Chapter 40 - Kate
The cabin looks like something out of a postcard.
Smoke curls from the stone chimney. Pine needles crunch under my boots.
Mountain air carries that sharp, crisp bite that smells like freedom from the city.
August swings the heavy duffel over his shoulder and lifts a box of tinned supplies from the trunk, rattling the cans and jars.
We’ve bought enough to survive a month-long siege in the SUV we traded for his bike. Just for the meantime, at least.
Shadow Lake is burning, figuratively, since August’s video dropped.
Grayson’s been keeping us abreast of the escalating public outrage.
Politicians are scrambling, and authorities are denying all knowledge of the Roman order.
Journalists are spreading lies and discrediting him.
Internet sleuths and content creators are digging into Spartacus’ evidence and public archives.
Conspiracy forums are melting down at being right for once.
August and I have retreated to ride out the worst of the wildfire, and we’re holed up in a cabin so deep in the mountains that the wind seems reluctant to find us.
Minimal cell reception. No Romans or guns.
Battery-operated radios only. Trees, birds, and the quiet hum of a revolution taking root. Turf August knows well.
The inside of the cabin features rough-hewn timber and the smell of smoke and cedar.
I glance at the cozy touches, plaid throws, stacked firewood in an iron rack, and vase of fresh flowers on the dining table.
I smile, grateful. It beats a cold warehouse somewhere in the middle of the city.
Or the incessant noise of his loft apartment.
Sure, the cabin technically belongs to an ally, but with the two of us alive and safe, it feels like our little slice of heaven.
Fruit sits in a bowl. The scent of fresh cookies and brownies in a plastic tub perched on the counter fights the woodsmoke for dominance. I pick up the note on the tub and read it.
Proud of you, Kate. Catch up soon. Enjoy the treats.
Sally-Anne.
August called the news anchor ahead of our arrival, and she permitted us to hide out here for however long we need to make our next tactical move in the war, keep the pressure on the Romans’ throats, and prevent public outrage from waning.
“Aww, she left us baked goodies. And set the fire for our welcome.” I drum on the tub, hoping to sneak a bite. We haven’t eaten in hours, and my blood sugar’s been low. “Martha Stewart, watch your back.”
August doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets down our belongings and moves to the windows, double-checking locks, scanning the place like it’s a safehouse rather than a cabin.
“This place belongs to her family. It’s hidden by shell companies and a paper trail buried three layers deep.
No one will find us here, Glitter Bomb. We’re lucky to get it last minute. ”
Such an August thing to say. Not homey. Safe and hidden.
He finishes with the sliding door next to the dining area and nods to the black and white photos on the fireplace mantle. Portraits of people who would faint if they saw the armory August is going to stash across the cabin and out in strategic places across the property.
August comes up behind me and smacks my backside. “Unpack first. Food later. I know you’re starving, and I’ll feed you soon. Now be a good girl.”
Again, classic August. Get organized first, then settle in, while I’m the opposite. We don’t know how long we’ll be staying here and have plenty of time to get settled in. I go with his plan because it makes him less twitchy knowing we can protect ourselves.
“Yes, Grumpy Daddy.” I fight a smile.
He leaves the kitchen to unpack our clothes in the drawers in the bedroom.
Meanwhile, I get stuck into filling the pantry with bottled water, canned beans, vegetables, fruit, protein bars and other non-perishable food. When we’re done, we meet by the fireplace, folding into each other’s arms.
“Romance isn’t dead,” I say. “You brought enough firearms and ammo to overthrow a dictatorship.”
“We need to set up precautions if the Romans find us.” He kisses the tip of my nose.
A buzz vibrates from August’s jacket. He removes his phone.
“Update from Grayson,” he says, and threads an arm over my shoulder.
“The public is demanding arrests and formal investigations. Hashtags are trending with Blackthorn’s name everywhere.
Too much to scrub. Headlines: Police Chief Holds Press Conference.
Preston Blackthorn Under Investigation for Covering Up Sexual Assaults.
Blackthorn Family Denies All Wrongdoing.
” He scrubs his face. “Fuck, they’re already on the PR campaign to bury this. ”
I exhale deeply and lean my forehead on August’s side.
The tide is finally turning. We cracked a secret vault open.
The residents of Shadow Lake want answers.
We’re not out of danger by a long shot, but I’ve got all the time in the world to write my articles up here.
Grayson set up a secure line to the new bunker where I transfer my words on encrypted backchannels in between coffee and brownies.
