Chapter 30
KATE
Not once in my life have I managed to keep a civil tongue in my head. I need to strike first so no one thinks I’m a pushover. I need to hit hardest so no one discovers how weak I really am.
Wolf glances at the girls on the pavement. For one breathless moment, I think he’s going to grab me and drag me back behind the gate. I brace myself to fight, to spread my arms wide, to scream bloody murder until the kids run off for help.
But Wolf chooses another way. With a calculating grin, he swipes at the air, pretending to capture my words and hold them close to his heart. “Careful,” he warns me again, this time loud enough for the girls to hear. “Someone might think you’re starting to care about me.”
The kids laugh.
“Go on,” Wolf says to me, like he’s encouraging me to cross a gorge on a rickety bamboo bridge. “Tell the truth. You can’t live without me, my dear.”
The girls giggle and run down the pavement, racing each other for the corner.
My dear.
My dear isn’t girl. My dear doesn’t make my heart beat too loudly in my ears. My dear doesn’t make me wet between my legs.
I can live with my dear.
I’m not tamed yet—far from it. I hate the way his innuendo lights me on fire from within. I despise that I can’t cross the feckin’ street on my own.
But he’s won this round, and we both know it. I follow him across the street to the house where Nilsson and Anna live.
If it were anywhere else in the world—not in front of Wolf’s mammoth estate—this place would be described as a mansion. Brick. Two stories. Twelve windows facing the street. A private gate, this one with a gatehouse, with doors that open by lock and key.
Wolf waves me through in front of him. We follow the brick drive around the main building to a pretty cottage that looks like something out of a storybook. It’s made of gray stone, with a well-settled slate roof. Flower boxes line the windows. Pots of pansies frame the door.
Wolf produces another key, and I find myself in a sunny little room, a combination kitchenette and living room. To my right is a bedroom, the double bed made up with a pink-and-yellow calico comforter. To my left is a closed door.
“Granny?” I ask, my voice instinctively low.
“With her nurse, I presume.” He nods toward the close-off room.
I want to shove the door open, to make sure my grandmother is safe, that she’s comfortable. But if the door is closed, she’s probably sleeping. She looked so frail at yesterday’s wedding…
Reluctantly, I move farther into the living room. This is a beautiful space—even nicer than the third-floor room Wolf splashed out for at Three Oaks.
Uncomfortable at the thought of how much I owe Wolf, I search for something to say. Finally, I nod toward the framed print over the chintz couch. It shows a turquoise bridge arching across a pond filled with pink and white waterlilies. “Sister Mary Agnes had that poster on her wall at school.”
“This one isn’t a poster.”
“It’s real?” I can’t hide my shock.
“A Monet. Yes. I meant to show you the rest of my art collection last night, before you got…distracted.”
The speed of blood rushing to my cheeks makes me mean again. “Of course it’s a real Monet. Let me guess. You have a Picasso, too. A Renoir. A Matisse.” I spit out the names of the first painters I can think of.
“My Picasso’s in the living room. Renoir’s in the dining room. The Matisse is in the library.”
“Well if that’s all,” I drawl, trying to sound bored.
“That’s only the beginning. You saw the O’Keeffe in our bedroom last night.”
The O’Keeffe. That poppy with its lush petals, laid out like a map to all the aching places inside me.
Furious with myself for blushing all over again, I start to sputter an insult. “You think you’re such a big, big man, but really—”
A throat clears behind me.
Wolf looks past my shoulder. “Ms. Sutton,” he says.
Gritting my teeth, I do my best to pretend I wasn’t about to mock Ms. Sutton’s boss and my supposed husband. I cross the room and shake the nurse’s hand, pleased by her firm grip.
She’s probably ten years older than I am, brown hair cut short in a practical bob. She wears dark green hospital scrubs, and a stethoscope curls around her neck. “Mr. Wolf,” she says. “Mrs. Wolf.”
I figure this isn’t a great time to insist on my maiden name. Instead, I ask, “How is Granny?”
“She’s fine. Quite tired after her travels yesterday, but that’s to be expected with post-polio syndrome. She seems a little confused, but I suspect that’s due to her fatigue.”
“Confused?” I pounce on the word as a flicker of nausea twists my gut.
“Nothing to worry about,” Ms. Sutton says with a crisp, professional smile. “She keeps talking about how lovely the wedding was, until the bride started showing off her tattoos.”
