Chapter 8 - August
She’s onto me. I know it. She tried to shake me with several turns that led away from her home. After she noticed me tailing her, I pulled back and gave her a generous head start, parking two blocks away as protocol.
Kate’s in her room when I arrive at her place. Fairy light illumination spilling from her room is soft and warm, something that doesn’t belong in my life. She’s hunched over her desk, typing away on her keyboard, possibly writing one of her articles.
Crouched low and sitting by her window, I pull up my phone, which I’ve switched to dark mode, so the illumination doesn’t alert her to my presence. Thanks to Murder Spice removing every single spying device, I’m blind and need to get up close and personal.
I don’t even want to think of the extra complication of a possibly undercover friend. Katar will have answers for me on that front soon.
I type a message to Grayson on our encrypted three-way chat system.
Me: Find out what she’s working on.
Grayson: Roger that.
Katar: Is she using her new toy?
Goddamn Katar references the vibrator I broke.
Grayson needs to learn to shut his trap.
Katar: If she is, I’ll abandon my current task and pay a visit.
Dirty fucker.
Me: Watch her pleasure herself and you’ll be eating your teeth.
Katar: I need extra protein in my diet.
I put the phone away to prevent any more distractions.
Kate rubs her eyes and stretches. Long day seated at the computer. My fingers twitch to sink into her shoulders and ease that tension in her neck.
She gets up and tiptoes away from her desk.
I duck and wait a solid thirty seconds, then surface, expecting to find her tucked into bed.
Kate’s curled on her sofa, a creative project on her lap, sewing the velvet onto a lamp base in between cream panels.
It makes sense that she creates light and hope from scraps of material.
I blow melted glass from fire that’s fragile enough to break.
Wide awake at 12AM, avoiding sleep because she knows what’s waiting: the nightmares and darkness that haunt her.
I fight them every night too.
Part of me whispers, Don’t worry, baby. I’ll keep watch and kill the monsters in your nightmares.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t smother the cop in me, the part that wants to protect the vulnerable, even if they compromise me and look at me the way she did nights ago.
Nope. Shutting down that line of thought. Can’t care. That got me burned once. Get back to the mission. Investigate. Infiltrate. Extract. Nothing more.
Distraction time. Scroll Kate’s socials while she sews, searching for any signs of a boyfriend or fuck buddy. No relationship status. Photos of colleagues, celebrations, awards, friend dates, and vacations. Discovering this should ease the pressure in my chest, except it doesn’t.
Muffled voices drift through her window, low, breathy, and dramatic. What the fuck? I tense and zero in, checking for intruders… or guests.
“Tell me you’re mine, little lamb,” the male voice growls, straight out of a dungeon fantasy. “Even if I have to bleed for it.”
“I’m not yours, King,” a woman counters defiantly.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Not a threat, physically speaking. To my ears and soul, that’s another story.
Surveillance with a side of depraved audiobook boyfriends whispering homicidal nothings in our ears.
If I wanted that, I’d ask Katar to talk dirty to me.
My eyes widen when I hear a moan, chains clanking, the words sacrificial altar.
Pauses between the dialogue betray the sound of fabric scissors slicing velvet ribbons. I want to break the lock of her window, climb through it, seize the scissors, and commit audiobook homicide.
I try to tune out the blood oaths and check communications.
Ping Grayson. Anything to distract me from the moaning going on.
The only thing that works is digging deeper into her socials and playing silent videos of her Brazilian Ju-Jitsu classes, grappling techniques, and wrist locks.
She’s more than capable of taking care of herself.
Grayson’s name flashes on the screen, inviting me to a three-way camera chat. I plug my earbuds in to listen to the conversation.
I accept and mute myself.
Me: Typing mode only for me from here on out.
Katar joins the chat to stay abreast. He’s in the background, carving off someone’s arm to dissolve in acid.
Me: What did you find, Stake?
