Chapter 23 - August
I’ve never been this scared in my life. I thought I hit rock-bottom when the Romans stole everything from me. Turns out, it’s the thought of losing the one damn thing that made surviving worth it. And now, I’ll do whatever it takes to not watch her burn.
Kate’s breath tickles my chest with the kind of rhythm that spells she feels secure.
She’s snuggled under my arm, her fingers curled into my shirt.
Lips parted. Body resting on mine. Trusting me with every inch of herself.
My arms tighten around her waist as she naps on her sofa, exhausted from our ride, interview, pact, and the rom-com she tortured me with.
I’ll never forget what she told me this afternoon. That she can finally breathe again because of me. That I bring her peace and comfort. It guts me knowing that she hasn’t had this in such a long time.
Lilac silk covers her eyes. Blindfolds are a condition of me staying the night with her. I’m not willing to let that last layer of protection down when it risks losing her for a different reason.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. She stirs but doesn’t wake, and I brush hair back from her temple to keep it that way. Careful not to disturb her, I lean forward to pick up the damn menace.
Grayson: We’ve got to meet at the bunker for updates.
Me: Busy. Talk. Now.
Grayson: Blackthorn’s been leashed. Temporarily.
Relief washes in before tension rolls over it like a tide. This isn’t a ceasefire, it’s a tactical delay before the next strike. I’ll take whatever small wins I can get if it gives Glitter Bomb more time to light her fuse.
Grayson: Meet me at the bunker for more.
Me: This better be worth it.
Grayson: You finally getting lucky? Good for you. Maybe you won’t be such a grumpy ass.
Me: I will kill you if this isn’t critical.
Grayson: See you in twenty
Goddamn pain in my ass. But he just bought us time, and I owe him for it.
Me: Get Katar down here. ASAP.
Grayson: Already there. Can’t you hear the moans?
Fuck. Didn’t need that mental image. And no, didn’t hear him over the TV.
I’ve vetted and cleared Kate from her ties to the Romans. Watched her bleed for the truth. She’s earned her place in Spartacus.
Murder Spice remains a question mark. Katar sticking his dick where the paperwork isn’t cleared doesn’t help.
Me: Is Murder Spice clean?
Grayson: Not exactly. Her loyalty is with Kate. Her blood lust runs colder than ours. Speak with Katar.
Seductive question marks with a body count is a conversation better had in person.
PJ3 tilts his head and groans when I slide off the seat.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “She’ll twist my balls if I leave without telling her.”
Fuck. What did Grayson say about talking to dogs and knitting?
I pocket my phone and slide my helmet on.
Crouched by the sofa, I undo Kate’s blindfold and cup her face. “Glitter Bomb.”
Her lashes flutter open, and her glazed eyes shift into focus. “Daddy?”
I brush the side of her face with the back of my hand. “Danger’s dialed down for now. I need to get back to my team for a while for updates. I’ll be back when I can.”
Her fingers clamp around my arm. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” I murmur.
Her lips crush together in understanding. “Can you come back later?”
“Yes, baby.” I brush her cheek. “One of my men’s guarding the place. You’ll be safe. DM if anything changes.”
“Okay.” She releases me, and I reach for the blanket, tucking her in it.
I point at PJ3. “Guard her. Do not let her out of your sight.”
He groans in protest.
“Sorry. That’s the Way It Is,” I tell him.
It takes Glitter Bomb’s smile three seconds to break. “Closet Celine fan?”
“Gotta keep up with you.” I kiss her forehead, get up, and track upstairs to Murder Spice’s room.
Jesus, my ears need to be baptized with Celine Dion albums to forget the thrust-to-groan ratio.
I thump on the door over the moans. “Still guarding, Katar?”
“Like a fucking knight, boss.” He doesn’t miss a slap of hips on skin.
“If the unicorn is harmed while I’m gone, I’m taking your kidneys,” I growl.
“Only one?” Katar calls after me.
I don’t bother answering.
