Trick or Tease - Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween Collection - Chapter Two

A knock on the door changes everything. Mason Beckett isn’t here for candy—he’s here for payback. One smug grin, one simple dare—trick or treat—and suddenly their little war doesn’t feel so harmless anymore. The banter that’s always kept them safe is sharper now, the air between them thicker, charged with something Aria doesn’t want to name. And when Mason steps inside, she starts to wonder if she’s about to lose the only game she’s ever cared about winning.

Trick or Tease - Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween Collection

Trick or Tease

Chapter One

Aria

Mischief Managed

A couple hours later, the street is eerily quiet. Porch lights click off one by one, jack-o’-lanterns burning low, their grins caving in. I’m curled on my couch with a blanket and a glass of wine, replaying the look on Mason’s face when he caught me. That not-smile, not-frown, just smug enough to make me want to throw the spider at his head.

A knock at my door makes me jump. Not a light rap like kids begging for last-minute candy. A solid, deliberate thud.

I freeze, glass hovering halfway to my mouth. Most of the neighborhood’s done for the night. Which leaves exactly one person bold enough to come knocking.

Another thud, steady and unhurried.

Muttering under my breath, I pad to the door, bare feet whispering across the floor. I peek through the glass. And, of course, there he is. Mason. Hood down now, hair mussed from the wind, bowl of candy still in his hand like he’s been waiting for this moment.

When I open the door, he doesn’t bother with a hello. He just tips his chin, mouth curved with that same dare from earlier.

“Trick or treat.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed like I’ve got all the time in the world. “Pretty sure you’ve aged out of trick-or-treating, Beckett.”

His gaze drags over me, slow and steady, again, before settling back on my face. “Guess that makes you the treat, then.”

Heat flickers low in my stomach, traitorous and sharp, and I smother it with a scoff. “Cute. Did you rehearse that one on the way over?”

“Didn’t have to.” His mouth curves, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Some things come naturally.”

I roll my eyes, but my fingers curl tighter against my arms to keep from fidgeting. He doesn’t even blink, just stands there on my porch holding that ridiculous bowl of candy like he owns the place.

“Goodnight, Mason.” I push at the door, slow and casual, like I actually expect him to move.

Before the latch can catch, his hand slides to the frame. Not rough, or pushy. Just solid, fingers spread against the wood. Blocking me without even breaking stride in his breathing.

I narrow my eyes. “Seriously? You planning to loiter until sunrise?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re gonna keep pretending you don’t like this game.” His voice dips lower, almost conversational, like he’s discussing the weather instead of cornering me on my own porch.

The worst part? My pulse trips over itself, betraying me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. Just holds the space, calm and steady, like he knows eventually I’ll be the one to cave.

And damn it, he’s probably right.

I huff out a laugh, more nerves than humor, and roll my eyes. “Fine. If you’re so determined, come in then.”

It’s supposed to be a bluff. A line to make him finally step back and leave me standing here with the last word.

Instead, Mason shifts the candy bowl to one arm and ducks his head just enough to clear the doorframe, strolling inside like I’ve rolled out a welcome mat. Not cautious or hesitant. Just nonchalant.

“Seriously?” I spin, shutting the door a little harder than necessary. “That wasn’t an actual invitation.”

“You said come in.” He shrugs, tone maddeningly mild as his gaze sweeps across the room. “I listen.”

“That’s a first.”

He doesn’t bite. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he drifts farther in, calm and unhurried, like every step plants a flag. He doesn’t look around like a guest, he surveys like he owns every square foot.

I fold my arms tighter across my chest, trying to cage the sudden flutter beneath my ribs. I should be annoyed. No—furious. He’s barged in, tracked the chill of the October night across my floor, and acts like it’s his living room.

And yet.

There’s something about the way he fills the space so easily, like he belongs here more than he should, that sparks low under my skin. Half-annoyed, half-thrilled. Mostly pissed at myself for feeling both.

Mason drifts farther into the room like he’s on a self-guided tour, gaze snagging on every corner. The string lights I’d looped over the mantle cast a soft orange glow, the cheap cobwebs I stretched across the bookshelf drooping in uneven clumps. His mouth curves like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Really went all out, didn’t you?” he says, brushing his fingers over a paper bat that’s already peeling off the wall.

“It’s called holiday spirit,” I shoot back, trailing after him with my arms crossed. “You should try it sometime.”

He hums, low and unimpressed, and keeps moving. His eyes flick to the side table where I stupidly left a roll of tape, then to the candy bowl, where a spare plastic spider lies in wait. He picks it up between two fingers, turning it slowly before dropping it back into the bowl.

“Holiday spirit,” he repeats, voice lazy. “Or just really elaborate plotting.”

“It’s decor.” The words snap out before I can soften them, and his grin says he heard the defensive edge.

He wanders toward the sideboard, brushing his knuckles over a stretch of fake webbing that sags too low. Then he turns, closing the distance between us until I’m forced to shift a step back. His height, and his calmness eats up the space like he’s designed to unsettle me.

“You put this much effort into everyone?” he asks quietly, eyes locked on mine.

My throat goes tight, sass tangling with nerves. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just… easy to mess with.”

His gaze lingers, steady, sharp. “Easy. That what you tell yourself?”

And my pulse gives me away, thudding hard enough to make me want to shove him—or kiss him.

Mason doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, closing the space until I can make out the faint smell of smoke and sugar clinging to his hoodie. His gaze holds mine steady, unblinking, the kind of look that dares me to flinch first.

“Trick or treat?” His voice is low, deliberate, curling over me like smoke. Not a question so much as a promise.

I lift my chin, forcing a smirk I don’t fully feel. My arms fold tight across my chest, a flimsy shield. “Treat.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and razor sharp. “Then don’t complain when it’s more than you can handle.”

The words land hot, curling down my spine, and I hate the way my throat works around the swallow I can’t hide. His smirk doesn’t get wider, and he doesn’t press—he just lets me sit in it.

I try to even my breath, paste on a smile that’s all teeth. “You really think you’re that scary?”

His gaze dips, lingers just long enough to make my skin spark, then comes back up steady. “Not scary. Just honest.”

The silence stretches, heavy and humming. My pulse hammers, traitorous, giving me away even as I pretend I’m calm.

He doesn’t call me on it. He just stands there, confident and immovable, like he already knows he’s won this round.

And damn it, I’m not sure he’s wrong.

He shifts again, slow enough that I should have time to step back. But… I don’t.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly under my chin, tilting my face toward his. My breath stalls. My brain screams that I should shove him away, crack another joke, anything to prove he doesn’t rattle me.

But my body betrays me, leaning in before I can think better of it.

When his mouth finally covers mine, it’s not tentative. It’s decisive, like he’s been waiting all night for me to run out of smart remarks. Heat crashes through me, sharp and dizzying, until my hands fist in his hoodie without permission.

I kiss him back—too hard, too eager—and I hate myself for how good it feels.

He pulls back just enough to let his breath skate across my lips, his eyes dark and steady on mine.

“Still think it’s just a game?” he murmurs.

My smirk wobbles, weaker than I want it to be. “You wish.”

But the way my pulse stutters, the way I’m still clinging to him, says otherwise.

His grin tilts, smug and satisfied, like he’s just claimed victory in a war I swore I wasn’t losing.

I shove at his chest, more for my sanity than to move him. “This doesn’t change anything,” I lie, the taste of him still lingering, daring me to prove it.

Mason doesn’t argue. He just smirks, steady and unshakable, like he already knows round two is inevitable.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: October 2025

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