Chapter 10 - August
Operation Befriend a Potential Enemy is on. I need to get to the bottom of whether she’s Team Roman or Team Shadow Lake. Indications this far suggest the latter, but I must be sure. And if she is, I want her on my team.
Clad in my riding gear, I settle in outside her window, watching her from the porch this time. I tell myself this is strictly surveillance to confirm her loyalties. Not to make sure she’s okay, and that her bastard boss didn’t leave more than bruises.
I whisper to him through the window before he launches into a barking spree. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
He groans and tilts his head, listening.
“What’s with the bug and giving me away? That wasn’t a game of hide and seek,” I scold, and he plops to his belly and folds a paw over his eye. “I want you to think hard about your actions. Snitches don’t get jerky.”
He lowers his head and looks away.
“And don’t bark and give me up,” I tack on the end.
He lets out a hard sigh, and I shake my head.
Grayson’s on police radio detail to listen for any dispatched patrols to her house. I won’t let them near her.
Kate’s inside, reliving the incident with her boss to her housemate.
I study every micro expression, her pauses speaking louder than words.
The drag of her fingers along her arm. Her hand shaking when she lifts the glass to her lips.
The purge of adrenaline every victim makes once the danger’s passed.
“I’ll teach that son of a bitch a lesson for touching my cupcake!” Murder Spice reaches for a knife strapped in her boot, tapping it on her thigh like a nervous tic. Laser-focused, like Katar.
Kate nudges the knife back into place, forcing her smile to stick. “No flaying my boss. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Murder Spice waves her weapon around. “I belong to House Bolton, and it’s on my banner.”
They both snort and laugh. I’m stunned that the friend laughs, let alone smiles, when she walks around like a dead vampire.
Kate’s still on edge, the laugh sticking in her throat, the delay in her smile. She’s performing, keeping the mask firmly on.
I leave them to their discussion and review the things I know about Kate Williams so far, creating a profile.
1. Reads smut and stalker fantasies as a sleep replacement.
2. Relaxes with art therapy.
3. Proud dog owner. Working on the pillow humping.
4. Menace of a neighbor.
5. Employed by the Shadow Lake Reporter. Lowlife boss. Yet to deal with. Prevent Katar from murdering him.
6. Enjoys tea, chocolate, and wine at night. Hoards chocolate for a zombie apocalypse. Tea restocked, thanks to Cupid Grayson.
7. Panic attacks set off by crowds or loud noises – fireworks?
8. Covers trauma with humor.
9. Relationship status unknown.
The idea of another man on the scene fills me with a dark, murderous rage I file away for later analysis.
I type a message on our chat to check in with Grayson for updates on Kate’s dirtbag boss, a known Order affiliate.
Me: Any news on the police airwaves?
Grayson: Nothing. No calls or patrol. Maybe he didn’t report it.
Not officially. Romans don’t let insults slide. We need to be vigilant, and I’m not leaving until I know she’s safe.
Me: What about leverage on the boss?
Grayson: HR buried everything. Five complaints over two years. Three never followed through. Two dismissed.
Not surprised one bit.
Katar: Can I stab him?
My resident enforcer is back from whatever bloodshed he’s delivered.
Me: No! Don’t escalate.
Katar: What if I stab him by accident?
Peak Katar, trying to circumvent the rules and give me heartburn.
Me: Try it and I’ll staple your hands together.
Katar: Boring. Going to read my girl’s new smut instead.
Talk about dedication to his job. You won’t catch me researching that topic.
I close the chat before I lose more brain cells.
I zero in on the women’s conversation and anticipate a string of death threats, plans to slash tires, or contact the boss’ wife. Wrong. They’re talking about me. Gushing about red flags. Worshipping me. I’m not surprised, given the direction of their book club.
Kate toys with her lip, and I’ve never envied a finger more. “He’s sweet. Grumpy. My dark stalker.”
“No, cupcake. You want the red flags, not green ones.” Murder Spice grins like it’s the best news she’s heard all year.
Kate presses her hands to her chest. “I just know I’m one step away from severed fingers in a gift box.”
I cough and choke. What in the fresh hell? Definitely no love declarations like that happening anytime soon.
They clink wine glasses together.
“To sexy, grumpy stalkers!” Kate toasts.
“To red flags!” Murder Spice cheers, and they laugh, celebrate me and write fanfiction about our future.
One part of me wants to melt. The other wonders why they don’t call the cops instead.
Kate should run screaming, not clap and down wine based on the list of actual crimes I’ve committed just on her behalf—trespassing, illegal surveillance, threats of violence, obstruction of Harry’s property. Luckily for me, she’s unaware.
