Hey.”

We both turned.

Mike stood in the entry to the alcove, bleary-eyed and covered in something that might’ve once been cake or possibly magical moss. His tie was wrapped around his forehead like a sweatband, and he was squinting like the light itself was trying to pick a fight.

“Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, “but we’re… uh… we’re all tapping out.”

Behind him, the frat brigade looked wrecked. Shirts untucked, glitter in places glitter should never be, walking like men who had survived a small war. Larry had a bandage on his ear. Tim was being half-carried by Brian and Tony. Derek and Eric were arguing with a goblin over who won a thumb war that happened an hour ago.

“We’re heading back to the hotel,” Mike mumbled. “I think… I think Brian tried to do shots with a dryad who turned into a tree halfway through.”

“She said she was open to a relationship,” Brian called from somewhere behind him.

I looked at Elaria. She gave me a soft, knowing nod. “Let’s go.”

Together, we stepped out of the alcove and followed the boys up the winding stone stairs. The music from the ritual chamber faded behind us, replaced with the thumping bass of the strip club above. As we pushed through the hidden archway and stepped back onto the main floor, it was like surfacing from a dream.

Lights. Smoke. Thumping EDM.

Mike pulled out his phone and blinked at the screen.

“…It’s only 4am?!”

I blinked. “No way.”

“I lost my phone,” I muttered, patting my pockets. “Mr. Midnight has it. Is he still here?”

Derek pulled his out. “Yeah, mine says 4:02.”

Tim groaned. “We’ve been down there for days, man.”

Elaria let out a soft laugh beside me, wings fluttering just enough to catch the club lights.

“The chamber is located at the crossroads,” she said with a grin. “Time moves slower in there. What felt like hours was… minutes up here.”

Mike stared at her, then at me.

“Dude. You time-traveled through your own wedding. That’s wild.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Vegas, baby.”

Mike threw an arm around my shoulder. “This is way better than that time Derek woke up next to a mannequin.”

“It was an art installation,” Derek muttered.

We made our way toward the exit, stumbling and limping, Elaria still at my side. The Strip glowed in the distance, alive and indifferent.

The hotel lobby was a blessed kind of quiet—dim lights, soft carpet, the distant hum of the front desk printer chewing through some poor tourist’s receipt.

Mike and the boys stumbled through the revolving doors like survivors crawling across a finish line. Brian dropped his wallet. Larry picked it up and accidentally dropped his pants. No one seemed to notice. As we crossed the marble floor, Elaria suddenly tugged my arm and stopped us just shy of the elevators.

“Wait,” she said softly.

She turned back to the guys—seven exhausted, staggering, magic-saturated frat boys with just enough energy left to argue about who gets what in the minibar.

Elaria raised her hand. Fingers traced through the air, shimmering faintly with pale green light. Her lips moved, too fast for me to catch the words. The glamour spell swept over them like a soft breeze.

None of them even blinked.

Derek muttered something about “artistic license” and pushed the elevator button. They piled in, grunting, mumbling, already half-asleep on their feet.

I turned to her, narrowing my eyes just a little.

“What’d you just do?”

She didn’t look guilty. Just practical.

“Simple glamour,” she said. “They won’t forget anything. They’ll just… remember it differently.”

“Differently how?”

“To them, it was an elaborate underground theater performance. Some avant-garde, midsummer night’s dream, Fae cosplay bachelor party-slash-shotgun wedding experience.”

I stared at her.

She grinned. “Very exclusive. Very immersive. Totally explainable.”

I laughed. Loud and hard.

“Yeah,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “That might be for the best. Otherwise, they might try to summon a succubus at their next frat party.”

“Exactly,” she said, and her eyes sparkled as I leaned in and kissed her—slow and warm, tasting faintly of magic and midnight and the most surreal night of my life.

The front desk agent walked up to us and handed us a room key.

“Here you are Lady Ivy. Enjoy your master suite, compliments of the house. Congratulations on the wedding.”

I didn’t even question it by that point.

The elevator dinged. We stepped inside, still holding hands, still smiling. As the doors slid closed and the city outside faded behind us, I realized something simple and ridiculous and wonderful.

I’d fallen in love in less than a day. And somehow, that wasn’t even the weirdest part.

The hotel room door clicked shut behind us, muting the world with blessed silence. Faint city lights outside cast gold and blue shadows across the glorious luxurious room through the window. The king-size bed looked like a cloud you dream of collapsing into after a lifetime of chasing storms.

Elaria stood just inside the door, her back to me. With one slow motion, she reached behind and unfastened her dress. The fabric slipped down her body like spilled shadow, pooling at her feet with a whisper of silk. Her wings shimmered in the dim light, folding close as she turned, bare and utterly unashamed. Even exhausted, she was breathtaking. And somehow, the way she looked at me was even more seductive than the sight of her body.

“I thought Fae were supposed to sleep in trees,” I murmured as I pulled off my shirt, toeing out of my jeans with a clumsy, end-of-night effort.

She smiled.

“Only when there’s no better place to land.”

I climbed into bed. Just aching muscles and the raw hum of everything we’d been through. She joined me, slipping beneath the sheets, her bare skin sliding against mine as she nestled close.

We didn’t speak.

My hand found hers. Fingers entwined. She shifted her head against my chest, and I brushed a few strands of moss-dark hair from her face. Her scent was like wildflowers after the rain. The curve of her back fit perfectly against me, her wings twitching once before going still and fading away. I could feel her heartbeat through my ribs.

I kissed her temple. She sighed.

Outside, Las Vegas pulsed and flashed.

But in here? It was quiet. Warm.

And as our breathing slowed, and the last of the adrenaline bled away into peace, we drifted together into sleep—naked, tangled, and safe.

Chapter Nineteen

The cold tile was less comforting now. But something had shifted, like the gravity in the room had changed. Or maybe I had.

I blinked up at the ceiling from the bathroom floor, the sharp scent of mouthwash and whatever haunted those tiny hotel soaps curling in my nose. Outside, muffled voices and drunken whooping bled through the walls. My stomach had finally stopped trying to murder me.

My head… not so much. But it was clearer now. Clear enough to remember.

All of it.

The dryads. The chocolate fountain. The trials. The Three Kisses. Titania’s silver stare. Oberon’s silent judgment. The slow, quiet confession beneath starlight and champagne haze.

The marriage.

I lifted my hand. The ring was still there, catching the dim light like it belonged. Like it had always been there. I turned it slowly, the weight of it no longer unfamiliar. This one remains a mystery, I'm not sure how I even got it.

But it was mine now. Ours, I guess.

I exhaled, long and steady. One of those breaths you let out when everything’s changed and you’re still trying to catch up. Then I groaned as I rolled onto my side and pushed myself upright. My joints cracked in protest. My spine made a sound like a haunted accordion.

“Okay, cowboy,” I muttered to myself, dragging a hand over my face. “You’ve had worse mornings.”

Probably. But not by much.

Somewhere behind the closed bathroom door, Elaria was still sleeping. 

My wife.

God, that was still wild to say, even in my head.

I stood, stretched, and ran cold water over my face. Looked in the mirror. I looked like hell—hair a mess, stubble uneven, eyes bloodshot—but there was something new in the reflection.

Was it resolve? Or was it the look of a dead man walking…

I stepped quietly into the hotel room to find out.

Morning light bled through the curtains, casting soft beams across the sheets. She was there, still curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, wings tucked and glowing faintly in the dim sun.

I crossed to the edge of the bed and sat gently, careful not to wake her just yet. I just watched her breath. The weight of my decisions last night should be pressing down on me. But they don’t. If anything it was less. I feel at ease now. As if the sight of her naked body brought me more than just comfort.

My fingers brushed her hair, slow and deliberate. I could still feel the echo of her breath on my skin from the night before. I remember the way she looked at me—like I was the first choice she ever made for herself. I didn’t know what would come next. What her mother will do. What this marriage would mean beyond magic and words.

But I knew I wanted to be with her.

I leaned down, kissed her forehead, then stood and crossed to the window. Pulled the curtain open just enough to let the light spill in. I turned back to the bed, hand on her cheek.

I smiled. Then said, softly, “Hey… time to wake up, Elaria.”

The light filtered through the curtain, soft and golden, brushing across the sheets and catching on her skin like she’d been painted in morning.

Elaria stirred slowly, one arm sliding across the bed until her hand found mine. Her eyes fluttered open, molten amber and drowsy, unfocused for half a second, then locking onto me. She smiled. That slow, sleepy kind of smile. The one people don’t fake.

“Good morning, husband,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.

“Hey,” I said, crossing the room back to her. “Figured it was time to start the day.”

Her fingers reached out, curled gently around mine, tugging me closer. I sat back down on the edge of the bed and leaned in.

“You’re still wearing your ring,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over it.

“You’re still wearing yours,” I said. “Thought we’d keep a good thing going.”

Her laugh was quiet, warm. “I dreamed I was riding a horse.”

“You sure that wasn’t just the pixie dust?”

Elaria gave me a playful look. I leaned in. She met me halfway. I pulled her down with me. She followed, gladly.

The kiss started slowly and gently. Just the press of lips, the warmth of breath shared between us. But it deepened quickly, like a spark catching on dry grass. Her hand found the back of my neck, pulling me closer. My arms slid around her waist, her bare skin like silk. Her wings twitched, brushing the sheets, catching the light. She shifted, pushing me off. Then rolled on top of me, straddling my lap. Her legs warm against my hips, her lips never leaving mine.

“I want this,” she whispered between kisses.

“Me too.” I said, my voice low.

The space between us disappeared. Sheets tangled. Breaths hitched. The morning light wrapped around us as her body pressed against mine, familiar and new all at once. There was no rush, no frenzy—just heat, and closeness, and passion that only comes after chaos. Her lips are soft against mine, my hands finding her breasts. I hold my breath as she slowly grabs the waistband of my boxers, then easing them down. I spring free, fully hard and throbbing.

Elaria’s eyes widened. “Oh wow,” she breathes, staring at my size. “I thought it felt big.”

She wraps her fingers around my shaft and starts stroking slowly. Both hands began gliding up and down the length of me. I moan at the sensation, my hips instinctively thrusting into her hands.

“You like that?” she asks with a smirk, increasing the speed of her strokes. Alternating directions with each hand.

“Yeah,” I manage to reply, trying to focus on anything other than the overwhelming pleasure coursing through my body.

Elaria continues to stroke me while her other hand reaches down to cup my balls. She kneads them gently.

“Holy fuck,” I groan. I grit my teeth, trying desperately to hold back. “Ella, shit, that feels so good. Slow down.”

She smirks, clearly enjoying the return of the power she had over me. Her thumb swirls over my sensitive head, spreading the string of pre-cum that’s formed there. “Already so close?” she teases.

I can’t take it anymore.

I pull her hands away and guide her down onto the ridiculously soft bed. I spread her legs wide and lowered my mouth to her dripping wet womanhood, running my tongue along her opening. Elaria gasps, her hips bucking up against my face. I lick and suck, circling it with my tongue. Her rich, floral scent fills my senses as I bury my face deep between her thighs. I savor the tangy sweetness while her wetness coats my lips and chin as I lap at her greedily, like a dog.

“Oh god, boy,” she moans, her fingers tangling in my hair. “That feels so good.”

I kept going, alternating between broad strokes with my tongue and focused attention on her clit. Her thighs are trembling as I slide two fingers inside her, feeling how incredibly wet and warm she is. Her inner walls clench around my fingers as I thrust them in and out, curling them upward to stroke her inside.

“Fuck! Oh fuck!” Elaria cries out, her thighs grinding against my ears. “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop!”

I pump my fingers faster, sucking hard. She’s so wet now, my fingers gliding easily as I slide into her faster with them. Her walls clenched in pulses around my fingers.

“Holy shit, holy fucking shit!” she screams, voice echoing off the suite's walls. “I’m gonna come, Drew, I’m gonna…!”

Her entire body tenses as she climaxes, a flood of wetness coating my fingers and chin. I keep licking and stroking her through the orgasm until she pushes my head away, unable to take anymore.

Elaria’s body is still shaking, soft moans escaping her lips. I had to time it right and take advantage of her first orgasm. I grab her hips and flip her over onto her stomach in one swift motion. She gasps in surprise as I yank her butt up, positioning her on her hands and knees as I slowly slide my tip into her.

“OH MY GOD!” she screams as her eyes widen in shock. “Go slow, it's big!”

I groan at how incredibly tight and warm she feels around me. I move, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in as far as I can go. Elaria cries out with each thrust, her nails digging into the sheets.

“Oh, yes!” Elaria cries out as I pound into her. I tangle my fingers in her moss green hair, pulling it back roughly. She arches her back, wings fluttering softly, pressing her ass against me.

“Yes! Oh yes!” She screams. “Fuck me harder!”

I grip her hip with one hand, the other still pulling on her hair as I rolled my hips into her relentlessly. Her face is pressed into the mattress, muffling what sounds like animalistic grunts. I imagined her on that mechanical bull. But this time I was the bull… and I was gonna ride her back just as hard.

“Holy fuck, holy fuck,” Elaria pants, her body still shuddering. “I can’t... I can’t take it anymore...”

The wet sounds of me plunging in and out of her are deafening. Elaria’s whole body shakes with the force of my thrusts. Her wings spread and pulses of glimmering purple-pink radiate each time I push into her. I can feel her inner walls clenching around me as another orgasm builds.

She cries out, her voice trembling with pleasure.

“Oh god, Drew! You’re going to make me come again! You’re going to make me come again!!!”

Her body tenses as the second orgasm hits her like a tidal wave. Her whole body convulses, her walls clamping down on my shaft with incredible force. She lets out another wail of ecstasy that echoes off the suite’s walls. Her wings shudder and twitch as they glow brightly before fading. 

But I’m not done yet. I pull out and flip her onto her back again, hooking her legs over my shoulders.

“YES! Look at me while you fuck me!” She demanded.

I slam back into her, with long, deep strokes. Our foreheads met. My eyes locking onto the deep pools of molten copper inside her own. We said nothing. Just grunted at each other, I could feel her hot breath against my cheeks.

