Chapter 17 Katana
KATANA
Ipushed myself too hard yesterday, and now I’m paying the price.
My ribs burn like someone’s running barbed wire under my skin, every breath dragging fire across bone.
My sheets still smell like Dante, that heat of his that clings to me no matter how hard I try to shake it.
I hate how much I notice it. I hate how much I miss it.
I should probably change these sheets if I’m going to stand a chance to forget about him.
The ceiling fan above me ticks out a lazy rhythm I can’t sync to.
The room’s too warm, the sheets too twisted, his heat stamped into the cotton like a bruise I can’t hide from.
I stare at the cracks marching across the ceiling like it’s a map out of this feeling and find nothing but more white space.
My phone on the nightstand buzzes again.
His name lights up the screen. I don’t open it.
Don’t even swipe to read. I can’t. Not after the way I cut him down, the way I shoved his warning back in his face like it was poison.
He was trying to tell me the truth. I couldn’t hear it then.
I wouldn’t. Now, with evidence burning a hole in my memory, I don’t have the luxury of denial anymore.
The buzz dies and leaves the room too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every heartbeat sound like a countdown. I flip the phone face-down. It still hums once, phantom, like my body’s memorized the feel of him and refuses to forget.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My body protests, stiff and weak, but I force it to move. When I stand, the room tilts a hair. I breathe shallow and wait it out, palms braced to the mattress until the sway settles.
I get dressed slowly slipping into black sweats, a Royal Harlots tank top, and a hoodie.
Clothes that won’t press too hard against the stitches.
The motions are easier than yesterday, but my exhaustion is bone-deep.
I spent half the night haunted by the way Dante felt inside me, the other half staring at the ceiling, choking on the thought that he might’ve been right about Riot.
I make my way downstairs, the clubhouse already a flurry of activity.
The smell of coffee and bacon cuts through the scent of hops that always lingers.
Voices bounce off the walls, low laughter filling the massive space, chairs scraping against the floor, forks clinking against plates.
It should feel comforting, but today it just feels off.
Footsteps echo from down the hall, somewhere a radio hisses static before a song catches. Someone cusses at the toaster. This is my home, my family, and yet in light of what I know it doesn’t sit right with me.
I try to shake away the nagging sensation and grab a mug from the cupboard, my side burning from the reach.
Inhaling a soothing breath, I pour myself a cup of black coffee, and take a seat at the edge of the table.
My body screams when I lower myself into the chair, but I don’t let it show.
I scan the room. Quinn is at the head of the table, calm and steady like always.
LC at her side, flipping through her phone while she eats.
You’d never know the three of us are carrying a secret of this magnitude by looking at them.
A few of the girls drift in and out, carrying plates, loading up on food before training.
One of them, Hydra, starts to make a joke about me being up but Quinn slices her a look and the joke dies in her throat. The small mercy lands and misses its mark at the same time.
And then there’s Riot. She’s not slouched loose like she usually is, not leaning back with her boots propped and that half-smirk daring anyone to test her.
She’s sitting forward, shoulders tight, her chair pulled just a little off-kilter from the table.
Not angled for comfort, but so she can see everything.
One hand grips the edge of the table, knuckles pale, while the other hovers near her phone like she’s waiting for it to go off.
Every so often, her eyes flick up, scanning the table, the room, the door.
It’s subtle, maybe nothing to anyone else. But to me? It’s wrong. Riot never looks like she’s bracing herself for a fight against us. And that’s exactly what she’s doing now. The question is why?
She pockets her phone when she notices me watching.
“You really should stay in bed a few more days.” Riot’s voice cuts across the table. Her gaze skates my side, catches on the way I hold myself a little too careful.
“I’m fine.” The lie comes easy but I’m sick of telling it. Riot should know better than anyone that I won’t be kept down.
Her brow furrows. “You don’t look fine.”
Before I can snap back, Mama Ru bustles in from the kitchen, a faded apron tied around her waist and a steaming plate of biscuits balanced on one arm. Her short gray hair is sticking up like she didn’t bother with a comb and her sharp eyes catching everything.
