Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 57

The sky is the color of old bruises–smoky purples, moody grays, and that eerie kind of gold that makes the air feel like it’s holding its breath–as I step out of my front door, my hoodie sleeves shoved up to my elbows, a crumpled takeout receipt in one hand, and an overfilled trash bag in the other. The lazy early evening breeze carries wet leaves and something burnt from the neighbor’s grill–probably an overcooked steak and a broken marriage.

As I pull the door shut behind me and turn around, I find a man standing on my landing, Well, technically, he’s at the bottom of the landing. He’s got a black box in his hand, dressed in a black suit, and clean–shaven–way too polished to be delivering something as mundane as mail.

“Harley Blake?” he asks politely but not overly friendly, holding out the box towards me like it might bite him.

I narrow my eyes as I look down at him and ask, “That depends. Are you here to serve papers or curses?

He doesn’t flinch at my snarky reply but extends a sleek clipboard and a pen for me to take. “Signature, please, It’s mandatory.”

I eye the box he’s still holding onto. There’s no postage or branding on the outside. It’s wrapped in sleek, black matte paper and a silver ribbon that’s so iridescent, it practically glows.

Suspicious much? That’s the understatement of the century.

Still, I sign for it, because I’m apparently incapable of resisting ominous luxury packaging,

The guy nods once, and then vanishes down the sidewalk like he’s trained in disappearing acts for a world–renowned magic show in Las Vegas, while I’m left clutching this box of mystery and possible doom

After I’ve dumped my garbage in the bin in the corner of my yard, I bring it inside like it’s radioactive, while muttering the whole way, “If this thing curses me with another emotionally unavailable man, I swear to God…”

1 place it on the kitchen counter and stare at it for a beat. It’s heavier than it looks to be from the outside. I open the lid, and the scent hits my senses first–cedar, smoked spice, and something else I can’t quite name.

Inside, there are layers upon layers of featherlight tissue paper that’s precisely folded. And nestled on top of it all, an envelope. Thick, stark white paper with a single letter in elegant handwriting: H.

I tear it open slowly, careful not to smudge the ink, and pull the card from inside, reading the words written there reverently.

Hurley,

There’s a gala this S

Saturday evening. I know the guy who should’ve invited you dido. He’s being a dumbass. Until he comes to his senses, consider this placeholder. The dress is yours. Wear it. Or don’t. Either way, you’re unforgettable. Mike

I blink. Then read it again, And again.

The note might read that it’s from Mike, but I know Griffin’s behind this, that nosy little puppet–master.

I fold the note like it’s holding secrets I’m not ready to decode and set it aside with a heavy sigh that probably ages me five years.

I lift the layers of tissue carefully and meticulously, like it might spring to life if I rush the process. Velvet shimmers at me when I get to the bottom, catching the light like it knows how to flirt. I brush the last flap back, and my fingertips graze the buttery–soft fabric.

It’s a deep purple with an off–the–shoulder neckline, a bodice structured enough to command kingdoms, and a slit so high up that it threatens to start wars. It’s the kind of dress that makes people stop, turn, and stare,

“Of course it’s plum–purple,” I murmur. “Like he wants me to look like sin dipped in envy.”

“They probably commissioned it with blood money and silent judgment,” I grumble at the piece of perfection in my hands.

I toss it onto the counter next to the card dramatically. Then turn around and walk away towards the living room.

1 make it three steps before 1 falter. Then two more, before I glance back at it where it’s sprawled out, all smug–like.

Minutes later, I’m back downstairs after I went and dragged out a hanger from my closet. “You don’t own me, I mutter at the dress as I slide it into place. “You’re just fabric. Really expensive, life–derailing fabric.”

I hang it on the corner of my bookcase in the living room, making sure there are no wrinkles, and then I pace. The TV hums in the corner of the room from earlier, like it disapproves of my life choices, while my feet leave worn trails across the floorboards around the coffee table.

One part of me whispers: Go. Show up. Drown the room in plum velvet and make Thane regret every ounce of his silence.

The other part chastises me: Don’t reward his absence with effort.

1 grab my phone, but then just stare at the screen. I still don’t have his number, and I haven’t received a message from him. So basically, I still don’t have any way to reach him.

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