Chapter 35 - August
The ride to the bunker is quiet. Thank fuck it’s not the heavy kind that threatened to break us.
Kate’s folded around me, arms tight around me, palms flat on my stomach, helmet leaning into my shoulder.
The engine rumbles a steady threat beneath us.
Every time I shift, she tightens her grip, as if she fears I’ll drop her off at the first bus stop and never come back.
I take the long route, cutting through back streets, thanking my lucky fucking stars that she’s not icing me out.
She set strict boundaries. No masks, no secrets, and I’ll fucking give it to her. She’ll hold me to my word and torch me if I screw this up again.
I barely roam about the city in the day unless it’s necessary.
The sun’s too honest for the kind of work I do.
I’m built for alleys after midnight, secret meetings in pitch-black gardens, spying from the shadows between cars.
Each street we take feels wrong. Too many eyes watching over the city. Too much risk of something going wrong.
Weeds curl through the chain link fences surrounding the abandoned school Spartacus calls home. We park beside the cracked brick wall of the old school, safely out of sight.
Kate swings off behind me, swaying slightly, bracing herself on the back of my bike, finding her balance. That fucker hit her hard enough to leave a mark I can’t fix. He’s lucky I only took a finger. When this ghost catches up with him, he’ll pray for death.
I didn’t sleep last night. Caffeine fueled my watch over her.
Shoulders curled, her body flinched in her sleep, and she murmured sentence fragments and called my name.
I apprised every noise like it was a threat.
Brushed hair from her temple, whispering that she was safe, promising that I’ll protect her, until her breathing evened out.
She’s strong, smiles away her pain, never showing vulnerability, but that doesn’t mean she’s okay.
I unclip her helmet for her before she drops it. “Are you okay, Glitter Bomb?”
She presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Headache.”
“Do you want me to call my doctor back?” I ask.
Her head tilts in a slow no. “I’m fine. Just a little dizziness getting off. It’s fading.”
Sure. And I’m a fucking fantasy romance prince.
I slide the backpack from her shoulders and rifle through it for the Tylenol and water bottle. “Take more of these.” I drop the pills into her palm. She’s due for her next dose. “Humor me.”
“Okay, Daddy.” She folds her hands over the pills, cracks open the water bottle and washes them down.
The words slam into me, heat pooling low where I don’t need it now. She has no idea the power they carry, jump-starting my heart, which flatlined out of fear of losing her a second time. I bite back the reply I want to give, tuck my hands in my pockets, and focus on her capping the bottle.
She points to the decrepit building. “Is this where you learned your ABCs?”
“I learn lots of things here.” I beckon her to follow with a jerk of my head.
Holding the bike upright, I wheel it into the hallway out of sight and nudge the kickstand down. The front doors hang crooked on their hinges. Windows are blacked out or busted in by vandals.
I claim her hand and tug her deeper, maintaining a slow pace, matching hers, in case she needs a rest. My eyes scan the corners, and my ears listen for anything that doesn’t belong. The bunker’s past the gym, through a set of double doors.
Our boots echo down the empty hall. Old lockers doors, dented by age and obnoxious teens, hang open. Motivational posters peel from the wall, slogans half-readable. Your future is bright. Sure, if you like squatting in ruin.
When we reach the reinforced steel door, I palm the scanner.
“Pretty high tech,” Kate comments.
“We need it with who we’re dealing with.” I shove the heavy door open.
I don’t bring anyone here. Spartacus’ bunker isn’t just hidden behind four feet of steel and concrete, it’s the last inch of space I haven’t let anyone breach besides my two soldiers.
I’m not the kind of man to give anyone the key to all my secrets.
I’ll hand her the damn last key in my possession and pray she doesn’t regret walking through the door.
Inside smells of coffee, manufactured heat from the servers, and stale air from being underground. The heavy door seals behind us.
Her shoulder brushes mine on the way down the stairs, warmth bleeding through her jacket into me.
Residual concussion makes her unsteady, and she grips the railing tightly.
My gut tightens with worry that she’ll tumble into the concrete wall at the bottom.
I imagine closing the gap, sliding my hand to the curve of her back, holding her steady. I need permission first.
“Take my hand, baby.” I hold mine out for her if she wants it.
Her eyes flick to mine like I’ve said the wrong thing.
She wants space. Protection without pushing.