He handles the uploads, formatting, and filters out the unhinged commenters.
The blog’s exploded since August’s transmission.
Three weeks ago, I was yelling into a void, hoping a small minority would read my story.
Now we’re communicating with a crowd that’s finally listening.
And a major independent news outlet in Sterling City emailed me to ask if I will consider syndication.
Grayson’s verifying their channels lack connection to our enemies.
The dark voice in my head keeps expecting someone will pull the plug and the world will forget. That I’ll be discredited, doxxed, and dismissed again. The angelic voice counters, saying the truth’s got teeth this time, and so do I.
He sets me on the sofa, and I relish the softness of the cushions beneath me after hours on a stone floor. “Stay there.”
He comes back in a matter of seconds, armed with the chocolate gifts, feeding me broken off pieces.
“This is a survivalist’s wet dream.” I swipe away a crumb from my lip with my tongue.
He growls at me and bites my lip. “That’s my job, Glitter Bomb.”
I sift my fingers through his curls, loving that they’re not helmet crushed for once. “Sorry, Daddy. Permission to do it again.”
He sucks on the cookies, melting the chocolate chips, and brushing it over my mouth. I moan as he licks it off until we’ve gone through two cookies and onto a brownie.
I drink in every shift of his mouth, every flicker of his eyes, the softening of his jaw under my hands. I’m glad the helmet doesn’t steal the truth from me anymore. Now he’s mine to read, mine to undo, and I get all of him. It feels decadent to kiss and taste him without barriers.
I grin against his mouth. “I finally get to see your grumpy scowl without the mystery man filter.”
He nips my lips, which makes me laugh.
“Don’t pout, Daddy. I like watching you trying not to smile when I ruin your broody aesthetic. This is a two-for-one deal where I get your reactions and dessert.”
His mouth twitches with the hint of a smile, and I lick the line of it.
We’ve barely settled into somewhat of an illusion of peace, coffee cooling on the sofa table, when tires crunch on the gravel driveway.
I freeze and go for the gun August insists I carry.
He’s out of his seat, peering through the lace curtains, palming his pistol.
I creep up behind him, fisting his puffy winter vest. It’s not danger that strolls up the cabin’s stairs, it’s chaos in gothic boots, doggy paws, and a lunatic grin.
“Easy,” August uses the code for safe, moving to the door and holstering his weapon.
He cracks the door open, and Josh trots inside, sniffing around instead of coming to his momma, who he hasn’t seen in days. We all know who the “sparent” is here. Spare parent, meaning me, since Harper’s the favorite.
My bestie and her companion enter after the dog.
They don’t hold hands to suggest a relationship, but they’re close, one shadowing the other, and I’ve heard them messing around late at night, but he never stayed for breakfast or came to dinner.
The man surveys the place, gaze flicking to each exit in a practiced rhythm.
Harper rests a box on her hip to push her dark glasses down her nose, clocking the cabin with a slow, appreciative glance. “Well, Officer Daddy, I didn’t know you had a domestic side. When are we knitting tea cozies?”
I snort and move around August’s large frame to greet her. “You haven’t tasted his cooking. He’s a very domesticated grumpy stalker.”
“How about we knit you a ski mask?” August claps his friend on the shoulder, then shakes his hand.
Her companion moves around the small space like he owns it, lifting a bottle of champagne from the counter with a predator’s grin. “This is a good vintage.”
“Put it down, Katar,” August growls, bristling like he’s about to burst the cork and shove it somewhere creative.
The man drops the bottle on the counter with exaggerated care. “Last time I save you, Daddy Dildo.”
“Daddy Dildo?” I echo, eyebrows shooting up, needing an explanation pronto so I can torment my grumpy biker with it.
“Kate, this is Katar.” August gestures between us. “My enforcer slash lieutenant.”
Katar flashes a wolfish grin and steps closer, extending a hand. “Pleasure.”
Before I can take it, August intercepts our handshake like it’s a live grenade. The warning accompanying his head shake is clear. Touch her and die. I’m here for it.
Harper diffuses the testosterone with a perfectly timed one-liner. “Shall I get popcorn, or break this up with something sharp?”
“Popcorn.” Katar smirks. “I like an audience.”
I tilt my head and examine August’s chest. “I think he’ll look good with a nipple piercing.”
August rewards me with a sharp ass spank.