Wolf raises his eyebrows. Ms. Sutton chuckles softly. I just glare at the closed door. “I don’t want to wake her,” I say, but that’s a lie. I desperately want to see my grandmother, to confirm for myself that she’s managed the move well.
“I’m sure she’ll want lunch soon.”
Wolf says to me, “You can wait here. Eat lunch together.”
My first instinct is to snap—I’m not eating any lunch.
But Wolf set his rules last night. I’m bound to eat three meals a day, same as I have to see his doctor, as I’ve promised not to cut. He’s testing me, with Ms. Sutton as a witness.
I could fight. Call him all the names that boil up inside my skull. Flounce out of the cottage and cross the street alone. Lock myself in our bedroom, or better yet, the jacks.
But he’d just laugh at the names. He’d catch up with me before I got halfway across the road. He’d break down our bedroom door and leave it in splinters, same as the jacks.
And I truly do want to speak with Granny.
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine?” He isn’t satisfied with winning. He wants to hear me cave in front of Ms. Sutton.
“Fine, I’ll eat my goddamn lunch. Fine, I’ll wait in the garden. Fine, you win, you feckin’ shitehawk. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Close enough,” Wolf says, unruffled as ever. “Text Nilsson when you’re ready to come back to the main house. He should have you added to security by then.”
I can’t bring myself to look at Ms. Sutton as I escape to the spring garden. My phone trembles in my fingers when I dig it out of my pocket. Bright red badges tell me I’ve missed dozens of phone calls, emails, and texts. I know I should check them. There might be something important.
Instead, I phone Breagha. She answers, just as the call is about to roll to voicemail.
“Kate!” She sounds breathless. “You shouldn’t be calling on your honeymoon!”
“I’m not—”
“Where are you?” she asks. “No! Let me guess!”
“Breagha—”
“Hawaii!”
“I didn’t—”
“Barbados?”
“No.”
“Did he take you all the way to Paris?”
She sounds more excited than a little girl opening presents on Christmas morning. It seems cruel to tell her the truth. She could never understand Wolf, and if she caught even a glimpse of the dungeon downstairs…
“Paris,” I say. “You guessed it.”
Breagha laughs with delight. “You’re so lucky. I’m stuck here in Baltimore, tiptoeing around the house. Mam has one of her migraines…”
I’ve been out of Baltimore for less than twenty-four hours, but Breagha’s world already sounds far away. Her happy chatter makes me more restless than Wolf’s domineering rules. I interrupt after a minute or two, telling her a limo is waiting to take us to the Eiffel Tower.
After I end the call, I’m more unsettled than ever. Glancing back at the carriage house, I dive into Winter Reckoning on my mobile. I’m still contemplating the most bloody kill I can make when MaskedMarauder opens a private channel for us to talk.
MaskedMarauder: Ready to sell your soul for a fortune made of light?
The words vibrate on the screen. The Red Cap tattoo on my thigh starts to throb.
My answer should be no. I have a new life now. Everything’s different. Everything’s out of control. I can’t raid with Wolf watching over me.
But my fingers type a different reply.
CyberGhost: What do you have in mind?
MaskedMarauder: Heard about a new crypto platform last night
MaskedMarauder: They’re looking for people to write some code
CyberGhost: What type of code?
MaskedMarauder: Back-end
MaskedMarauder: Bookkeeping stuff
CyberGhost: Everyone else is in?
…
…
…
CyberGhost: Mask?
CyberGhost: The others are ready to raid?
MaskedMarauder: Those mofos can’t code to save their fucking lives
MaskedMarauder: You and I can do this on the side
The Red Cap Raiders are a team. We each bring skills to the table.
But I am the best coder. And Mask brings the best targets to the group. We’ve never asked for an extra cut, never taken an extra dip, even when we’ve done three quarters of the work.
After too long a pause, I finally type back.
CyberGhost: Does this coin have a name?
MaskedMarauder: NightSaber
StarCoin. Mask’s unnamed bookie. Now, NightSaber. Three targets to hit with new campaigns.
This isn’t the way Red Cap works. We choose a single goal and work on it until we win. We work together, all five of us.
But we didn’t win last time, with Banque Wagner. We haven’t won in months. My bank account is empty, making me even more dependent on Wolf.
MaskedMarauder: Ghost? You there?
I type before I think too much.
CyberGhost: I’m here
And then:
CyberGhost: I’m in