I drop my hand. She lifts hers and closes it over mine.
Her light grip almost undoes me. It’s full of trust, but her sharp squeeze warns me not to break it.
She’s telling me she doesn’t need saving.
It’s her choice to let me in. Damn if it doesn’t make me want to earn it.
We take the steps slowly, one step at a time, hitting the bottom, and I pause, letting her stabilize.
Servers hum, computers ping with security notifications, and the coffee boils in the basic kitchenette we set up to service a bar fridge, sink, and counter.
One wall is lined with server racks, lights blinking, throwing a soft glow over our work benches, cluttered with weapons, some left mid-maintenance, thanks to Katar’s handiwork.
Crowded shelves house files. A heavily pinned corkboard is a graveyard of evidence, photos, and arrows pointing to targets.
Half-drunk mugs of coffee rest on the table, and I snatch them up and dump them in the sink.
“Clean up after yourself, would you?” I bark at Grayson, oblivious as he types like the god of code.
“Busy. Later,” he grunts.
I go up and smack him on the ear. ‘We have guests.”
Grayson spins in his seat.
Kate’s eyes scan the small space, cataloging everything the way a reporter does. “Where are we?” She lingers on the photos on the corkboard.
I catch her reflection in the server’s glass displays, wide-eyed and curious. I look away before she notices me staring. The tug in my heart is her pulling threads I’ve kept tangled for years, and I can’t decide if I want to stop her or hand her the scissors.
“This is Spartacus, my headquarters.” My voice is made of the smoke of a dying fire after the compacted stress of last night. “My world. Our war.”
Grayson finally glances up from his monitors, glasses reflecting the scrolling code.
Kate tilts her head, studying my second-in-command.
He’s the well-dressed college kid in a crisp slate blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, dark chinos without a wrinkle, and white sneakers that have never met mud.
Hair combed like he’s about to conduct an interview.
The only thing out of place are the coffee stains where he’s sloshed it over the edge of his mug, something he does often when he’s in the zone.
“Who’s this?” she asks, giving me the hint to introduce her.
“Our tech lead, Grayson.” I gesture at him. “The only person I trust in this world beside you.”
Grayson salutes me with two fingers. “Childhood friend stupid enough to stick around.”
“Officer Grumpy has friends?” she says, playing along.
Grayson smirks. “Nah, I’m more like his unpaid and tormented therapist. Benefits include free coffee, frequent death threats, and undelivered promises of juice boxes and compliments.”
The sheen in her eyes spells that her reporter falls away for her romance fiend sizing him up like a character from her books. “Hmm. You’re definitely the nerdy with a side of Dom trope.”
He chokes on his coffee and fumbles to clean his screen with a spare shirt he left hanging on the arm of his chair. “Have you been stalking me?”
Kate giggles behind her hand, and I can tell she’s already building him a romance plot in her head. “Trust me, I’m never wrong about tropes. And you’re the one who set up the bugs in my room.”
Grayson pauses his mug halfway to his mouth as if she’s just recited his search history out loud.
For a guy who can hack the city blindfolded, he doesn’t like being read easily.
He prefers back-door access rather than front-facing conversation.
Eyes narrowed, he tips the mug slowly, takes a sip, and peers over the rim, assessing his new opponent.
“Can’t wait to find out if I survive my own love story,” he mutters.
Her laughter rings off the concrete walls, bright and unapologetic, shaking the foundations and letting cracks of light filter through.
Sunshine against the bunker’s utilitarian gray.
She leans over Grayson’s desk, needling him about romance tropes, and he’s engaging her instead of retreating into his screens.
My bunker’s never been this loud with joy… never felt this alive.
Fuck. She’s here. In my world. With my people.
Months ago, the thought of her anywhere near Spartacus had me chaining the doors.
I saw her as someone to keep out of the line of fire.
Now, I see the steel under her glitter, the woman who can take a hit and fire back.
I should be on edge, but my walls roll down, inviting her deeper.
Kate sweeps her arm across the room. “Don’t I need some sort of initiation to work here? A neck tattoo? Deadly test?”
I chuckle. Yep. She’s feeling more like herself by the hour. “Swear fealty to the cause, commit at least one state crime, and drink coffee black.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t know if I can do the last one.”
“Pussy.” I wink at her, winning a warmer smile.