Then he looks at Katar like a man who can finally admit he can’t shoulder every war alone. Softness buried under steel. “I didn’t say it earlier, but thanks for coming to our rescue. I don’t forget shit like that.”
Katar blinks, caught off guard. The deranged smile that slides back over his face says he’s not used to being shocked. “Careful, Kelly. Keep talking like that, and people will think you have a heart.”
August presses a hand over his. “It’s started beating. Call the press.”
The two men burst into laughter. This is the closest to a hug either of them get. Something tells me August doesn’t touch him beyond the greeting, almost as if he might detonate a fuse.
I raise both palms. “Someone needs to explain this nickname to me.”
August exhales and pinches his nose as Katar regales me with the tale of my broken vibrator and calling him Daddy.
I clap and cheer. “Oh, I’m going to call you this from now on.”
Brats get spanked.
“Great,” August mutters. “You’ve created a monster.”
Katar nudges me with his elbow. “Welcome to the club.”
Hah! Monster—he looks like one. Harper will eat that up like her favorite midnight snack.
Satisfied with his sniffing expedition, Josh finally enters the conversation with a demanding woof, nails clicking on the floor like he’s been waiting for the right dramatic beat to steal the attention.
Katar retreats a few paces to scan outside, recording every exit in case he needs to make a fast getaway.
August bends down, scoops the terrier up in those massive arms and presses a kiss into his silky fur. “Missed you, PJ3. Come and kiss Momma.”
He leans my dog in my face, and I’m ambushed by slobbery enthusiasm that aims to erase every bad memory with dog breath and happiness.
I gasp in between the affection. “Okay, I surrender. I won’t leave you with Aunty Harper anymore.” I stroke his head. “She didn’t teach you any questionable tricks or feed you too many treats while I was gone, did she?”
Josh glances at Harper like he’s holding state secrets.
August snorts. “If Murder Spice starts hiding knives in his chew toy, we’ll know who to blame.”
Harper chuckles darkly and drops the box she carries on the counter. “All toys, blankets, and bedding accounted for. No knives. Sorry to disappoint.”
August’s mouth quirks as he watches us, something soft settling into the sharp lines of his face. He’s not just my protector, he’s ours. Grumpy Daddy. Doggie Daddy.
“Have you had a tea, cupcake?” Harper asks me. “Sit your ass down before I pour it down your throat.”
She breaks away to steep me some, returning to the sofa with four mugs and baked treats. We all sit by the fire, except for Katar, who stands, glancing at the door like he suspects a monster waits on the other side.
Once the food is down the hatch, August grabs the champagne and crystal flutes, popping the cork and pouring everyone a glass. “Are you staying for dinner?”
Katar snorts. “Why? You want to play Pictionary?” He nods to the games on the bookshelves.
“Me? Have fun?” August slides his friend a drink, then gives one to me and Harper. “To getting out alive.”
Harper arches a manicured brow. “Barely.”
“Barely counts,” I chirp, and we clink and take a sip. “While we’re on the topic, I need a deep dive on the Black Widow business back there.”
Harper smirks into her glass, hiding a secret none of us are privy to… except for Katar, who parks his ass on the edge of the sofa next to her shoulder, squeezing her. They trade a quick, lethal, and private glance that tells me the truth is only theirs.
“Not every guardian angel has white wings.” The story she shares is the kind that gives you blood for answers.
The truth sits heavy in my chest. I don’t press her for more. Some scars are better honored in silence. But I make a silent promise that she’s not carrying it alone anymore.
After that conversation is digested, Katar drives into town and grabs pizza, garlic bread, spicy chicken wings, and loaded fries, and brings them back for dinner. We celebrate our fortune, survival, and ongoing success, until our bellies ache and cheeks hurt from laughing.
Katar wipes his greasy mouth with a napkin. “Pictionary?” His smirk is disturbing and dangerous, but totally up Harper’s alley. “I bet Kelly can’t draw anything more complicated than stick figures. I’ll eat my boots if I’m wrong.”
“Your boots taste like murder.” Harper brushes a hand over his thigh.
He twists his neck and releases pressure, taking a seat beside her, finally relaxing for the first time in almost two hours.
“Game slander?” August grabs the box and brings it over to the coffee table. “That’s your tactic to intimidate me into losing?”
Harper raises a dark nail with vampire stakes on it. “You bled, Kate killed, and Katar stole the wine.”
Katar raises his empty glass in mock-offense. “Team effort.”
August lifts the lid and unpacks the board game. It’s time for a different kind of game.