“Leave the girl be, Riot,” Mama Ru scolds, setting the plate down in front of me. “Girl’s upright, that’s half a miracle already.”
A few chuckles ripple around the table. She narrows her eyes on me, then slides the biscuits closer. “Eat something before you fall over. Coffee’s not a meal.”
Mama Ru’s always been like that. Gentle where the rest of us are jagged, a soft heart holding a hard world together. She does more than keep our house in order, she’s the one who reminds us we’re still worth saving.
“Yes, Mama Ru,” I say, tearing a piece off just to humor her.
She pats my shoulder, gentle but firm. “That’s my girl.”
Only then does she straighten, wiping her hands on her apron and moving on to scold Rogue and Nyx for leaving dishes in the sink. The moment she’s gone, the room feels heavier again.
I swallow the biscuit and chase it with coffee that sits like gravel in my stomach.
A few of the others are making conversation about one thing or another, but I barely hear them.
Not with my focus locked on Riot. Not when she won’t look me in the eye.
Not when her plate is still untouched, her hand twitching toward her pocket like she wants her phone back in her grip.
She catches LC watching her and smiles a heartbeat too late. I file it away as paranoia and take a long swallow of coffee, forcing myself to glance away. If the others notice anything off, they don’t show it.
By the time I make it to my office in the back of the gym, every step feels like it drags barbed hooks through my side.
My hand finds the doorframe, steadying me as I push it open.
Dust floats in the strip of light spilling through the blinds, drifting over the desk where Quinn and LC left everything yesterday.
I lower myself into the chair, the pain in my side refusing to dull and spread the papers out with shaking hands. Intake forms, scraps of notes all of them carrying the weight of the girls who walked through our doors, girls who trusted us to keep them safe.
I want this to be a mistake. A set-up. Anything but betrayal.
My stomach twists. A mistake doesn’t explain what we found in Riot’s locker. Heat crawls under my skin. I press the heel of my palm to my eye, trying to force the thought away.
A knock makes my spine lock, then the door opens without an invitation. Riot slips inside, her usual smirk missing. Her gaze drops straight to the desk, to the mess of papers spread across it.
I don’t move the papers. I don’t cover a thing. Let the test come.
“Left my phone charger in here.” Her throat works once. Her eyes flick to the desk again, not to the outlet.
My gaze tracks her as she crosses the threshold and moves toward the desk. Her eyes linger on the paperwork a second too long before snapping back to mine. She crouches low near the outlet, her hand brushing against the desk’s edge as she unplugs the cord.
“Why are you digging through all that?” she asks, her voice pitched light, but I see the way her eyes drag over the forms before she forces them back to me.
“Catching up on the filing,” I answer, dragging a folder closed, my movements deliberate. “Guess I let it get sloppy.”
Her laugh is thin, quick, nerves showing through the cracks. “Sloppy ain’t like you.”
I meet her eyes, pinning her in place. “Guess I’m slipping.”
Riot shifts her weight, the charger cord coiling in her hand like a lifeline. Her gaze skates across the desk again. Concern creases her brow, real enough, but there’s tension threaded underneath, her shoulders too stiff, her jaw too tight.
“Don’t push yourself, Kat. Not worth tearing those stitches open.” She’s leaning against the doorframe now, tapping her palm against it once, twice, like she always does. The sound is familiar, comforting almost. Until I notice how fast her fingers twitch against the frame.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Faster than her usual two-count. The sound rings sharp in my ears.
I meet her eyes, hold them. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She nods, tapping the doorframe once more, and pushes back into the hall. “Catch you later.”
The door shuts softly behind her, but the silence she leaves behind is louder than any slam. I sit frozen, my pulse hammering in my ears. She’s nervous. And that makes me terrified. Because Riot doesn’t rattle easily.
The papers blur under my gaze, none of it registering. All I can see is the flick of her eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders, the twitch of her fingers against the wood.