It only encouraged me, I increased the intensity of thrusting.

Elaria’s eyes rolled back in her head as I plunged deeper inside her. I can feel my own orgasm building, pressure mounting in my balls. My thrusts become erratic as I get closer to the edge. Trying to maintain my rhythm as I slip closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, Ella,” I whimper. “I’m ready. Where do you want it?”

Elaria’s eyes lock onto mine, burning with lust.

“On my face Drew,” she pants breathlessly. “I want to feel you all over me.”

I groan at her words, pulling out quickly. Elaria stays on her back, tilting her head up slightly as I straddle her waist. She grips my length, stroking it rapidly as she aims at her upturned face and open mouth.

“Oh fuck.”

With a loud moan, I explode. Thick ropes shoot out, splattering across Elaria’s cheeks and lips. She gasps as more spurts land on her face, some dripping into her open mouth. I keep pumping, coating her face. Pearly white streaks cover her flushed green skin as I empty the last of myself onto her.

I collapse next to her on the bed, both of us breathing heavily. Elaria snuggles against me, not seeming to care about the sticky mess covering her face.

“That was… dangerous.” I say, still catching my breath.“

Elaria smiled. “You survived.”

“Barely. I think you melted part of my soul.”

Elaria started trailing kisses along my neck. “Just the part you weren’t using.”

“Is this a Fae thing? Because if that’s standard, I might not make it to our anniversary.”

“Then we’ll just have to make the most of tonight.” she whispers into my ear

“You’re insatiable.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when you pinned me down.” She said grinning

“Was too busy seeing stars.”

“Good. I plan on giving you a whole constellation before sunrise.”

I lie back and close my eyes as Elaria’s fingers wrap around my already hardening cock. I can’t help but think there might be some Faerie magic involved, but either way, I was already ready for round two.

Chapter Twenty

The sun was too bright. Not in a bad way, just that kind of “Vegas afternoon” brightness that made your soul squint. We sat poolside, shaded under a wide cabana umbrella, two lounge chairs pushed close together, legs tangled, sunglasses on.

There was a plate of food between us. Greasy, glorious, and necessary. Bacon, fries, something that claimed to be an omelet, and enough fruit to feel morally balanced.

Elaria leaned back in her chair, wearing oversized sunglasses and one of those flowy poolside robes that did absolutely nothing to hide her shapely form. Her hair was still damp from a quick dip in the pool. She was back in her human form.

“You realize,” she said, poking a fork at a strawberry, “we technically consummated a royal marriage this morning.”

I smirked. “We consummated it three times.”

She laughed, a musical sound that made the old man in the pool drop his margarita.

“Overachiever,” she teased, and popped the strawberry into my mouth before I could fire back.

I chewed slowly, giving her a sideways look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She grinned, lips curling just slightly as she leaned in and whispered, “It’s a very good thing.”

My ears went red. She noticed. She looked pleased. We both burst out laughing. She curled closer into my side, sipping from a tall glass of something tropical and poolside-approved. Her fingers played with mine lazily, like she wasn’t even thinking about it, just… content.

“I still can’t believe we’re married,” I said.

“I can,” she replied, reaching over to feed me a bite of bacon. “You’re good with your hands.”

“You married me for the charm.”

“And the stamina.”

That earned a snort from me. I nearly choked on the bacon. She kissed my cheek, then rested her head on my shoulder.

“I like this,” she said quietly.

“What, poolside brunch in Vegas?”

“No,” she murmured. “Us. Just… being. Together. In the sun. Just real.”

My hand squeezed hers. “Same.”

We sat there for a long while, feeding each other bits of fruit and fries, nursing our hangovers and smiling like fools. Every so often we’d glance at each other, and that same stupid grin would start all over again. She shifted in her seat, curling her legs up on the lounge chair and tilting her head toward me with a playful grin.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out like she was testing it for flavor, “does this mean I’m your plus-one now?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean for, like, life?”

“Mmm. I was thinking of brunches, awkward family dinners, and weddings where people don’t know I’m a literal Fae princess.”

“Speaking of,” I said, dragging a fry through some unholy dipping sauce, “you do know the actual reason I came to Las Vegas was for Mike’s wedding, right?”

She blinked once. Then grinned. A grin that said you just fell for my trap card.

“Ohhh, right. The other wedding.”

“Yeah,” I said, already bracing. “That’s tomorrow…”

She sipped her drink like she’d just remembered and didn’t care in equal measure.

“Are you letting me go?”

I gave her a look.

“Do you want to? I’d like it if you did.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “No, I was just hinting at it because I don’t want to go…”

I leaned in and kissed her, slow and deliberate. I chuckled, relief blooming in my chest.

“Good. I want you there. Even if it’s a disaster.”

“It will be a disaster,” she said cheerfully. “And I look forward to judging every second of it.”

I sat back and exhaled, the Vegas sun warming my bare chest. “It might be… a little awkward.”

“You think?” she said, gesturing lazily.

“Okay, but we do need a better cover story.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Something grounded,” I said. “Believable. Like... we met at the hotel bar and really hit it off.”

“Incredibly believable,” she said dryly. “Especially the part where we both lost a poker game to a talking cat with a royal flush.”

I shrugged. “I dunno. People believe weirder things in Vegas.”

She laughed, leaned in again, and pressed her lips to mine, soft and slow and full of that same “I can’t believe I like you this much” energy we’d been riding since last night. When she pulled away, her forehead rested against mine.

“You know,” she murmured, “I’m not great at pretending.”

“Then don’t,” I said. “Just be with me.”

“I already am.”

We sat there a moment longer, poolside, newlywed, hungover, tangled up in sun and sarcasm and the kind of love that doesn’t need spells to feel real. Tomorrow, we’d figure out how to explain this to the world. Today? We were fine right here.

I heard them before I saw them.

Mike and the boys stumbled out onto the sunlit patio—shirtless, and somehow still riding the last waves of party momentum like they hadn’t just been deep-fried in magical chaos ten hours ago.

“THERE HE IS!” Mike bellowed, pointing at me like I was a celebrity sighting.

They lumbered across the deck like hungover frat royalty. Eric had pool floaties strapped to his arms. Derek was wearing two different sandals and sipping out of a coconut. Larry was holding a half-eaten donut and a rubber duck. They all collapsed into lounge chairs with synchronized groans.

Mike plopped down next to me, eyes bloodshot but wide with memory—or what he thought was memory.

“So…” he started, squinting at me, “you really married one of the strippers.”

Elaria, beside me, sipped her mimosa with the grace of a queen slumming it in a cabana robe. She didn’t even blink.

“She owns the Strip Club,” I said.

“Dude,” Mike said seriously, leaning in like he was about to tell a secret, “we went underground. Like, under Las Vegas. And there were actors, and like… fog machines? And everything was in Old English. It was classy.”

Brian nodded, eyes distant. “It was, like, some kind of Bohemian Grove wedding thing.”

“Very immersive,” Larry added. “Had, like, layers… of immersion. And I got that silver haired hotties number!”

“Pretty sure it was a green screen and make up,” Derek said, sipping on my orange juice. “Or animatronics. One of those.”

Brian chimed in, solemn. “There were fairies.”

“There were a lot of fairies,” Mike said. “She was dressed like one,” he motioned at Elaria, “and you fell in love instantly. Like a fairy tale.”

“I do have that effect,” she said smoothly, not even bothering to correct them.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. It slipped out, helpless and warm.

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. “Something like that.”

Mike grinned, slapping my shoulder. “Man, it was beautiful. You had sparkles in your hair. I cried, bro.”

“I believe you.”

“And then we all got drinks and did… something with a tree? And the turkey leg!”

They all gasped like that detail unlocked a memory slot.

“Oh, right!” Tim shouted. “The tall dude! The frozen king or whatever… he stole my turkey leg!”

Elaria leaned toward me, murmuring behind her glass, “Your brother’s friends are very easily glamoured.”

“You say that like it’s a challenge,” I whispered back.

“Wait… where’s… what’s his name? Nick?” I asked, squinting like the name might appear in the air if I focused hard enough.

Mike laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, he took off with one of the strippers. Red-haired one. He texted us this morning. Should be on his way here soon.”

I turned to Elaria, brow raised. “You didn’t glamour him?”

She shrugged with casual grace, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s no big deal. I’ll get him next time I see him if it’s a problem.”

I laughed, nervously. The kind of laugh that said sure, that sounds perfectly normal and not terrifying at all.

We watched as the boys, somehow, again, shifted into party mode—someone had already turned on music, and Eric was cannonballing into the pool

I leaned back in my chair, sliding my hand into Elaria’s.

“They’re ridiculous,” I said.

“They’re easily convinced,” she replied. “I’d say I nailed the glamour.”

“You gave them exactly the story they’d want to remember,” I said.

She smirked. “The best glamours are rooted in what the heart wants to believe.”

I squeezed her hand. “And I still remember the real version.”

“Good,” she said, resting her head against my shoulder. “So do I.”

We watched the boys splash and yell and relive whatever version of last night they believed. But for me and her, there was no more pretending. Just sun. Warm skin. Holding hands. And the laughter that only comes when you’ve faced madness and come out the other side together.

Mike and the boys had shifted into full pool-mode chaos.

Brian was floating on an inflatable unicorn, trying to joust Derek, who was armed with a pool noodle and wearing a life vest that squeaked every time he moved. Larry had taken up DJ duties on a waterproof speaker and was blasting a playlist he’d titled “Poolside Bangers Vol. 12.”

Tim was throwing mini bottles of champagne into the pool and diving after them like frat-house dolphins.

“SHOTGUN POOL PONG!” someone screamed. No one knew what that meant. That didn’t stop them.

Elaria patted my hand gently, her eyes never leaving the slow-motion trainwreck across the pool.

“Darling,” she whispered, in the same tone someone might use to tell you they’re about to summon a demon, “we need to go shopping.”

I blinked. “I brought clothes.”

She turned to me, with the slow, pitying look a queen gives a peasant who just offered her cargo shorts.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “You did. I saw them.”

“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, already regretting it.

“They’re very… practical.” She wrinkled her nose delicately. “Which is great for, say, repairing a fence. Less so for attending a formal human wedding.”

I squinted at her. “You just want an excuse to buy a dress.”

“I need a nice dress,” she corrected, brushing a bit of hair off her shoulder with dramatic flair. “One that says, ‘Yes, I’m stunning, magical, and just a bit untouchable, but I’m also here for the open bar.’”

I smirked and nudged her. “Human customs are to try not to upstage the bride. It’s not like the Fae realm.”

Her face scrunched in mock offense—eyes narrowing, nose wrinkling just enough to make her look absurdly cute.

“I won’t go all out,” she said, raising her hand like she was swearing a sacred vow. “Just… a tasteful amount of stunning. And you, my love, will need to match me.”

“Oh joy,” I muttered. “Am I going to have glitter on me again?”

“No more than usual.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “Fine. I’ll buy something that doesn’t smell like leather and gunpowder.”

She beamed and kissed my cheek, triumphant.

Across the pool, Derek cannonballed directly onto a floating cooler, sending beers and curses in all directions. Mike raised his drink and saluted us from the shallow end like a proud dad watching his sons cause property damage.

“I give them another hour before someone gets kicked out,” I said.

“Fifteen minutes, tops,” Elaria replied, already standing and pulling me up with her.

Shopping with a fae princess? Dangerous.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Strip was still recovering from last night’s chaos. Too early for the real chaos, too late for the dreamers to be asleep.

Elaria strolled beside me, fingers intertwined with mine, sunglasses too big for her face, iced coffee in hand. She was quiet, but not in her usual calculating way. Just content. Happy.

It was new. Different. Less mischievous, more present. And somehow, even more beautiful.

We stopped at a boutique tucked between two overpriced jewelry stores. Elaria beelined for the dresses like she’d been here before. The clerk, a woman with purple hair and a nose ring, didn’t even blink when Elaria asked if they had anything in “moonlit violet, floor-length, and capable of inspiring longing.”

“Oh honey,” the clerk said, “I got you.”

I hung near the front, sipping my own coffee, pretending I knew what a cut bias was.

From the dressing room, Elaria called, “Andrew?”

“Yeah?”

“If I come out and you fall to your knees, I expect praise and an offering.”

“That’s pretty much been our marriage so far.”

She laughed. It warmed something in me I hadn’t known was still cold. Then stepped out in a gown that flowed like liquid gold and shimmered in the light—simple, elegant, somehow both understated and impossible to ignore.

“You like it?” she asked.

I blinked. “I want to punch a man just for looking at you.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

“Give me time.”

We visited three more shops. She charmed every clerk. By the end of the second one, they were offering her champagne and gossiping like they’d known her for years. In the third store, while I tried on a suit that didn’t make me look like a ranch hand crashing a wedding, I caught her watching me in the mirror.

“What?” I asked, adjusting the collar.

She shrugged, eyes soft. “You clean up well, cowboy.”

“You always gonna look at me like that when I put on fancy pants?”

“Only when you keep them on,” she said with a wink.

We walked back through the shopping center as the sun dipped low. She carried her dress, I carried my suit. Neither of us said much. She leaned into my side. I didn’t ask where her wings were hiding. I didn’t care. And I realized, I liked this version of her just as much as the mysterious one who danced barefoot under secret strip club stone chambers. Maybe more.

We still hadn’t found the dress. And while I figured Elaria already looked incredible in just about anything, including nothing, she was determined. The right dress had to feel like her. Like freedom. Like magic without the crown.

So we kept walking.

Vegas pulsed around us, neon lights flickering to life as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Tourists wandered in clusters, drinks in hand, music blaring from every other open-air bar. And the cosplayers were out in force. Batman was arguing with Pikachu about smoking too close to the M&M store. A surprisingly accurate Chewbacca gave me a solemn nod as he passed.

Elaria paused, watching it all with an amused, distant expression. “This place is like a dream someone forgot to finish.”

“That’s Vegas,” I said. “Only place in the world you can get a photo with Spider-Man, Elvis, and a shirtless gladiator on the same corner.”