Murder Spice plays with her lip ring. “Can I wear black at your wedding?”
Jesus. I haven’t even proposed “surveillance with benefits,” and they’re choosing the floral arrangements. Better get out my tux. And a shovel.
The girls get carried away for another hour, waving red flag victory banners, until she falls asleep on the sofa and Murder Spice retires for the evening, ascending the stars with PJ3 trailing behind her.
I check in on other Spartacus operations for over forty minutes, and Kate wakes, trailing up the stairs.
Bark bites into my gloves as I scale a tree to maintain my vigil.
Boots wedged into the grooves of the old oak, I climb another branch, and it groans under my weight but holds.
Two more pulls get me high enough to leap onto the roof tiles with a dull thump.
Years of chasing down scumbags across commercial rooftops gave me plenty of practice, though none of those jobs were glitter bomb distractions that made me scale faster than I ever have before.
Fuck, she’s alone in her room and drops the mask, leaning on the door, swiping away a tear and sniffing.
She stays there until her legs find the will to move forward.
Her room is pristine and spotless, but she kicks off her shoes and leaves them on the carpet, and tosses her coat on the edge of the bed.
At the drawer mirror, she takes herself in, flinching at the sight of the bruises on her wrist where that bastard grabbed her.
She grazes them absently and sits on the bed, spine curved, shoulders dropped.
Her face smooths into the blank expression victims get when they climb into an ambulance, their body stuck in the fight, their mind in the loop of terror.
I want to break the latch on her window and crawl through, wrap her in my arms, and tell her she’s safe. I can’t. She needs space to fall apart without an audience, and I let her have it, even if it kills me.
I count the seconds until she blinks and breathes. Eventually she finds the strength to rise, and fumbles to pop the clasp on her earrings and remove them. She lights a candle on her nightstand. A comfort or control ritual.
She disappears into the bathroom and changes into silky gold pajamas that hug every curve.
Hair flows in waves over her shoulders as she mechanically brushes it.
She pulls on a long kimono robe, cinches it tight, and reclines on her bed.
For a long moment, she just breathes and stares at the candle.
The moment breaks and she picks up her phone. The screen’s soft glow banishes the shadows on her face. Her forefinger flicks the screen as if she scrolls her social media feed. A small smile returns. And just like that, she’s back. Fine, but not untouched. Rebuilding after the thunderstorm.
“Oh, yeah! Daddy, come to Mama.” Her voice carries through the glass as she types in a reply.
The words hit me hard and hot.
Who the fuck is she texting?
My phone vibrates. A new comment post on Katar’s Instagram feed from Smut $lut. Kate’s handle. Grayson connected me to the account to monitor her activity.
Kate: I volunteer as tribute Tattoo your name into my skin with your knife @Pierced&Possesive.
Flames lick up my spine. I don’t know what this feeling is. Jealousy? Anger. Possessiveness. My fingers hover over the damn reply button.
I start typing Are you mad? Delete that—it’s not something the psychotic antihero she craves would say. I summon my best Katar flirty and unhinged response and type back to her.
Me: I’ll carve my name into your heart.
What. The. Fuck. Did. I. Just. Do?
Her scream echoes in her room.
Kate: Do it, Daddy. Take me. I’m yours.
Fucking hell. What is this? Flirting? Sexting. Roleplaying something twisted. This is wrong. I’m supposed to be surveilling and befriending her, not seducing her.
A response comes in from an intruder to the conversation.
Katar: Keep it up, Daddy Dildo. Friends. Heartbeats. Humanity.
“Fuck the damn vibrator!” I mutter.
My brain stalls, and I start to sweat. War wages within me between Heaven and Hell. The angel on my shoulder says walk away.
The devil lights a cigar and leans in. “You need research, right?” He releases a puff of smoke.
Yeah. Fuck. I’m having an imaginary conversation with my conscience.
He takes another drag. “To get inside the mind of your target?”
I hate that he’s right and give him a nod.
His forked tail pats me on the cheek. “I think you know what to do to extract information about her connections.”
To hell with it.
I cave and switch to DMs.
Me: I’m your Grumpy Daddy and stalker.
She lets out an even louder shriek. “No way! He isn’t @Pierced&Possesive? He is! This can’t get any better.” She cheers my nickname over and over like a damn prayer.
My hands cramp on the phone, aching for her next move.
Kate: Aww, Grumpy Daddy brings me tea and gift cards. Are you trying to get into my good books or pants?