I use his weapon name to avoid identifying him if the Romans manage to hack our channel.
“I snuck into her blog dashboard and found Kate’s been digging into The Romans’ business for the last two years.”
“Your unicorn’s been very naughty,” Katar grunts.
Busy earning enemies, more like it.
She wants to feel safe like the heroines in her book. Wants someone to go the extra mile to stop her from looking over her shoulder.
And, God, I want to be that guy for her and for every goddamn citizen of Shadow Lake crushed under the Romans’ boots.
First, I need to know what this glitter bomb is playing at. Whose side is she on? Team Citizen or Team Roman?
Me: What kind of information?
“Draft articles outlining insider trading links tying politicians and authority figures to upcoming developments,” Grayson replies in time to the rhythm of tapping keys that is disturbingly soothing, given the corpse in the room behind him.
Katar paints a dick and balls on the corpse’s forehead with a grin that belongs in a padded cell.
Exactly the emotional maturity I expect from him.
He finishes what he’s doing, brushes his hand with a rag, and tosses it at my nerdy friend.
Grayson bats it away with the grace of a man used to biological hazards.
A week ago, I might’ve said my enforcer and Kate make the perfect couple. Chaos incarnate, with knives and strong opinions. Now? Not a chance in hell. He’s the source of nightmares.
Grayson flips his screen to mine. “She’s stockpiling them like a squirrel hoarding nuts.”
Katar snorts. “More like grenades.”
Grayson sends me a link to files that I crack open and review. Expose on Blackthorn’s shady charity laundering. Neptune’s bloody ledger breaks down the mafia family’s war crimes disguised as business disputes.
Pride tightens my chest. She wants to take them down as much as we do. That’s not just brave, it’s fucking brilliant. A thought breaks through. What if we can capitalize on this somehow? Join forces? Only when I ascertain her allegiance.
Grayson types something in rapid-fire. “She’s posted three low-key stories. Mercury detected them in thirty minutes and activated search engine suppression. Now she’s on a watch list.”
I rub my brow and plug in a response.
Me: Fucking Mercury. They monitor everything, down to the local dog park reviews. Kate’s basically waving a red flag at her father, and I wonder if it’s dare or a fuck you?
“That’s a flaming sword,” Katar mumbles, admiring his blood graffiti. “Love that for her.”
Me: Has Blackthorn caught wind of this?
Grayson’s response falls like a hammer. “Most likely if she’s accumulating evidence on him to go public.”
Fuck. Once I win her trust, I’ll have to tell her to take it offline. No digital trace. Paper only. Code names.
I check on her again. Kate’s secured the velvet and has moved on to threading bead tassels for added decoration.
Me: Anything else to report?
“Nope,” Grayson shuts his laptop. “But I’ll keep on it.”
“I’ll put this guy on acid and get back to Murder Spice,” Katar informs me.
That’s a lead we urgently need answers on. I want to know who she is and how she’s so well-equipped with spyware.
I sign off and leave the chat.
Reading Kate’s extensive articles keeps me busy for a few hours.
Evidence, timelines, and witness statements paint a credible picture to nail these Roman bastards in their coffins.
Or nail one in her own. I wonder if she knows she may be on their radar.
If she thinks I’m one of them sent to subdue her.
In between, I take breaks and watch her. She hums as her lampshade takes shape. No fear or sense of danger, just a smile while she works. Biting her lip at some twisted verse about carving devotion into skin. Warmth and weirdness in a bubble she thinks is safe.
By the time the clock hits 3AM, I’m fading and need to get rest.
The audio has long gone silent, and she’s completed about four panels of her lamp. Tired, she wipes her eyes, sets aside her creation, and pads to her bed, sinking under the covers, minus PJ3.
I want to climb through her window, brush her forehead, and whisper that it’s okay. Instead, I climb down the tree, return to my bike and ride home.
Falling onto my mattress, I can’t help but worry that I’m wading into dangerous territory with this woman.