She grinned. “Let’s join them.”

Before I could answer, she pulled me toward a crowd gathered around a group of costumed performers. We posed with a Disney princess crew, a group of anime characters I couldn’t name, and a guy dressed like a very tired Shrek.

I smiled through it all, content just to see her happy. And then…

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’ve decided something.”

“Oh no,” I said immediately. “I know that look.”

She winked. “It’s our honeymoon, darling. Time to give the people a real show.”

And just like that, with a shimmer of air and a flick of her fingers… She changed. Suddenly, Elaria wasn’t just Elaria anymore.

Her true Fae form bloomed like moonlight in motion—her skin glowing faintly with that soft pearlescent green sheen, wings stretched, translucent and shimmering with every color the Strip lights could offer. She stepped into the open like she belonged there.

And the crowd noticed.

Gasps turned into laughter, cameras lifted, and kids squealed. Adults blinked like they’d had one drink too many. They thought she was part of the show. A really good cosplayer. Little girls ran up with their parents, asking for photos. A group of women with sashes and plastic tiaras begged for a selfie with the “fairy princess.” One old man just stared, a smile cracking slowly across his face as she leaned in and kissed his bald head.

I just stood there, hands in my pockets, watching her glow in the middle of it all—charming, graceful, breathtaking. And completely, unmistakably herself. Of course she’d do this. Of course the people would embrace it.

And I loved her for it.

Eventually, after she’d waved her last goodbye, she ducked down a side street with me in tow. We slipped behind a row of slot machines glowing in a shop window, and with a subtle shimmer, she glamoured back into her human form—though the glow in her smile lingered a little longer.

“Feel better?” I asked.

She slipped her arm through mine. “Much.”

“Pretty sure someone proposed to you back there.”

“Twice,” she said cheerfully. “Three times if you count the little boy with the foam Thor hammer.”

“Jealous,” I muttered.

She laughed and leaned into me. “Don’t be. I already married the one human who didn’t bow.”

I kissed her temple. And we walked on—hand in hand, surrounded by light, magic, and people who had no idea they’d just met a real Faerie princess.

Still no dress. I had a feeling she’d find it. And even if she didn’t, she was already the most unforgettable thing on the Strip.

We wandered a little farther off the Strip, into one of those weird in-between zones. Where the sidewalks cracked just a little more and the neon gave way to flickering signs and the smell of old hot dogs.

A homeless man sat propped against a parking meter, his sun-leathered face peeking out from under a threadbare hoodie. He held a cardboard sign in one hand that read, in shaky marker.

“Ninjas killed my family. Need money for whiskey and kung-fu lessons.”

Elaria stopped. Just stopped mid-step, like her whole body had recognized something the rest of us missed. She let go of my arm, stepped toward him, and reached into a little glamoured pouch she kept somewhere in the folds of her sundress. She pulled out a handful of crumpled bills and a few casino chips. Easily a couple hundred bucks.

“Here,” she said with a warm smile. “For the beer. And be sure to kill them slowly.”

The man blinked like she’d just kissed him on the forehead with sunlight.

Then he laughed. “Are you some kind of angel?”

“Wrong realm,” she said, and walked back to me.

I watched the whole thing and shook my head, lips tugging into a half-smile, half-frown. “You know they’re just gonna spend it on heroin or something worse, right?”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Maybe,” she said. “But for a moment, that money will give him a choice. A little happiness. And that matters. I don’t need it, anyway.”

I stared at her for a beat. Then reached over and pulled her close, an arm around her waist. The warmth of her body pressed into mine, her scent soft.

She glanced up at me with a small, sly smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled. “Just… seeing you. Really seeing you.”

She blushed, just barely, and nudged me with her hip.

“Come on, cowboy. You still need to match my vibe tomorrow night.”

We walked on, the shopping district unfolding ahead of us. Another street, another crowd, and another chance to fall a little more in love. And I knew then, without a doubt… This was real.

And I was in it. All the way.

We’d passed five more stores. One had “urban luxury” written in gold script on the windows and looked like it actively judged my dirty boots. Another was so sterile I thought they’d issue lab coats at the door. Elaria poked her head in, wrinkled her nose, and pulled me right back out.

And then we found it.

Tucked between a dusty psychic reading booth and a FunkPop souvenir shop, the boutique looked like it had been forgotten by time, and good marketing. Just a small sign in chipped paint that read:

“Tomorrow's Best.”

Elaria froze in front of it.

“Here,” she whispered.

I raised a brow. “This place looks like it sells haunted prom dresses.”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes glowing. “Come on!”

The ship was filled with a soft golden light, velvet curtains. Dresses hung like stories waiting to be told. No racks or sales tags. Just one garment per mannequin, each more intricate than the last. The woman behind the counter was an ancient, little Asian lady. She said nothing as Elaria wandered the shop like it had been waiting just for her.

And then she stopped.

A dress hung alone near the back, caught in a beam of sun slicing through a crack in the ceiling. Floor-length. Subtle shimmer, like starlight trapped in silk. Midnight blue, kissed with hints of violet when it moved. Delicate embroidery along the sides—nothing flashy, but intricate, detailed, thoughtful. She reached out and ran her fingers along the sleeve. Just once.

“This one,” she whispered. “It’s… me.”

I didn’t say anything as we made our way to the fitting rooms. I took a seat and waited. Then the door creaked open. And there she was. And she looked like a secret whispered by the stars.

She turned once, arms out slightly. “Well?”

I stood without thinking. Made the sign of the cross, just like Babcia would do. Then I crossed over to her in three slow steps.

“You’re gonna destroy that wedding,” I said.

“Good,” she whispered. “But only if you’re standing beside me while I do.”

I leaned in and kissed her. Her hand slid against my chest. Mine found the small of her back.

“I love you,” I said quietly.

Her forehead rested against mine. “I love you.”

She gave me a slow spin in the dress; the fabric catching the soft hotel light like moonlight on dark water.

I was still half-stunned. So I tried to distract myself.

“And what about me?” I asked, gesturing down at my well-worn jeans and dusty button-down. “I assume I need a tux or something? Maybe a royal robe fit for a Prince?”

She stepped closer, adjusting my collar with a teasing smile.

“No,” she said simply. “I like the dusty, worn look. Cowboy tuxedo. It’s… fucking sexy.”

I squinted at her. “Uh-huh.”

She tried to keep a straight face. Failed. “Okay, fine. I mostly said that because I wanted an excuse to drag you shopping.”

“Shocking,” I said, deadpan. “Truly.”

She grinned and leaned her head against my shoulder. “But really… I do like it. It’s very you.”

I gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, if I’m going full cowboy chic, I guess I need to replace my hat.”

That made her stiffen ever so slightly. She gave me the tiniest, guilty shrug.

“I’m so sorry about your hat. Seriously, you have no idea how much it means to me now.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.” I groaned. “That thing survived three Fourth of July bonfires and one bar brawl in Odessa. It was only a matter of time until it bit the dust. I don’t even remember where I got it.”

She winced, then reached out and smoothed a hand down my chest, eyes wide.

“That was your hat, Andrew! I owe you a new one now.”

I shook my head, trying to hold onto the glare, but it was a lost cause. “You don’t owe me a new hat. It’s not your fault the wind blew it off my head. Seriously Ella, it’s no big deal.”

“No,” she said, perking up. “We’ll find one. Something… you. Maybe with a little enchanted stitching. Ooh, maybe one that glows…”

“No.”

She laughed and leaned up to kiss me quickly.

“You’re cute when you’re hatless and grumpy.”

I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.”

“I know.”

Her forehead pressed to mine.

She made the purchase—if that’s what you could call it when the clerk asked for “a token with true meaning” instead of cash. Elaria handed her a ring. Not her wedding band. Something older.

I didn’t ask.

We stepped out of the boutique, the bell above the door giving a cheerful ding that didn’t quite match the eerie hush of the alley outside. Elaria walked beside me, carrying her dress with the kind of satisfaction usually reserved for people who just won something on a game show. I was already planning how I’d survive tomorrow’s wedding with dignity and a moderately priced new hat.

Then I heard a haunting, slow melody. It floated down the street. It sounded like a violin, worn and mournful, in a way that didn’t quite fit the grimy Vegas alley. The sound that made time pause for a second.

That guy in the hotdog suit stood under a flickering sign, bow gliding smoothly across the strings. A small crowd had gathered, enchanted, dropping dollars into his open case. The violin music lured us down a quieter stretch of the Strip, where the crowd thinned and the glitter gave way to cracked pavement and neon halos.

But it wasn’t him that stopped me cold. It was the chair next to him. On it sat a sleek black cat, tail coiled neatly around its paws, green eyes glowing like emeralds dipped in sarcasm. And perched atop his smug little head?

My goddamn cowboy hat.

Elaria stopped beside me, blinked once, and immediately started giggling.

“Oh no,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. “It’s him.”

“Mr. Midnight,” I muttered, striding forward like a man confronting his most annoying unpaid tab.

The cat blinked slowly, stretched like he’d just awoken from a ten-year nap, and gave me a look so smug it bordered on divine.

“Well,” came that rich, posh voice velvety smooth, “if it isn’t my two favorite errand runners.”

“Give me one good reason not to put you in a box and mail you to the Seelie Court.”

Mr. Midnight yawned. “Somebody already tried that once… it didn’t end well for them.”

“I knew it,” she said. “You didn’t disappear. You just ghosted us.”

“I fulfilled my end of the arrangement,” Midnight said, lazily grooming a paw.

I stared at him. At the hat perched atop the smug, shadowy little head of the one feline creature I hoped I’d never see again—and somehow also kind of missed.

“How did you even get that?” I asked, voice low, eyes narrowing. “It fell into a chasm in the Fae realm.”

Mr. Midnight licked his paw delicately, completely unbothered.

“I have my ways,” he said, as if that explained anything. “Also, I never did get the chance to thank you… for helping with my ritual. And padding my pocketbooks at the poker table. Lovely game, really. You two were delightful.”

“We were tricked,” I muttered.

“You were fun,” he corrected, tail flicking. “There’s a difference.”

Elaria stepped in, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes.

“What do you want for the hat, Midnight?”

He gave a low, purring chuckle. “Nothing sinister, my dear. I simply wish to offer my congratulations and extend my gratitude in the form of a simple gift.”

He tilted his head and somehow made the gesture look aristocratic. With a flick of his paw, the hat lifted from his head and floated in the air for a moment before settling gently in front of me, as if resting on an invisible cushion.

“Your hat,” he said. “Returned to its rightful owner. Consider it a wedding present.”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

Mr. Midnight blinked a few times in shock. Then we waved his paw again, and the hat drifted back over to his head.

Elaria looked shocked. “WHAT?! NO! That’s your hat! Your dad gave you that hat! When he taught you how to ride a horse!”

I looked at her, unconvinced.

“You’re crazy. My grandma taught me how to ride a horse. It’s old, but not that old. I think I found it in high school. Besides, I don’t want to get involved with Mr. Midnight again.” I said, waving the cat off.

“No! Seriously, you don't remember?”

“It’s not a big deal, El…”

She reached up and plucked the cowboy hat from Mr. Midnight’s head. He let out a startled yowl. Then handed it to me.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” She said, exasperated.

I picked it up. Placed it back on my head. It fit like it never left. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just an old hat.

Mr. Midnight purred, deep and pleased. “Oh, I can’t wait to see you two again.”

He leapt from the chair to the top of a trash can, tail high, and looked over his shoulder with glowing green eyes.

“I’ll be seeing you, husband of the Fae.”

And just like that he vanished again. Like he glitched out in a video game. The hotdog violinist didn’t even flinch. Probably thought the cat had just strolled off.

Elaria turned to me slowly, she gave me her best innocent grin.

“It’s just a dumb hat, Ella. I was thinking of getting a new one anyways.”

“No! I-I just like the way it looks on you. Please keep it.”

“Ok. Fine. Whatever, I don't kink shame.”

She narrowed her eyes, then grabbed my hand. We kept walking, the city humming around us. The shadows behind us felt just a little longer now. But in my heart, that old familiar weight settled back on my head—and, for better or worse, I was whole again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The sun over Las Vegas was brutal in the way only desert sunlight could be—bright enough to bleach out your regrets and hot enough to melt the soles off your boots if you stood still too long.

Mike stood up front at the altar, fidgeting like he’d just realized his vows were still crammed in his back pocket. The outdoor venue was beautiful—shaded with silk canopies, fairy lights strung across trimmed hedges, the kind of tasteful garden ceremony you only get when someone’s marrying into money.

Katie’s family had money. Old, real, high-society money. Money that smiled through bleached teeth and passed hors d’oeuvres you couldn’t pronounce. Her side of the aisle looked like a luxury car showroom with perfect hair and matching sunglasses.

The people on Mike’s side weren't my family. Not by blood. Related to my step-father. And well… Let’s just say they had character.

My Half-Aunt Lynn, who once tried to sell me essential oils to “cure masculinity,” was already two mimosas deep and flirting with Brian. One of my half-cousins wore cargo shorts with a tux jacket. And then there was me—hat freshly dusted off, suit pressed, boots shined to a respectable dull.

And I was still the most normal person on our half of the aisle.

Then came Elaria. She stepped into the courtyard like a breeze off a cooler, better world. She was in her human glamour, but she still didn’t look like anyone else here. Moss-green hair spilled down her back in loose waves, black eyeliner sharp enough to qualify as a weapon, and lips painted in deep, glossy green. Her dress, shimmering navy blue and purple with faint gold threads, hugged her like it was custom-stitched by someone with too much time and too much taste.

Heads turned. Whispers started like someone had changed the music without warning.

“Is that his date?”

“She looks like she models for something expensive.”

“Is green lipstick a thing now?”

I stood a little straighter as she walked toward me, heels silent on the stone path. She looked at me like I was the only thing worth noticing here, and my nerves—already doing laps—tripled.

“Hey,” I murmured when she reached me.

“Hey yourself,” she said, slipping her arm through mine like we’d been doing this forever.

