Dante (Savage Knights MC #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

AVA

shifter hore

I wince. Whore without the w is new, though the email subject is anything but creative. I’ve had much funnier ones just this week.

I click on it anyway.

Defending shifters is against the morals… They hope I get a bullet to the side of my head… Shifters should all serve the country as the animals they are…

Mm, pity. Nothing new. The familiar vitriol that fills my screen is a rehash of the classics. Every journalist who follows tough stories gets the same rage-filled emails/letters/social media replies. Female journalists like me have the added misogynistic threats—hence, shifter whore .

Nothing new.

I quickly scan the email’s header, looking for any info that could identify the sender. Most are smart enough to use burner accounts and VPNs, but you never know. I’ve had a seventy- year-old neighbor who sent me email threats but always forgot to turn off his signature, so his emails always ended with his name and phone number.

He told the cops it was just a joke, but there was no one laughing.

With a resigned sigh, I forward the email to my boss’s assistant. She’s been keeping an eye on these ever since I started writing about Congressman Dalton Thorne. Nothing has come out of any of the threats.

Their anger has just fueled me onward.

The apartment door slams open. I startle, whirling around from my spot at the dining table to stare behind me.

Steve waltzes in without a care in the world. He picks something up from the floor and kicks the door shut—once more, too loud. I wince again.

“Babe,” I call him. “The neighbors! We don’t want them complaining again!”

Steve doesn’t look up as he pulls his phone from his pocket. He doesn’t reply as well. He drops his keys on top of the sideboard with a clatter. Once more, he’s missed the key dish by several inches. At this point, he’s not even trying. He kicks off his shoes—not bothering to put them away—then walks toward me.

“Babe.” I sigh. “At least don’t leave the shoes in the middle of the hallway.”

Finally, he looks at me. Steve arches an eyebrow, then pulls an earbud from beneath his longish, dark blond hair. “What was that?”

Steve and I met in high school, where he gave me my first kiss. He’s not particularly good looking, but I consider myself pretty average, and he’s funny. After some back and forth while he decided if he really wanted me, we started dating when we were both sophomores (him majoring in computer sciences while I pursued a journalism degree), then moved in together a few years after that.

Not married, of course. Steve doesn’t like labeling us . More and more often, I’ve started to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to be alone, but I’ve been lonely before and it’s not fun.

Swallowing, I shrug. Steve and I are twenty-eight. He’s too old to change and I’m tired of fights. “Nothing.” I smile at him, stretching my neck for a kiss. “Hi. How was your day?”

He pecks me on the lips. He smells like beer. “Normal.” Steve glances at the dark kitchen. “You haven’t started on dinner?” He shoves a piece of paper into my hands. It’s an envelope.

“No. It’s almost eleven.” I flip the envelope around. My name is written with black Sharpie in the back. At least it’s spelled right.

“And because it’s late, I shouldn’t eat?” he asks, laughing. But it’s not the laugh he has with his friends, or the laugh he used to have when we started to date in high school. There’s a mocking edge to it now. A hint of disdain.

“You said you were going to have dinner with the boys from work, so I thought I’d just get takeout for me.” I rip the envelope open and pull the single sheet from the inside.

“Again, Ava?” he says as he walks into the kitchen and turns the lights on. “You eat too many carbs. You should hit the gym more often.”

I mentally mute him. I’m growing tired of the body-shaming. Steve says he’s just thinking of my health, but I’m the one spending thirty minutes on the stair master every day while he sleeps in. No matter what I say and what I do, he’s always going to believe I’m plus-size because I’m lazy.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should be in this relationship at all. We’re way past comfortable; sex was never amazing, but it’s better than nothing. Sharing the rent would be a good excuse if he paid his part at all. There’s also the whole thing about taking care of a twenty-eight-year-old man who refuses to learn to cook.

I shake my head, refocusing on the paper in my hands. I’ve been getting threats for a while now, so I immediately recognize the message for what it is. Another death threat. It’s not even the first time I get two on the same day.

But none have been written on a typewriter.

I’ve been following your work with great interest. Your dedication to your job is admirable. However, there are certain truths that, when exposed, can have far-reaching consequences. It’s important to consider the potential impact of your story not only on you and your job but also on those who surround you. Those who you care about.

Sincerely, A Well-Wisher

My heart skips a beat. There’s a knot in my throat and I can’t swallow past it. I stare at the typewritten message in my hands as they begin to shake.

This . This feels too real. This isn’t my neighbor saying shit because he’s a woman-hater. No, this feels entirely too serious. It’s subtle enough that most cops wouldn’t take it seriously.

But my job ? Certain truths ? It’s certainly about my latest articles. All of which involved Congressman Thorne and his hate-filled campaign.

I read it again. Impact on those who surround you . This is a threat. They know where I leave, since they put the letters beneath the door. My blood freezes. I was alone when they brought the letter. They would have taken me by surprise.

“What’s that?” Steve asks as he plops down on the couch, turning on the TV a moment later.

“Someone is threatening me,” I say, my voice strangely calm. “Because of my investigation into the Congressman.”

“What investigation?”

I shoot him a disbelieving glance. “My investigation into Congressman Thorne. It’s been going on for almost a year now.”

“Oh, sure.” He puts on a livestream of some video game. Too loud. “What was it about again?”

The letter crumples in my hand. I turn to Steve. There’s no way he doesn’t remember it. I’ve been knee-deep in this story for months.

“Congressman Thorne? The guy who’s extremely anti-shifter?”

“Yes, I know who he is.” He scoffs. “But your ‘investigation’,” he does the air-quotes, “wasn’t really an investigation. You were just writing about how you disagree with him.”

“No, Steve. Three women denounced him for abuse. There was a whole thing. The girls suddenly dropped the charges and disappeared!” Not suspicious at all .

Steve shrugs, pulling his phone up and opening a food app. “Supposedly. If they dropped the charges, then there’s no crime.”

I frown at him. “He’s a rich and powerful man. Don’t you really think it’s weird?”

“No.” He focuses on the phone in his hand. “I’ll order burritos. You want one?”

I wait, expecting him to ask about the threat . He doesn’t. He just looks up at me, waiting for my answer about the burrito.

My shoulders drop. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the threat. There’s no use telling him that I recently asked for access to court proceedings, so it would make sense that Thorne came after me. There’s no use telling Steve that I’m afraid.

“No, I’m not hungry,” I say, defeated. A part of me even expects Steve to say something along the lines of good for you . That’s how sad this relationship is.

I grip the letter with one hand and my phone with the other. I could give up. For my safety, for Steve’s.

But for the Congressman to be threatening me now, it can only mean he is hiding something.

A new fire ignites in my veins. My instincts tell me to chase this. To uncover the truth.

No matter what I have to do.