“You look…” I hesitated, searching for a word that could carry the weight.

“Unreal?” she offered, lips curving.

“I was going to say perfect, but sure. Let’s go with suspiciously hot double spy from a Bond movie.”

She laughed quietly, eyes scanning the crowd. “So… this is the family?”

“Half of it. The half that didn’t bail or disappear into conspiracy theory podcasts.”

“And Katie’s?”

“Old oil money. They live in the big city. Dallas socialites.”

She gave a low whistle. “Well. Guess we better not scandalize them too much.”

I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You planning to?”

She leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “Only if they start it.”

I smirked, tried not to look too proud, and led her down the aisle. People watched. They whispered. Someone dropped a fork off a buffet plate. But with Elaria beside me, hand steady in mine, I didn’t care. I was ready for whatever came next. Even if it started with explaining why my wife looked like she hunted men for sport.

The ceremony began just as the sun dipped low behind the Las Vegas skyline, washing everything in that golden, too-perfect light that wedding photographers pray for.

Mike stood at the altar, looking like he was trying not to pass out or cry. He kept wiping his palms on his pants and shooting me panicked glances, like I had the power to stall time. I just gave him a subtle thumbs-up and the calm, steady expression of someone who had definitely not just survived a Fae blood rite marriage forty-eight hours ago.

Elaria sat beside me, poised and calm, hands folded delicately in her lap. She was composed. Not just behaving. She was graceful, sweet, and polite. She smiled at Katie’s grandmother. Complimented someone’s earrings. Even handed a flower back to a little girl who dropped it on the walk in. No chaos, glamour slips, or veiled threats to any aunt who side-eyed her hair.

I kept waiting for something to go wrong. For a cousin to start yelling, or a wineglass to shatter on its own, or a pixie to buzz out of her purse.

But nothing did.

The music played. Katie walked down the aisle in a dress made of clouds and money, her face glowing. Mike teared up the second he saw her, and I swear half the crowd followed.

The vows were simple. Sweet and real.

When they said “I do,” Elaria quietly reached over and took my hand. And I didn’t let go.

Things were normal. Beautiful, even. No hidden agendas or supernatural trials, so far. Just love, family, and the quiet hum of music as applause broke through the garden air.

They kissed. The officiant beamed. The crowd stood and clapped. And just like that, Mike was married.

The reception kicked off in a ballroom decked out like a high-society fever dream. White linen, gold trim, and centerpieces that looked like they required a floral engineering degree.

Elaria and I walked in together, hand in hand, and I caught the eyes of a few guests still trying to figure out who she was and how the hell I’d landed her.

Let ‘em wonder.

She looked around, nodded approvingly at the setup. “Very tasteful. For humans. Bland. But tasteful.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I muttered. “Someone’s gonna try to make a speech and ruin the moment.”

She smirked. “That someone… wouldn’t happen to be you?”

“Just wait for it,” I said, heading toward the open bar.

Behind us, music started playing, people cheered, and the party began. So far. So good. But I was still married to a fae. Which meant it was only a matter of time before the next weird thing showed up.

The reception was in full swing—glasses clinking, silverware chiming, the band warming up with something jazzy and suspiciously close to “Isn’t She Lovely.”

And speaking of lovely…

Elaria was on fire. Not literally, thank God. But socially? She was a diplomatic missile dressed in starlight and green lipstick.

“Your niece is adorable,” she said to my Half-Aunt Lynn, crouching down to compliment her glitter-covered toddler and earning herself a sincere hug from a woman who once told me masturbating would give me hairy palms. To my uncle, she said, “You must be Mike’s favorite relative… he has your eyes and your handsome nose.”

(He didn’t, but the man looked like he’d won the lottery.)

I just kept watching in silent awe as she worked the room like she was born for it. No spells, no glamours, just Elaria being charming.

I was introducing her to a circle of second cousins I barely remembered when Katie’s parents approached. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, tall, tasteful, and clearly bred for polite judgment.

“Andrew,” Mr. Grayson said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Glad to see you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, then hesitated. “Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson… this is my wife, Ella.”

Both of them blinked. Then blinked again.

Mrs. Grayson gave a tight, controlled smile. “Oh. We hadn’t heard…”

“It was sudden,” I blurted. “Very sudden. Sort of a… uh… Vegas moment.”

Elaria laughed, soft and perfect. “We fell in love quickly. He has this way of being incredibly frustrating and irresistible all at once.”

Mr. Grayson looked at me. I offered a sheepish shrug.

Elaria extended her hand, and Mrs. Grayson took it slowly—then smiled, clearly caught off guard by how warm and genuine she was.

“You’re… very striking,” she said carefully.

“So I’ve been told,” Elaria replied with a wink.

It was almost unfair how easily she won them over. Ten minutes in and I was certain Mrs. Grayson was already planning to send us on a honeymoon cruise and Mr. Grayson had mentally Googled “How to ride a horse.”

Then came the moment I’d been dreading—Elaria and Katie, face to face. Katie still had that post-married glow, champagne in hand and veil slightly askew. She turned when we approached, eyes wide.

“Andrew! And… wow! This is your wife?”

“Yeah,” I said. “This is Ella. It happened… fast.”

Katie blinked. Then smiled. “Well, your brother says you always take your time until the last possible second… and then go all in.”

“That’s accurate.” Elaria said while offering her hand. “You look stunning, sweetheart! The ceremony was beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Katie took her hand, and they shook. “I gotta admit… I didn’t see this coming. But… you seem really good together.”

“We are,” Elaria said, squeezing my arm. “He’s mine now. And I don’t plan on giving him back.”

Katie laughed. “Fair enough. Just don’t let him cook anything that requires more than two steps.”

“I’ve learned,” Elaria said. “We already had to get him a new phone.”

They shared a small laugh, and just like that, the moment passed. No tension or awkwardness. Just two women—one human, one fae—getting along better than anyone expected. I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Elaria leaned in and whispered, “You owe me for my good behavior.”

“I’ll pay you in cake,” I whispered back.

“Carrot… With the good cream cheese icing.” She grinned.

We blended back into the party. Hand in hand, charming everyone we met, and somehow managing to turn the impossible into something ordinary. We made a damn good team.

I should’ve seen it coming when Tim loosened his tie. One second, the reception was tasteful, string quartet playing Sinatra covers, champagne flutes sparkling, and guests making polite conversation under soft lighting.

The next?

“LET’S GOOOOO!” echoed across the dance floor as Tim slid into the center like a man about to challenge gravity to a duel.

Tim followed, already shirtless.

Brian had grabbed two champagne bottles and was dual-wielding them like a budget action hero, spraying foam in slow arcs while a very panicked waiter chased him down.

Derek commandeered the mic from the DJ, somehow convincing the man this was a good idea, and shouted, “THIS ONE’S FOR MIKE! OUR BROTHER! OUR LEGEND! OUR… I’m gonna be real… I’m like six bourbons in and I lost my train of thought but… I LOVE THIS DUDE!”

Cue the beat drop. And with that, the dance floor exploded. Mike, to his credit, held it together for about sixty seconds before Katie gave him a look that clearly said, “Fine. Go. Be stupid with your friends.” And he took it as permission from his queen. He dove in head first—literally, cartwheeling into a group hug with Larry and Derek.

Nick was dancing with a red-haired girl with silver tattoos that looked suspiciously like the banshee from our wedding.

I stood by the open bar with Elaria, sipping whiskey and watching it all unfold like a wildlife documentary.

“They’re like baby goats,” she said, tilting her head. “Loud, reckless, and absolutely convinced they’re invincible.”

“They are. For about another two hours.”

“Do you ever… miss being like that?” she asked, half-grinning.

I watched Eric attempt a worm and face planted into a discarded jacket.

“Not even a little.”

Elaria laughed, slipping her arm through mine. “It’s kind of sweet, though. Human joy in its most chaotic form.”

“It’s frat boy magic,” I muttered. “Unpredictable, beer-fueled, and impossible to contain.”

Derek had started crowd-surfing. In a tux.

“Are you gonna join them?” she asked, clearly amused.

“I’m the best man. My job is to keep them alive, not encourage them.”

“Same thing, really.”

We stood there together, watching the world tilt sideways as Mike’s friends transformed a high-end Vegas wedding reception into a sweaty, joyous, champagne-soaked battlefield.

And it was only just beginning.

I didn’t even see Larry coming. One moment I was sipping my expensive bourbon in peace. The next, a hand clamped onto my arm and suddenly I was being yanked toward the dance floor with the momentum of a drunken freight train.

“NO SPECTATORS, BEST MAN!” he shouted. “IT’S A PARTICIPATION EVENT!”

“I swear if you spill this…” I tried to protest, but my glass was already gone, sacrificed to the dance gods by Brian, who caught it mid-pull and saluted me with it before downing it in one gulp.

Before I could escape, Derek swung by and looped a plastic lei around my neck like I was being knighted. “Sir Drew of the Fairy Realm,” he announced. “Welcome to the Realm of Vibing.”

“I hate all of you,” I muttered.

Elaria just stood off to the side, laughing, laughing, until Larry pointed directly at her.

“YOU TOO, GREEN QUEEN!”

Elaria arched her brow. “Green Queen?”

“You absolutely rule a mystical forest somewhere and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

She exchanged a look with me. It said, Should I?

I gave a subtle shake of my head. No chaos. Not yet. But she just smiled that sultry, dangerous smile.

“Only on weekends.”

That did not help.

Kyle immediately dropped into a deep, dramatic bow. “Lady Ivy! Join us for the mortal ritual of twerking.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” she said with faux innocence.

“She’s lying,” I muttered. “She knows. I seen’t it.”

Too late. She was already being pulled into the mess, laughing as she moved with the music like someone born of rhythm and rebellion. She danced with the kind of grace that made everything else on the floor look like a riot at a college pep rally. The boys loved it. She spun, dipped, and even managed a slightly ironic shuffle with Tim that made the whole dance floor cheer.

A slightly drunk bridesmaid, one of Katie’s cousins I think—blue lace dress, glass of wine, suspicious squint—approached Elaria with the casual intensity of someone just tipsy enough to speak their mind.

“Okay,” she said, swaying slightly, “what’s your deal?”

Elaria blinked. “My… deal?”

“You’re gorgeous,” the girl said. “Like… I dunno, model slash Disney villain slash maybe a cult leader, but in a fun way?”

Elaria tilted her head. “I’ve been called worse.”

“No,” the bridesmaid said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re too chill. Too mysterious. Are you… an influencer?”

“She’s European,” I blurted out, swooping in like a secret service agent on damage control. “From, uh… rural Norway. Very traditional upbringing. It’s considered rude to over explain.”

“Oh my god, that makes so much sense,” the bridesmaid gasped.

Elaria just smiled and leaned against me, her hand slipping around my waist.

“I love your hat,” the bridesmaid added. “Very Yellowstone.”

“Thanks,” I said, dragging Elaria gently toward the safety of the bar again.

“Norway?” she whispered once we were out of earshot. “Rural Norway?”

“First thing that came to mind.”

She grinned. “You’re getting better at this.”

“I’ve had practice,” I said, tugging her a little closer. “And I’m starting to think you enjoy this too much.”

“Oh, I do,” she said. “Especially when I can pretend to be human for a night.”

We clinked our glasses, the chaos of the dance floor roaring behind us, and for the moment, we were just another couple at a wedding—tipsy, tangled in the music, and falling deeper into something real. The music shifted. From pounding beats and frat-boy mayhem to something slower—sweeter. A song that sounds like a promise wrapped in piano chords.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announced smoothly, “for their first dance as husband and wife… Mr. And Mrs. Mike and Katie Callahan!”

The dance floor cleared, the lights dimmed, and the newlyweds stepped into the center—Mike already blushing, Katie glowing like she was born for it. He held her awkwardly at first, then she whispered something in his ear, and he relaxed. Smiled.

And suddenly it wasn’t awkward at all. It was perfect.

The crowd melted around them—laughing, snapping photos, wiping away a few misty eyes. Mike spun her once, almost tripped, recovered, and earned a kiss on the cheek that made him stand a little straighter. I watched from the edge of the floor with a tightness in my chest I couldn’t explain. He was my half-brother. My last real family. And seeing him this happy?

It did something to me.

Beside me, Elaria gave my hand a squeeze. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… he deserves this.”

When the song ended, the DJ’s voice returned.

“And now, the couple would like to invite everyone to join them on the dance floor.”

Elaria’s eyes glittered. “Shall we, cowboy?”

I smirked. “Try not to show them up too much.”

We stepped onto the floor as the music flowed into something soft and slow, full of golden strings and warm harmonies. I slipped my hands around her waist. She draped hers behind my neck. And we moved. She leaned into me, her voice a whisper against my neck.

“You’re getting better at this.”

“At dancing?”

“At everything.”

I smiled. “Must be the company.”

We swayed together, her forehead resting against mine, our world shrinking to the space between us. Just the rhythm of two hearts finally beating in sync. When the music faded, the DJ returned again, voice full of cheer.

“And now, if we could get everyone’s attention… the best man has a few words he’d like to share.”

I exhaled slowly. Elaria gave me an encouraging smile and a pat on the chest. I walked toward the mic. The room quieted. Hundreds of eyes on me. And I still wasn’t nervous.

I cleared my throat, hat tilted back, glass raised.

“Well,” I started, “I wasn’t sure I’d be here. Not because I didn’t want to be… Mike knows I’d walk through hell for him… but because it’s just... been a wild couple of days.”

I glanced over at Mike and Katie.

“Mike is my half-brother, but the truth is, he’s my only brother. He’s been my annoying shadow, my drinking buddy, my accidental sidekick, and—at times—the only reason I didn’t go completely off the rails.”

Mike smirked and gave me a mock salute.

“I watched him grow from a loud, chaotic teenager into a loud, chaotic man who somehow convinced a smart, beautiful woman to spend the rest of her life with him.”

Katie grinned and leaned against Mike, squeezing his hand.

“That takes guts. And the love of a good woman.”

I raised my glass.

“But in all seriousness… love’s not a fairytale. It’s difficult. It’s not perfect. But when it’s real, it’s worth everything. You two have something real. Hold onto it. Fight for it. And remember—when things get tough, sometimes all you need is the right person beside you.”

I turned toward Elaria and gave her a wink. She smiled, hand over her heart.

“To Mike and Katie,” I finished. “May your life be wild, your love be steady, and your hearts always be full of love for each other.”

The toast lit a fuse. The moment I stepped down from the mic, the room ignited into celebration.

Nick was already trying to get the Cha Cha Slide started before the DJ could even queue it up. Derek, still armed with that damn lei and now a slice of wedding cake, was attempting to start a cake-eating contest with the bridesmaids. He was immediately shut down. Twice. Tim had somehow convinced the DJ to let him rap over a remix of “Shout.” Larry was doing shots with Elaria.

“Y’all realize she can drink all of you under the table, right?” I said as I approached the group, eyeing the growing pile of empty glasses.

“She’s tiny,” Larry argued, voice slurring. “Like, featherweight.”

“She’s not from around here,” I muttered.

Elaria leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I’m diluting every drink they give me with glamour. I could drink a centaur under the table right now.”

I blinked at her.

She winked. “Your brother’s friends are delightful idiots.”

“They’re loyal,” I said.

“They’re adorable,” she corrected.

At one point, Brian and Tim created a “shot luge” using a hollowed-out baguette from the buffet. The groomsmen all cheered as Nick poured tequila down it and Mike took the first slide like a champ. Katie looked mildly horrified. But also impressed.

“Okay,” she said to me as I passed her at the bar, “I’m giving them until midnight before someone breaks a table.”

“You’re generous,” I said. “I gave them until 10:45.”

We clinked glasses and laughed.

Later, when the music slowed, and the crowd thinned out into tipsy clusters, I found Mike outside the venue, leaning on the railing with his tie loose and a cold beer in his hand.

I stepped up beside him.

For a moment, we didn’t say anything. Just looked out over the Strip—the lights, the buzz, the ridiculous magic of it all.

“I did it,” he said eventually. “I got married.”

“You did,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “And you didn’t even trip during the vows. I was a little disappointed, honestly.”

He chuckled. “I saw you up there, man. With Ella. Looked like you belonged there.”

“Didn’t always feel that way,” I admitted. “Still kind of doesn’t.”

He looked over at me. “You good?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Mike was quiet for a beat.

Then he added, “I remember after Mom and Dad died, when I was ten and I thought I’d have to figure it all out alone… but you helped me so much.”

I swallowed. “You were my responsibility.”

“You were more than that,” he said. “You were my brother. Still are. Always will be.”

We stood in silence a bit longer.

Then Mike grinned. “So… is there anything more to your green-haired wife you need to tell me?”

I laughed. “Let’s stick to celebrating your wedding for now.”

“Deal.”

We clinked our bottles.

Over Vegas, the night stretched long, the sky dark and glittering like someone punched holes in velvet. The reception had thinned to a slow simmer—drunken laughter, shoes abandoned, ties loosened, and a few relatives asleep in their chairs. The boys were somehow still functioning, though barely. Larry had fashioned a makeshift crown out of champagne corks, and Tim was whispering to the wedding cake like it had secrets.

And then the DJ changed the music. Soft piano. Strings. Something hopeful. People stirred. Chairs scraped. Voices hushed. A gentle call went out.

“They’re coming out!”

Everyone began drifting outside, lining up under a canopy of twinkling string lights leading to a classic white limo parked at the curb. Rose petals were passed out in baskets, and a few guests shook glow sticks like it was a New Year’s rave instead of a classy send-off. Elaria took one from a cousin and waved it gently, amused.

Mike and Katie finally emerged from the ballroom—hand in hand, beaming, tired, and glowing in that way newlyweds do, like they’re wrapped in something too good for the rest of us. Katie’s veil trailed behind her like a whisper. Mike’s jacket was missing, and someone had scribbled “Just Married” on the back of his dress shirt in glitter marker. They made their way through the tunnel of friends and family, ducking petals and laughter. Amber squealed as someone popped a mini bottle of champagne and drenched Brian, who claimed it was “a blessing.”

At the end of the path, Mike stopped and looked back. His eyes found me. He broke from Katie for just a second and pulled me into a hug, tight and real.

“Thanks, man,” he said into my ear. “For everything.”

“Don’t screw it up,” I said, clapping his back.

He grinned. “Wouldn’t dare.”

Katie took his hand again, and together, they slid into the limo, waving as the driver pulled away slowly into the night.

We watched the tail lights disappear down the Vegas strip, rose petals littering the pavement behind them like breadcrumbs.

The crowd cheered one last time. And just like that, the night softened. The wedding was over.

Elaria stepped beside me, slipping her arm through mine.

“Well,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder, “they made it.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling after the car. “They really did.”

She looked up at me, eyes gleaming. “Think we can top it?”

I glanced at her—my wife, my partner in chaos and quiet. “Oh, I know we can.”

And with the stars still blinking above, the crowd beginning to fade, and our own story just getting started. We turned and walked into whatever came next.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The limo hummed softly beneath us, a quiet purr against the velvet hush of night. The Strip blurred behind the tinted windows, neon bleeding into shadow, like the city itself was exhaling. Vegas was winding down. Or maybe we were.

Elaria sat beside me, curled into my shoulder, bare feet tucked up on the seat. Her heels were somewhere between the rooftop reception and the car, casualties of too much dancing and not enough sense.

I held my hat in my lap, fingers tracing the brim, the weight of everything pressing in now that the music had faded.

“I don’t know what happens now,” I said finally. My voice came out low. Honest. Tired in the way only truth can be. “I don’t know what this is supposed to look like.”

She didn’t answer at first. Just watched the streetlights pass over her pale skin, her green hair tangled around her shoulder like vines too wild to tame.

Then, softly. “What I did to you… it was messed up. I know that.”

I turned to look at her, but said nothing.

“I dragged you into a ritual you didn’t understand,” she said. “I tricked you. Lied to you. I used you. Played a game, and made you the prize.”

Her fingers twisted in her lap, uncertain. Like they wanted to reach for me, but didn’t know if they were allowed to.

“You’re clever, Andrew. And stubborn. Gods, you’re maddening. But you’re kind. And brave in a way that sneaks up on people.” Her voice trembled, just a little. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And I didn’t mean to fall in love with you.”

She turned to face me fully now, eyes glinting in the passing light. “But I did.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to lose this just because I started it wrong.”

The limo turned a corner. The city pulsed and shimmered beyond the glass. I reached over and took her hand, gently. Her fingers trembled, then wrapped around mine.

And I leaned in. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. It was the kind that said, I’m still here. The kind that held space for regret and hope and something new trying to bloom. When we parted, her forehead rested against mine, her breath warm between us.

“So,” she whispered, “what now?”

I smiled.

“Now?” I said. “We figure it out. Together.”

And beneath the quiet hum of the road ahead, with her hand in mine and the city fading behind us, we started doing just that.

We stepped out of the limo, still breathless with laughter. The driver, Mustard, ever the gentleman in his crisp uniform, tipped his cap with regal precision.

“A good night to you both,” he said, voice as polished as his shoes, British accent thick enough to butter scones.

We didn’t answer. We were too busy giggling like the newlyweds we were, tangled together in silk and champagne and the kind of giddy happiness that didn’t need words. Her hand was in mine, warm and alive, and the click of her heels echoed like applause down the marble hallway.

We barely made it to the elevator. Her fingers curled into my jacket, pulling me closer, lips brushing my jaw like she was marking territory. I hit the button with the precision of a man trying not to drop the most valuable thing he’d ever held. The doors slid shut behind us, and the second they did, we were on each other again—kissing like we’d never get the chance again, like we could make up for every minute we hadn’t been doing this sooner.

By the time we reached our floor, we were already halfway undressed. Her dress had slipped off one shoulder. I fumbled the key card as we staggered down the hallway, too drunk on her to think straight. She laughed when I dropped it—this breathy, musical sound that made my heart forget how to beat properly.

I cursed under my breath, scooped it up, and tried again. This time it worked. The green light flashed. The lock clicked open.

We burst into the room like a tactical SWAT team. The door slammed behind us. My hat hit the floor first, then her dress slipped from her shoulders like a whispered spell. I kicked off my boots while she tugged my shirt open, buttons pinging across the floor like confetti.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the wedding,” she murmured against my neck.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” I groaned, lifting her into my arms.

She wrapped around me easily, lips trailing down my jaw, her laughter low and electric.

We made it to the bed in a blur of heat and hands. Clothes vanished. Every kiss carried everything we hadn’t said. Every touch reminded us what it meant to choose this, after all the madness.

She was wild and soft and demanding all at once. I was right there with her.

We start slowly despite her clearly overwhelming desire, getting a feel for each other’s rhythm. Soon our hands wander, and she takes my hand to lead it down to her tender lips.

I rubbed, which led to her making little gasps of pleasure and moving her hips in time to my fingers. Placing my hand between her breasts, I applied slight pressure to her nipples with my fingers. I saw her hands grip the bedsheets and her eyes roll back.

“I reeeally needed this,” she moans.

I laugh.

“What?” she asks.

“I think the entire wedding party knew that!”

She feigns surprise and smacks me on the chest before pulling me back to keep kissing. After a few more minutes, I lean into her ear and whisper.

“I want to eat you out.”

“Please!” comes her eager reply.

I slide off the bed onto my knees, and she shifts her body to where my mouth can reach her. I tease her thighs with my fingertips and graze her slit with my tongue. She groans, part pleasure, part frustration. I place my palm firmly between her legs and hold it still. She moans again, slowly starts grinding on my hand. I can feel her hard clit pressed against my palm as I rubbed it vigorously.

She’s trimmed, a neat little green landing strip, and it’s dripping wet. I graze her lips with my fingertips. She gasps, moving her hips into me, searching for more pressure. Then I lash at her with my tongue again. She lets out a long, low moan. I move my tongue into her opening and curl it up inside her.

“You taste so good,” I moan.

“Fuck!” was all she could muster in response.

I use my tongue to get deeper and deeper until she grabs my head, pulling my hair and grinding against me, gasping the entire time. Her moans increase in volume. She lets go of my hair, tries to say something, but can’t form a sentence. Without warning, her hips buck, and her lips clamp down on my tongue. She yells out in pleasure, and I can feel each squeeze as her muscles spasm rhythmically.

When her orgasm subsides, she looks at me and stammers between breaths

“Inside… I need...you… I need you...”

I won't make her ask again.

Elaria pulls me on top of her in missionary. She grabs my erection and guides me to her opening. I slide forward into her, letting us feel every inch until I’m pressed deep inside her. We moan in unison. I continue with long, slow thrusts.

“FUCK, you feel so good,” she says, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me in with each stroke.

I want to reply, but my head is fuzzy with pleasure. She is incredibly wet, and I continue sliding in and out of her with little friction. A shriek escaped her mouth, and I knew I’d found it. Careful not to put too much pressure, I thrusted back and forth in rhythm.

“Fuck!” She moaned, “Oh, yes!”

Speeding up just a little, I kept going as she convulsed and writhed until I felt her legs squeeze even harder. She screamed as her womanhood tightened around my shaft and her whole body thrashed and writhed against me. The force she squeezed me with felt amazing.

After a few minutes, she looked up at me.

“Can we do my favorite position?”

“Anything for my wife.”

Elaria chuckles and rolls her eyes. Then she rolls over on her stomach and lifts her ass into the air while arching her back. Her swollen lips peek out at me from between her thighs. My mind goes blank as I climb on top of her and slide back inside.

I gasp. She has a great ass, and feeling my hips press against it is almost too much to bear.

“Fuuuuuckk” I moan, thrusting harder and faster.

Elaria’s squeals as I hit the right spot inside her. I keep going as I settle my chest onto her back, planting little kisses and nibbles on the back of her neck and shoulders. Her swollen lips stretched around me, wet and tight. I groaned, my head dropping forward as our mouth’s met.

I continued thrusting. The sounds were filthy.

My length slid in and out of her slick heat, and the wet, raw sound only made me hungrier. My breathing turned heavy and wild. Elaria’s moans came faster, choked between gasps as. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, sharp and constant.

“Yes… fuck, yes,” she moaned, clawing at my back. “Fuck me harder!”

I thrust deeper, angling just right to grind against her soaked walls. Her nipples dragged across my chest now, rubbing rough against me with every motion. The friction sent shocks through her, hard and electric, making her sex clench even tighter.

“God, you’re such a good girl,” I grunted. “A good Faerie princess letting me fuck you like this.”

“Yes! Fuck me! I’m yours!” She called out.

Our bodies moved faster, sweat-slicked and desperate. My hips slapped against hers with raw force. The bed groaned beneath us, breaths ragged and hot in each other’s ears.

Elaria was close again. Her legs wrapped tight around my waist, her voice breaking.

“Come inside me,” she gasped. “I want it…  I want all of it!” She can tell by the change in pace. “Are you gonna come for me?”

“Yes, yes!! I’m so fucking close.”

“Ohhhhh pleeease come inside me” she moans.

Pressure continues to build, and I feel my body screaming for release.

“Please, I want it so bad. I need it. Please, I need it. Give it to me, give it to me pleeeeease!”

And I do, pressing into her as deep as I can, with ragged gasps escaping as my body spasms. My throbbing slows, and I rest on top of her to breathe for a minute.

“Ohhhhh yes!” she moans, then trails off. Lost somewhere between reality and a dream.

Eventually, we both catch our breath.

We snuggle up to each other, giggling. After a few minutes, she looks me in the eye. “How much time do you need before we go again? I want to get every last drop from you tonight. It’s still our honeymoon after all…”

She ran her fingers through my hair, trailing down my neck and over my chest.

“You’re mine,” she whispered.

“Damn right I am.”

Morning came in slowly, like it wasn’t in a hurry to wake the world up. Golden light slipped in through the edges of the heavy hotel curtains, painting the room in soft, warm lines. The hum of Las Vegas was still there, faint beyond the windows. But here, it felt like another world.

I stirred first. Still tangled in the sheets, half on my back, one arm draped around the bare curve of her waist. Elaria was pressed against me, her head tucked just beneath my chin, her breath warm against my chest.

She looked peaceful. Her hand moved slowly along my ribs, fingers tracing lazy patterns like she was drawing maps no one else would ever see.

“Morning,” I said, voice rough with sleep.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Is it?”

I glanced at the clock. “Technically. Barely.”

She shifted up a little, resting her chin on my chest and looking up at me with heavy-lidded eyes and a crooked, sleepy smile.

“You snore,” she said.

“Lies.”

“I could mimic it right now. I’ve got it memorized.”

I smirked, brushing a strand of moss-green hair out of her face. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

We lay there a bit longer, the silence thick with comfort. There was no rush. Just her hand in mine. My heartbeat in her ear.

“I didn’t think mornings could feel like this,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Like what?”

“Safe.”

I looked down at her. “Same.”

We eventually got out of bed—slowly, reluctantly. She stole one of the hotel robes and padded barefoot to the little balcony. I followed, coffee in hand, wearing nothing but the pair of boxers I’d rescued from the floor.

The Strip looked different from up here. Quieter. Less wild.

“Still think it’s a dream?” I asked her.

She took a sip from my mug. “If it is, I don’t want to wake up.”

I pulled her close, kissed her temple, and we stood there a while longer. Just two impossible people wrapped up in something very real. We just let the morning hold us.

An hour later, we were downstairs in the hotel café, tucked into a booth that smelled like cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee. It was quiet. Just the low hum of other guests, the clink of silverware, and the soft jazz bleeding from the overhead speakers like the world had finally stopped yelling for a bit.

Elaria sat across from me in oversized sunglasses and the hotel robe layered under one of my flannels. Her green hair was pulled into a loose bun, a fork in one hand, a mimosa in the other. She looked absurdly content.

“This,” she said, pointing at a stack of pancakes the size of a small hill, “is one of humanity’s greatest achievements.”

“You’re just now discovering breakfast?”

“No, I’m just finally appreciating it,” she said, dragging a bite through maple syrup like it owed her money.

I grinned over my coffee. “So what you’re saying is, you married me for diner food.”

“That and the hat,” she said with a smirk. “But mostly because I like horses.”

We traded bites of everything—eggs, bacon, a weird-but-delicious caramel banana French toast special. She tried hot sauce on a hash brown and declared it “a spiritual experience.”

I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she moaned softly after each perfect bite and plate like it was a game. The way she laughed, mouth full, eyes bright, no mask in sight.

“This is nice,” I said finally, after a long, comfortable silence.

She glanced up. “What? Me double-fisting bacon and champagne?”

“All of it.”

Her smile softened. “Yeah,” she said. “It really is.”

She took another bite and moaned in pleasure. A few tables away, someone dropped a glass. People turned. Waitstaff hurried. Neither of us flinched. We just kept eating until the plates were empty. The rest of the café had moved on to brunch chatter and clinking mimosas. I sat back in the booth, swirling the last sip of coffee in my cup, staring out the window at the morning sun stretching over Vegas.

“Amarillo’s waiting,” I said finally, the words landing heavier than I expected. “Ranch doesn’t run itself. I’ve got horses, bills, people counting on me. Life stuff.”

Elaria looked at me, expression unreadable behind those oversized sunglasses. I kept going, slowly.

“I was only supposed to be here a few days. Mike’s wedding, bit of chaos, back to the grind.”

She was quiet. Then she reached across the table and took my hand—cool fingers sliding against mine, warm now from the sun and sugar and whatever the hell we were becoming.

“I want to come with you,” she said softly.

I blinked. “To Amarillo?”

“I know it’s not the glowing Vegas skyline or endless moonlit forests I’m used to,” she said with a small smile. “But I want to try. Us. This… life. Whatever it looks like.”

I searched her face, trying to gauge if she meant it. But there was no trick in her voice. No glamour in her words. Just her.

“I don’t know what this marriage is going to look like,” I said. “We didn’t exactly start normal.”

She squeezed my hand. “No one normal would’ve made it through the last few days we had.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

She leaned in a little, elbows on the table, chin in her hand.

“I need to take care of a few things before we go. Some loose ends. But I can be packed and on that flight with you if you’ll have me.”

“You sure?” I asked, softer this time. “You don’t have to rush. I mean, I get it if you need space or time or…”

I stopped.

Because somewhere in the middle of that sentence, I realized I didn’t want time away from her. Twenty-nine years without her was more than enough.

“I don’t want to go without you,” I finished quietly.

Her smile widened, slow and real.

“Then you won’t have to.”

The Gilded Thorn looked different in the daylight. The glamour that usually cloaked it from mortal eyes was down—at least for us. The facade shimmered as we approached, revealing its true form: obsidian columns twisting with vines of gold, thorned ivy growing from cracks in the stone, and a faint, lingering scent of wine and ozone in the air. We stepped through the threshold, and the temperature shifted instantly. Cool, humming with old magic.

Inside, the club was already alive despite the early hour.

Supernaturals moved freely. A gnome with opal-studded tusks polished a mirrored bar. Above the stage, a siren hummed softly, her tail coiled like silk beneath her. As if they hadn’t paused since the night before, the two dryads swayed to the low, pulsing music.

And every one of them turned when they saw her.

“Lady Ivy,” someone whispered.

The name rippled through the space like a spell. Heads bowed, some smiled, a few just watched with quiet reverence. Elaria stood tall beside me, her green hair pulled back into a high knot, her walk proud and effortless. This was her domain.

And she was walking away from it.

The dryad bartender stood behind the curved, emerald-lit bar, polishing a glass with a rag that might’ve once been a small tapestry. She looked up and nodded once.

“Lady Ivy,” she rumbled. “Good morning.”

Elaria stepped forward, voice calm and warm. “I’m heading out of town.”

“You takin’ a proper honeymoon? Good for you!”

“Something like that.”

She glanced at me. I nodded.

“I’m leaving you in charge, Nala,” she said. “The Thorn practically runs itself these days, and if anything breaks, I expect you’ll find someone to fix it.”

Nala smirked. “You know me.”

“I’ll check in now and then,” she said, her voice softening a little.

That made the room pause. The club felt it, the absence already echoing, even as she stood there.

Nala gave her a long look. Then nodded. “You’ve earned it. And… congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she said, stepping back beside me.

The staff watched us go, and no one stopped her. She was still Lady Ivy to them. But to me? She was just Elaria. And as the golden doors of the Gilded Thorn closed behind us, she slid her fingers through mine and smiled.

“Goodbye, Lady Ivy,” I murmured.

She looked ahead, eyes bright. “Hello, Mrs. Elaria Nowak.”

And just like that, we left the world of glamours and ancient titles behind.

We didn’t go straight to the airport. Didn’t really talk about it either. After leaving the Gilded Thorn, we just wandered. Let the city carry us a while.

Vegas during the day has this strange hum. Not the wild buzz of the Strip at night, but something quieter. We walked hand in hand past neon signs that had seen better decades. Passed a street magician levitating next to a food truck. Elaria flipped him a coin enchanted with a minor illusion. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he caught it and it exploded into glitter mid-performance.

“Still showing off?” I asked, amused.

“Always,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “You didn’t marry a librarian.”

We stopped at a coffee cart in a quiet plaza. She got some overpriced lavender thing I couldn’t pronounce. I got black coffee like God intended. We sat on a bench under a fake palm tree, watching tourists filter by with big drinks and bigger mistakes in their eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do in Amarillo,” she said after a while. “I’ve never… stayed. Not like this.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” I said. “You just have to come.”

She looked over, green eyes a little softer than I was used to. “And if I screw it up?”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do?”

I reached over and took her hand again. “Then we figure it out. That’s what this is, right? Two people trying something crazy.”

She looked down at our hands, like she couldn’t quite believe how right it felt.

“I’ve done a lot of things in my life,” she said. “But I’ve never done quiet. Never done… home.”

“You ever mucked a stable?”

Her face twisted. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a very messy kind of quiet.”

She smiled again, tired but genuine. “I think I’d like to try it.”

We sat a little longer, letting the moment stretch.

Eventually, she said, “Do you think they’ll miss me? The Thorn. The others.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But they’ll be okay.”

She nodded, then leaned against me.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For choosing me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

I kissed her hair. “That’s the thing about love. It’s never about deserving.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

McCarran International was a cathedral of fluorescent lights and confusion, a symphony of wheelie-bags, overhead announcements, and people walking way too fast in Crocs.

Elaria was enraptured. She stopped to gawk at the security checkpoint like it was a sacred trial.

“They take off their shoes,” she whispered like it was an ancient ritual.

“It’s airport law,” I muttered, dragging her forward by the hand. “Keep moving.”

We made it through security with minimal incident—mostly because she glamoured herself up some documentation mid-escalator. I watched, blinking, as she casually waved an ID that had her face, birthdate listed as “Timeless,” and a New York address she definitely didn’t live at.

The TSA agent didn’t even flinch.

“You glamoured your way through security,” I whispered once we were clear.

“It’s just light and suggestion,” she said with a grin. “They saw what they expected to see.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“I know.”

She beamed the entire way through the terminal, marveling at the vending machines.

“It gives you food for money?!”, moving walkways.

“This is expensive magic!” At the absurdity of charging $24 for a sandwich.

Then we passed the departure board, and she spotted our gate. Her smile faltered. She saw the word Coach.

“What is… coach?” she asked, like I’d just suggested we travel by covered wagon.

“It’s the section with the rest of us mere mortals,” I said. “Smaller seats. No leg room. Free soda, though.”

She turned, horrified. “You mean we’re sitting in the cramped middle of a flying metal tube with strangers?”

I blinked. “...Yes.”

She stared at me. Then marched to the counter without a word, conjured a credit card out of nowhere, and smiled sweetly at the desk agent. Five minutes later, she came back holding two first-class boarding passes like they were golden tickets.

“Fixed it,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

“You just dropped, like, a thousand dollars.”

“It’s fine,” she waved.

I just stared at her.

“Besides,” she added with a wink, “it’s my first flight. You can’t expect me to debut in coach. I have wings, Andy. I don’t do middle seats.”

“God help me,” I muttered.

We made our way toward the terminal bar before boarding, and she stared at the planes outside like they were dragons with anxiety.

“They really strap you inside it?”

“Yup.”

“And then fling you through the air at unnatural speeds?”

“Yup.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“I can’t wait.”

We slid into two stools at the bar, drinks ordered, and for once, I saw something new in her eyes. She looked at me, then down at the first-class boarding pass, then back at me.

“I’ve lived a long time,” she mumbled. “But this… this feels new.”

I clinked my glass against hers.

“Get used to it,” I said. “Normal’s gonna look good on you.”

“Then I’m exactly where I belong.”

We were halfway through our drinks when they shuffled over—an older couple, maybe in their eighties, matching sunhats and smiles, holding hands like the world hadn’t changed since the ‘60s. They sat on the stools next to us with that kind of permission retirees have, like time was theirs to command.

The woman leaned over slightly, her voice soft and friendly.

“Sorry to bother, but you two just look so in love. How long have you been married?”

I glanced at Elaria, who smiled like she already knew the answer would surprise them.

“Yesterday,” I said.

The woman gasped in delight, and her husband let out a warm chuckle. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, tipping his cap slightly. “Freshly hitched, huh?”

“Congratulations,” she added, placing her hand over Elaria’s for a moment. “Wishing you all the joy in the world.”

“Sixty years for us this past spring,” the old man added, pride sneaking into his voice. “And she still tells me when I’m being a stubborn jackass.”

“Only because you are,” she said sweetly, giving him a side-eye he’d clearly grown to love.

I smiled and raised my glass.

“Sixty years... Any advice for a couple just getting started?”

He took a moment, then looked at me like he was about to give away a secret only the old and the very in love ever truly understood.

“Choose each other every day,” he said. “Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. And laugh a lot. Can’t stay mad at someone who’s makin’ you laugh.”

“Also,” the woman added, nodding seriously, “don’t go to bed angry. But if you do, make sure the couch is comfy.”

Elaria laughed, her fingers laced with mine.

“You two are just adorable,” the woman said, clearly charmed. “The cowboy and the supermodel. Like something out of a movie.”

“I like her,” Elaria whispered to me.

“She’s not wrong,” I whispered back.

The old man signaled the bartender. “Next round’s on us. Consider it a wedding present.”

We protested, but they wouldn’t hear it.

“Just pay it forward someday,” the woman said with a wink. “Love deserves to be celebrated.”

“Thank you,” Elaria said sincerely, lifting her glass toward them. “Truly.”

They smiled, clinked their drinks with ours, and let us be.

We sat in the quiet that followed, staring at each other over the rim of our glasses. Her hand rested in mine, thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.

She leaned in across the table, her voice low. “Do you think we’ll make it sixty years?”

I looked into those wild, Fae-bright eyes and said, “I’ll take sixty... and every day after.”

And in the hum of the airport bar, with the world racing by just outside the windows, we stayed still—eyes locked, hearts full. It felt like a gift.

The overhead speakers chimed, and a voice announced our flight number.

“That’s us,” I said, downing the last sip of my drink.

Elaria slipped off her stool, adjusted her sunglasses, and took my hand.

We turned to the old couple.

“Thank you again,” I said. “For the drinks. And the advice.”

“And the good company,” Elaria added with a warm smile.

The woman patted her hand. “You two take care of each other.”

The old man nodded. “May happiness chase you, and may you never run fast enough to escape it.”

I tipped my hat, and we headed toward the gate, her hand still firmly in mine.

They watched us go, quietly. Once we were out of earshot and just two more passengers disappearing into the swirl of travelers, the old man reached over and straightened his hat.

He didn’t smile. “Are you satisfied, Titania?”

The woman beside him let out a long breath. Her smile slipped, just a little.

“For now.”

She stood up slowly, her eyes losing their cloudiness, sharpening to something ageless.

“Let’s go,” she muttered. “This place smells like old beer and disinfectant.”

He followed her without another word, leaving two empty stools behind, two half-finished drinks, and the faintest shimmer of glamour in the air that vanished before anyone noticed.

On the way to the gate, we passed a row of slot machines humming quietly against the wall, lights flickering like tired fireflies. The usual crowd, tourists chasing one last thrill before boarding, barely looked up as we walked by.

But Elaria slowed. She stopped in front of one of the machines. Red and gold. A flickering neon phoenix curling around the sides. She cocked her head like it had whispered her name.

“What are you doing?” I asked, raising a brow.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, one I swear she hadn’t had two seconds ago, and fed it into the machine.

“Trying my luck,” she said with a grin.

“You’re already married to me. That’s pushing it.”

She tapped the spin button once. The reels whirred. Lights blinked.

Then… ding ding ding ding DING DING DING!

Jackpot.

The whole row lit up, and a cheerful robotic voice screamed something about MEGA WINNER while a digital cascade of coins rained down the screen like it owed her rent.

“Of course,” I muttered. “Of course you’d win.”

She barely looked at the total. Just pulled the printed ticket from the machine, tucked it in her hand, and scanned the terminal.

A few feet away sat a young woman slumped in one of the waiting chairs. She looked exhausted—hair messy, shirt wrinkled, one shoe off. Three kids ran circles around her, one crying, one sticky, and one chasing the other two with what looked like a half-eaten cheeseburger.

Elaria watched for a second. Then walked over, calm and quiet. She didn’t say anything. Just offered the jackpot ticket, folded gently in half.

The woman blinked up at her, confused.

Elaria smiled. Then turned and walked away before the woman could respond. She came back to me, hands empty, expression unreadable.

“That was a lot of money,” I said, watching the woman realize what had just happened and burst into grateful, stunned tears.

Elaria shrugged.

“She needs it more than I do.”

I stared at her for a long moment.

“You really confuse the hell out of me.”

“Good,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “I’d be worried if you figured me out too fast.”

We kept walking. But I couldn’t help it. I glanced over at her again. She wasn’t just magic and chaos. Not just thorns and flirtation. She had something else buried deep under the wings and riddles and games.

The boarding line moved slowly, but Elaria was vibrating with excitement like we were about to board a rocket ship to the moon. When we got to the gate agent, she practically shoved her ticket into the woman’s scanner.

Beep! The light turned green.

Elaria gasped.

“It speaks!”

The agent blinked. I just groaned and muttered, “First flight.”

The agent gave me a tired smile that said, Good luck with that, and waved us through.

Elaria was practically skipping down the jet bridge. “That sound, Drew. It’s like being approved by a tiny metal oracle!”

“It’s a barcode scanner.”

“An oracle,” she insisted.

We stepped into the plane and she stopped short, eyes wide as they swept across the sleek, softly lit first-class cabin.

“Oh,” she said, practically purring. “This is acceptable.”

She found our row—plush leather seats with legroom for days, polished tray tables, a tiny glass of water already waiting like an offering. She dropped into her seat with the exaggerated grace of someone used to being adored.

“Did you know these chairs recline without magic?” she said, fiddling with the buttons like a kid with a new toy.

“You’re about to be very disappointed by the pretzels.”

She reached down and slid the footrest up. “You joke, but I feel like royalty.”

“You are a princess,” I said, sliding into the seat next to her.

She turned, eyes glittering. “Yes. But now I’m a first-class princess.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the grin tugging at my lips.

She nestled back into the seat, toying with the touch screen like it was a sacred relic, giggling every time it responded.

“I like this strange mortal contraption,” she whispered, eyes scanning the overhead lights. “It’s like being cradled by a mechanical beast.”

“You’re making this way weirder than it needs to be.”

She leaned her head against my shoulder. “You like it.”

I did… God help me, I did.

She had her arms wrapped around mine, head resting gently on my shoulder like she’d done it a thousand times before. Her hair smelled like wildflowers. The cabin lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, and somewhere overhead, the pilot’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard. We’re scheduled to arrive in Amarillo in approximately 2 hours and seventeen minutes. Weather’s clear, should be a smooth flight. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your evening.”

A few passengers murmured approval. Someone popped open a magazine. The flight attendants began checking the overhead bins. And I just sat there, her weight warm against me, staring at the seat in front of me like it held answers.

Home. The place I’d always known and I was bringing her with me. A fae princess. My wife.

My complete and total opposite in every way.

I swallowed hard.

What the hell am I getting myself into?

It wasn’t doubt. Not exactly. It was the quiet, grounded kind of fear that only shows up when something matters. When something’s real.

Elaria shifted slightly, curling a little closer to me. She let out a soft breath, eyes half-closed.

“I can hear your heart,” she whispered. “It’s nervous.”

I gave a quiet laugh. “It’s adjusting.”

“To what?”

“To all of this.”

She hummed. “Me too.”

Her thumb brushed slowly over the back of my hand. I looked down at her, green hair tucked behind one ear, her expression peaceful, like she wasn’t thinking about any of the what-ifs.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “We’ll figure it out. You and me.”

“So you wanna join the Mile High Club?” She nudged me.

“It’s a short flight, Ella.”

She crosses her arms and pours.

“That’s literally the only reason I went on this thing. I could have just portaled us there!”

I glanced around and noticed the subtle glances from the passengers.

“Sorry. It’s the Ambien.” I mutter, pointing at her.

I got a few nods of understanding. Then I turned back to her.

“I promise the next flight. Airplane bathrooms are super tiny and this is a small plane as it is.”

She rolled her eyes. “I guess you’re right.”

We were nestled into the oversized leather seats of first class, the quiet hum of the engines lulling us into something like contentment. The plane wasn’t huge but here, with warm towels, decent wine, and legroom that didn’t threaten to maim, it felt like luxury.

I glanced out the window as the Vegas skyline shrank behind us, the glow of neon giving way to desert dusk. Elaria shifted beside me, pulling the soft blanket up to her waist, her bare feet tucked under her and a smug little smile spreading across her face.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “I told you so. Just say it.”

I groaned, leaning my head back against the headrest. “You were right. This is nice.”

She giggled—pure, delighted, and just a bit wicked. “I know it’s nice. There’s a reason I picked this over riding in coach.”

“You woulda got the real human experience.”

She snorted, then curled in closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

I smiled to myself, watching the clouds roll past the window. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I know.”

“So,” I asked, resting back into the plush first-class seat, “what exactly are your powers? Now that we’re married and all, I feel like I should know if my wife can, I don’t know, turn me into a frog or something.”

Elaria smirked, glancing sideways at me, her green hair catching the golden light from the cabin window. “You want the full list, or just the ones that won’t give you nightmares?”

I gave her a look.

She rolled her eyes, then relented with a small, regal nod. “It depends,” she said. “On the person. On how much power I have over them. A normal human? I can’t do much other than get a sense of their emotions and thoughts, kinda like an aura we can see. I can’t directly use magic on them. But I can bend the senses, change the environment. Show them what I want them to see, hear, feel. I can’t harm them, not magically, anyway. But illusions and misdirection? All fair game.”

I whistled. “So, basically, the world’s most dangerous magician.”

She chuckled softly.

“If I know someone’s true name, though… then it’s different. Names carry power. With it, I can weave protective wards, amplify strength, even heal wounds. I could wrap you in armor spun from starlight and silk if you bled in my arms.”

“That’s… insanely cool.”

“It’s also dangerous,” she whispered. “To know someone’s true name is to hold part of their soul. I can always find them or even summon them. It goes the opposite as well. If you say my full name, it’s like a doorbell going off in my head. The name can’t be written, it has to be given willingly by voice.”

I studied her. “So… you never tried to use magic on me? Even to nudge things along when we met?”

Her expression shifted—something thoughtful, almost guilty, like a weight she hadn’t meant to carry was about to be placed gently on the table between us.

“No,” she said at last. “I altered the room just a bit during the private dance. But that’s it. I meant what I said. I had no intention of harming you. And if you remember the pact… the challenge? You made it very clear: no magic.”

I blinked. “So… the whole time?”

She nodded. “From the first challenge to the line of Pixie Dust. I couldn’t cast even a flicker. The binding made sure of it.”

I leaned back, stunned. “Holy shit. The scavenger hunt? The poker game?! That was all you?”

Her face flushed slightly, but she shrugged like it was nothing. “It was exhausting. I had a little help with the scavenger hunt. And by the time I could finally use magic again…” Her voice dropped, soft as silk. “I was already in love with you.”

I sat there for a moment, just watching her. The way her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. The way her gaze held mine like it was something precious she didn’t want to drop.

“You’re incredible,” I said. “I had a whole support squad. You were basically soloing a Fae-flavored video game on nightmare difficulty.”

That earned a laugh, light and real.

She tilted her head, a playful smile creeping onto her lips. “What can I say? I’m extremely motivated when it comes to winning husbands.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grinned. “How’d that turn out?”

She leaned in close, her breath warm on my cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

I swallowed hard, trying to play it cool.

“And if you had enslaved me?” I asked.

The words hung there longer than I expected. Heavy. Sharp around the edges. Elaria didn’t answer right away. She turned her head and looked at me. Her expression shifted from playful to something sadder.

“If I had bound you,” she said quietly, “fully, completely… I could have done anything.”

My throat tightened. “Define anything.”

Her voice remained calm, but there was a weight behind each word now. “I could change your physical form. Erase your memories. Rewrite your instincts. Strip you down to base impulses and rebuild you in my image. I could… make you forget you ever loved anyone else. Or make you only love me. Make you kill. Or stop your heart with a word.”

I blinked. “Holy shit.”

“But,” she added firmly, “for any of that to happen, you would have had to accept the binding. Willingly. Swear yourself to me—formally, like a knight pledging to a queen. Or… lose to me in a trial or challenge where those terms were agreed upon.”

My stomach did a slow flip. “So like… the Three Challenges?”

Her nod was slow. Measured. “Yes. If you had lost… and I chose to invoke it…”

She trailed off, expression unreadable for a moment.

“At first,” she said softly, “I was going to toy with you. I’ll admit it. Tease. Twist. Nothing cruel. Just… amuse myself. You wouldn’t have even known at first.”

“And then?”

She shrugged, the motion small and uncertain.

“Then you made me laugh, you challenged me back, and kissed me like I was a person and not just a prize.”

She took a breath. “If you can’t tell by now… I have a problem with binding contracts. They’ve been used against me my entire life. I wanted to use one for me. For once.”

“Ah,” I hissed. “Yeah. Your mother.”

That was enough. She didn’t need to say anything. I saw it in the way her fingers curled on her lap, in the tight line of her jaw. The invisible weight she still carried from Titania’s throne.

We sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the plane filling the space between our thoughts.

“Well,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “That’s good to know. Terrifying. But good.”

She smiled faintly, a fragile thing.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” she said. “Even if you had lost.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t want a puppet,” she said. “I just wanted to fuck a cowboy.”

The plane rumbled beneath us as it descended, wheels screeching slightly against the runway with that familiar jolt that always made me grip the armrest a little tighter than necessary.

Outside the small window, Amarillo spread out beneath a pale sky. Flat and familiar.

We departed the plane and walked down the ramp. Elaria peeked past me, taking in the modest terminal, a tiny baggage claim area, and the three rental car signs fighting for dominance.

“This is… cute,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Travel-sized.”

“It’s an airport, not luggage,” I replied, nudging her shoulder with mine.

“Travel-sized airport,” she insisted with a grin.

I sighed. “Come on, let’s go get my luggage.”

“This is dumb,” she muttered, brushing a strand of green hair behind her ear as we stepped into the baggage claim area. “Next time, I’ll just give you a pocket dimension.”

I blinked. “A what?”

“A duffle bag… inside your body,” she said casually. “I’ll make you a ring like mine.” She held up her silver ring, the amethyst catching the overhead light. “Just reach in whenever you want to store or pull out something. Neat and clean.”

“So… like a video game inventory?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes. “I guess? I don’t play video games. You nerd.”

I opened my mouth to fire back, but just shook my head with a chuckle. “Alright then, next time I’ll just reach into my magical luggage liver.”

“Exactly.” She grinned. “No more waiting at…”

She stopped. Just like that. Mid-step. I nearly walked right into her.

“Elaria?”

She didn’t answer.

The baggage claim conveyor rumbled to life with a mechanical groan, like a sleepy dragon waking up from a nap. A few tired-looking travelers perked up. Then, one by one, the bags emerged from the rubber flaps—battered, wheeled, and overstuffed.

Elaria yelped in delight. “They’re like little soldiers! Look at them! Marching out for duty!”

I gave her a look. “You’ve really never flown on a plane, huh?”

She beamed. “Nope! This is adorable.”

I shook my head with a chuckle, then reached out and snagged my duffel as it made its dramatic re-entry into my life. Elaria slipped her arm through mine, practically bouncing on her bare toes as we headed toward the exit.

The heat hit us the moment the doors slid open—dry, insistent, and clinging. Not as hellish as Vegas, but it still baked the concrete and made the horizon shimmer like a dream just out of reach. This was the edge of desert and plains—Amarillo, land of stubborn winds and sun-bleached everything.

We strolled across the parking lot, the scent of warm asphalt and gasoline heavy in the air.

I gestured ahead. “That one’s mine.”

We reached a loyal old red pickup truck. Slightly sun-faded, a little dented on the driver’s side. It looked like it had hauled everything from hay bales to heartbreak.

Elaria eyed it with a curious smile. “It’s… charming.”

“She runs,” I said defensively, unlocking the door and swinging it open. “And she’s been through more than a few tornadoes.”

We climbed in. The seats were hot enough to sear a brand into your soul. I cracked the windows and fired up the engine. It growled to life, coughing once like it was mad I’d left it alone for too long, then settled into a steady, familiar purr. The AC blasted us with icy relief.

Elaria reached out and ran her fingers across the dash like it was a living thing. “So this is home, huh?”

I nodded, one hand on the wheel. “Yeah. This is home.”

We rolled down the wide, sun-baked highway, the kind where the buildings all sit low and tired like they’re trying not to be noticed. I leaned one arm out the window and gestured vaguely.

“And over there? That’s the movie theater. One of only two in town, unless you count the drive-in. Which you shouldn’t. Unless you don’t like watching movies.”

“Why’s that?”

“Sex.”

She perked up. “Oh… ohhhh. Let’s do that sometime.”

“Soon. And there is my old high school!”

Elaria peered out with polite curiosity, her fingers drumming on the door like she was rating the sights in real time.

I pointed again. “And that is the pride and joy of Amarillo… Big Texan Steak Ranch.”

Her eyes snapped to it instantly. “Is that a… cowboy riding a steak?”

“Yeah, that’s our version of Mount Rushmore.”

“And that sign says… seventy-two-ounce steak challenge?”

I barely got a breath in before her eyes lit up to molten amber and she lurched toward the wheel. “We’re going there!”

I yanked the truck straight with a curse. “No! Ella!”

“Come onnnn!” she whined, dragging the word out like it owed her money. “Do you know how long it’s been since I fought food in open combat?!”

I shot her a look. “Later. I promise. I kinda… wanna see you try. I mean… seventy-two ounces? That’d be hot.”

Her smirk curved like a blade. “Oh, you know I can handle big meat.”

She winked at me, eyes smoldering with mischief.

And I swear, right then and there, I fell in love with her all over again.

Chapter Twenty-Five

My place sat about thirty minutes outside city limits, tucked at the edge of nowhere and surrounded by ten acres of stubborn Texas earth.

We finally rolled up to the gates, two rust-streaked iron panels hanging from weather-warped cedar posts, flanked by an old sign that just said Nowak Ranch in rusting metal.

I threw the truck into park and stepped out, boots crunching over gravel. Just as I reached for the latch…

Clang! The gates creaked open on their own.

I froze.

Behind me, Elaria giggled with pure mischief from the passenger seat, head poking out the window. “Oops,” she sang, voice drenched in Fae glee. “Did I do that?”

I rolled my eyes and climbed back in. “You having fun?”

“So much,” she beamed. “Opening gates with my magic is my new favorite thing.”

We bounced down the dirt road, the ruts familiar enough for me to steer one-handed. The pasture stretched wide on either side, golden in the afternoon sun. The air was dry and smelled like mesquite and coming rain.

“Can you shut it, too?” I asked, flicking a thumb back toward the open gate.

Elaria turned, waved her hand casually, and behind us, the gates groaned shut with a satisfying clang. She looked back at me with another wink.

“You’re gonna be real useful around here,” I muttered.

She scrunched her nose playfully. “You’re gonna work me hard, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said with a smirk. “And then when I’m done, we’ll use a little magic to lift the feed sacks.”

She leaned closer, voice dropping low. “Careful, cowboy. If you tease me too much, I might lose control.”

I gave her a look. “I’m counting on it.”

“Are you now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

We crested the final hill, and the ranch came into view—weathered barn to the right, house dead ahead, porch light already flickering to life like it had been waiting for us. She stared out the window, eyes softening.

“I like it here,” she breathed. “It smells like—like hay, and dirt, and saddle leather. Like… real things.”

“It’s the well-aged scent of animal shit and sweat,” I deadpanned.

She snorted. “So poetic.”

I pulled up to the porch and killed the engine.

“Welcome home.”

Elaria stepped out, kicked off her boots, and ran barefoot across the drive. She spun once on the porch, arms out like a girl in a summer storm, her green hair catching the wind and sunlight.

“I could conjure us a castle, you know,” she said, breathless.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing the bags, “maybe behind the barn.

She stopped spinning, met my eyes, and smiled.

“I like your house, though.”

My dog came barreling out from around the side of the house like a runaway tumbleweed—ears flopping, tongue lolling, tail wagging like it was trying to power a windmill.

“Ripley!”

I grinned, crouching just in time to catch a hundred pounds of enthusiastic yellow lab as she launched herself into my arms like a living rocket of pure joy. She wiggled and whined, paws on my shoulders, licking my face like I’d just returned from a decade-long space mission. Big lovable goofball. Absolute menace to unattended sandwiches.

Then she noticed Elaria.

Ripley trotted up to her with hesitant curiosity, sniffing cautiously. For a beat, she paused, ears tilted slightly back. Then, in a shocking show of immediate submission, she flopped right onto her back, legs splayed, tail thumping on the porch like a drumroll.

Elaria blinked. “Is… this normal?”

“She likes you,” I said, grinning.

Elaria knelt down, brushing her fingers over Ripley’s belly. The lab let out a groan of pure bliss and wiggled into her touch like she was trying to burrow into the dirt. A second later, Ripley was up again, head shoved insistently into Elaria’s palm for more.

“Demanding, aren’t you?” Elaria mused, scratching behind her ears.

“It’s a good sign,” I said. “Ripley doesn’t roll over for just anyone. Unless they have cheese.”

She laughed.

“Now, Achilles?” I sighed, already picturing the standoff to come. “My cat? That’s gonna be another story.”

“Oh, I love cats,” she said.

“Yeah. He doesn’t.”

I opened the front door and held it for her. “Come on. Welcome to the rest of the madhouse.”

Elaria followed me inside, Ripley trotting ahead like she’d just officially adopted her. I led her through the front door with all the confidence of a man walking into his own home and instantly regretting it.

I really should’ve cleaned up earlier.

It wasn’t dirty… just… chaotic in that very specific way that screamed “single guy lives here.” Not quite feral, but definitely not showcase-ready for bringing your magical fae bride home for the first time.

“Alright,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck, “home sweet… uh… please-don’t-judge-me.”

Elaria stepped inside, eyes scanning everything at once with that slow, deliberate judgment only a centuries-old Fae could wield. Her expression was unreadable.

It was a modest three-bedroom ranch-style house. Nothing flashy. Wood floors, open layout. Cozy, functional, and full of me. The living room was plastered in old movie posters—classic westerns, sci-fi pulp, a framed Tombstone one dead center. The saddle from my amateur bull-riding days sat like a shrine in the corner, flanked by dusty belt buckles I hadn’t polished in years. A battered acoustic guitar leaned against the wall. A couple of rifles in the rack. And yes, I’d left fishing gear and mail scattered across the dining table like a centerpiece.

Elaria let out a long, slow sigh.

“I have… work to do.”

I flinched. “Okay, let’s talk about changes. We can compromise…”

She tilted her head. “No. This is your place.” Her lips curled slightly. “For now.”

“Ella… That sounded terrifying.”

She smiled. “It’s not. I promise. I’ll start small. Plants, maybe. A touch of warmth. Curtains. Better lighting. Something alive.”

“No carnivorous ones.”

Her eyes sparkled with mock offense. “Ugh. Fine. How about just one? A little one. Just a Baby's Death Blossom in the windowsill?”

“No.”

“A potted Fang-Lily?”

“No.”

“A cactus with snarky opinions?”

“Still no… well, maybe that one can stay in the garage.”

She pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“And you’re already plotting against my masculine aesthetic.”

“Please,” she said, already walking toward the living room, surveying like a general planning her first assault. “That aesthetic died in 2008. I’m just gonna give it a dignified burial.”

I followed after her, both terrified and weirdly excited. God help me, I might end up with enchanted, talking appliances.

I heard the telltale meow-yow from down the hall. The distinct war cry of Achilles, my eternally dramatic cat, announcing his displeasure at my prolonged absence and lack of tribute in the form of treats and head scratches.

“He sounds pissed,” Elaria said, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “this is his prelude to guilt-tripping me.”

Around the corner he came, sleek, yellow, and furious. He froze the second he saw her, like a feline statue in mid-protest, pupils blown wide. The air tensed.

Elaria smiled softly and gave a little wave.

Achilles let out one suspicious mrrrp, then turned tail and vanished like a flaming spark.

She blinked. “He ran.”

“Yeah,” I said, already bracing myself for future shredded furniture. “He does that when he senses powerful women. Or vacuum cleaners. Anything really. The names ironic… he’s uh… the definition of a fraidy cat.”

Elaria pouted, lower lip sticking out like a disappointed child. “But I wanted to pet him.”

I gave her a nudge with my elbow. “He’ll warm up to you.”

She crossed her arms. “He’d better. I was going to make him a little crown.”

“…Maybe give it a week.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and gave Elaria a little head-tilt toward the hallway.

“This way.”

She followed close behind, barefoot and still marveling at everything like my cluttered ranch house was some kind of royal estate. I pushed open the bedroom door, dropped my bag just inside, and all but collapsed face-first onto the bed.

Elaria fell beside me with a satisfied flump, sighing like she’d just returned from a long voyage. A heartbeat later, Ripley launched herself onto the bed with the grace of a couch-cannonball. The mattress bounced under her weight. Achilles, who had clearly been silently stalking us from the closet, let out a startled reeeow! and bolted from the room like a demon had yanked his tail.

I burst out laughing, face still half-buried in a pillow.

“What?” Elaria asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

“This,” I said, grinning like an idiot. “This is awesome.”

I rolled toward her, ready to kiss her properly for the first time in our own bed, on our own turf. I leaned in… and Ripley shoved her big yellow snout between us with perfect comedic timing, her tongue ready for action and her tail thumping like a war drum.

We both broke into laughter.

“She wants belly scratches,” Elaria said through giggles.

I reached down to rub Ripley’s belly, who immediately flopped over like she’d just passed out from joy.

“I guess she gets first kiss,” I muttered.

“Fair,” Elaria said with a smile, nestling closer, “but I get the rest.”

Elaria snuggled closer, resting her head against my shoulder, her fingers lazily tracing circles on my chest. Ripley let out a happy sigh and rolled to her side, belly still exposed like a tribute.

“So,” Elaria murmured, her voice a soft purr, “what other animals do you have? Aside from the adorable furball currently trying to sabotage our romantic moment.”

I chuckled. “Let’s see… got a few chickens. Some goats. One horse and a donkey named Pancake.”

She blinked. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it? That’s plenty.”

She made a face. “Darling, you live on a ranch. That’s barely a starter pack.”

“Okay, princess,” I said with a grin. “What exactly were you expecting?”

She sat up slightly, gesturing like she was laying out plans for a theme park. “Unicorn. Definitely a unicorn. Maybe a griffin. A couple chupacabras for pest control. Something that breathes fire. I want at least one animal on the property that can smite a trespasser.”

“A unicorn? Really?”

She nodded seriously. “Yes, they radiate an aura that not only helps to conceal, it also helps to… increase fertility.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

I groaned into my pillow. “...Maybe.”

She grinned and flopped back down. “We’ll get you there, cowboy. One mythical creature at a time.”

Elaria’s breath was warm against my neck, her fingers weaving through my hair as I tilted toward her, our lips brushing in that slow, charged way that said we were both done pretending we weren’t thinking about it. Her leg slipped over mine, her body pressing close…

A cold, wet nose shoved into my ribs.

“Ripley… oh, come on,” I groaned, half-laughing, half-dying inside.

The lovable traitor stood on the bed like she demanded, tail wagging, tongue lolling, head tilted with that “what are we doing now?” dog grin.

Elaria sighed, then smiled. “Maybe she just wants to join in the cuddling.”

“She has the worst timing in the world.”

That’s when Elaria’s pupils flared. Her skin shimmered like starlight being poured over emerald leaves, and with a breath, her glamour melted away. Wings unfurled from her back, vast and glimmering, catching the light like spun dusk and morning mist.

Ripley yelped and leapt off the bed like she’d just seen the ghost of Christmas apocalypse. Her nails skittered against the hardwood as she bolted down the hallway with a warble of canine panic.

We both burst out laughing.

“She always does this?” Elaria asked between giggles.

“She’s usually more into emotional sabotage,” I said, chuckling as I rolled out of bed and padded over to the door. I pulled it shut with a soft thud and flicked the lock.

“Alone at last,” I said, turning back to her.

Elaria was still glowing faintly, reclining across my bed like a goddess caught in the moonlight, her wings curling protectively around her. She gave me a wicked little smirk.

“Now, where were we?”

She watched me with that sly, predatory smile. The one that made my knees weak and my blood rush south.

“Well?” she purred. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come worship your goddess?”

My shirt hit the floor before she finished the sentence. She sat up as I crossed the room, rising to meet me halfway. Her hands slid up my chest, slow and deliberate, nails dragging just enough to make me shiver. She leaned in, lips grazing my jaw, my neck, the corner of my mouth. Teasing. Testing.

“This,” she whispered. “The space between your breaths. The moment before you fall apart.”

Her mouth found mine, and I kissed her like I’d been drowning without her. There was nothing gentle about it.

It was raw and hot and hungry.

She tugged me onto the bed, and I followed without hesitation, landing in a mess of tangled limbs and breathless laughs. Her dress came off, pooling around her waist. Her skin shimmered faintly with magic. I explored her like she was a secret I had all the time in the world to learn. Her body arched beneath my hands, her breath catching as my mouth traced the path of her collarbone, down her chest, over the curve of her waist.

She hooked a leg around my hip and pulled me closer, her voice a velvet moan against my throat. “Take your time, cowboy,” she breathed. “I want to feel all of you.”

Every inch of her burned against me, every sound she made pushed me deeper into something sacred. And just before the last tether gave way, before we lost ourselves completely, she looked up at me, eyes wild and soft and full of fire.

“I love you,” I said, voice rough.

“I love you.”

The End

About the Author

M.J. Michaels is a Fantasy, Sci-Fi, and Romance writer who grew up in the dusty plains of West Texas, where tumbleweeds roll, dreams spark, and the Wi-Fi is just good enough to binge an entire series in one weekend.

A first-generation American and proud Texas Tech alum, M.J. writes Science-Fiction and Fantasy stories mixed with just the right amount of chaos.

When not writing, he's usually reading, watching movies, or being judged by his dog, Indiana Jones (yes, that Indiana Jones). If you're looking for epic tales with heart, humor, and romance... you're in the right place.

Follow M.J.'s book release information and updates at www.mjmichaelsbooks.com or on social media:

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