By the time I hit the bunker’s steel door, Grayson’s already waiting. Messy hair, jacket collar flipped inside out, undereyes dark from working overtime.
“You look like shit,” I say by way of greeting and lock the door after me. “Have you slept?”
“You smell like attachment,” he fires back.
He’s not wrong and hearing it out loud puts a name to something I haven’t admitted to myself. Part of me revolts at the idea of emotional entanglement when it encourages unpredictability and peril. The other half leans into it, and I’m fighting a war on two fronts.
“Give me the news before I strangle you,” I grunt, taking a seat.
Grayson pours himself a coffee from the pot on the cradle. “I sent Huntington an anonymous message to yank the chain on Blackthorn.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Save the gratitude.” He stirs sugar into his coffee masquerading as a milkshake. “Huntington called the Ares head, and Blackthorn’s been pulled back into line by his daddy.”
“For now.” I scrub my jaw, which needs a shave. “Blackthorn’s licking his wounds and calculating his next move. We bought time, not safety. And the rest?” I’m itching to get back to Kate and the sofa.
“Progress on the Pluto tip.” Grayson tips the milk into his mug, screws the cap on, and puts the carton in the fridge. “Our mole tells me the Pluto underboss is marrying the eldest daughter of the Sterling City mob to avoid war.”
I need the war to continue to lower the Romans’ numbers and get the story out.
I put that aside for now. “Kate’s agreed to write for us. I need you to set up advertisements for her book-related products and spread them far and wide. She needs to get away from her boss and get writing for us.”
She’s in this, and I put her here. Least I can do is give something back to ensure her safety and earn a smile while I’m at it.
“On it.” Grayson types in a few commands on his keyboard. “I’ll set up conversion-tested landing pages and A/B ad campaigns.”
I clap his shoulder to shut him up before the nerd-speak drags me into a coma. “How long has it been since you left the bunker?”
“Days,” he admits without looking up from his screen, fingers flying across his keyboard like the fate of Spartacus depends on a firewall staying intact.
“Days?” I repeat. That statistic is probably generous.
I grab his upper arm and jerk him out of his chair, making the wheels squeak, and his body jolts like I’ve unplugged him from life support wires. “Come shoot some hoops. Get some fresh air. Fresher than in here, at least.”
He scrambles to catch his glasses, already trying to backpedal. “You loaded me up with extra tasks. Ads. Blackthorn’s offshore shell trails.”
“Nice try,” I cut in, squeezing him. “You’re avoiding the world.”
His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to his glowing safety net of screens. A tell that he’s not ready to talk about whatever’s eating him.
“You’re becoming codependent on this place.” I gesture to the labyrinth of servers, cables, and energy drinks crowding his sanctuary. “It smells like coffee and insomnia in here. You’ve got LED tan lines.”
He shrugs half-heartedly and rolls up his sleeves. “You’re just jealous of the gamer glow.”
I wrap my arm over his shoulder and steer him to the stairs. He resists just enough to make me consider tossing him over my back. “Don’t make me carry you, princess. I’ll enjoy it. Might even dip you.” I blow him a kiss.
“You’re a nightmare,” he mutters, taking the first step, cautious and slow, like the concrete might bite.
“I need you functional and alert. Muscles without atrophy, flexible spine, and healthy Vitamin D levels.” I pat his back. “And don’t forget, you’re supposed to be tailing the quiet friend.”
“Charlie,” he corrects.
I don’t call him out that I’ve caught him looking at her profile more than appropriate for professional curiosity.
He needs this, and I suspect, whether he admits it or not, he needs her too.
Maybe she’ll hold him like he’s not broken.
Look at him like he’s not a monster. Throw herself into the fire for him.
Our worlds went to hell, and vengeance was the only thing that sustained us. The real danger is curling around our jagged edges. Softness. Warmth. Light. The more the three of us have to lose, the harder it will be to keep it.
I thump him between the shoulder blades when we reach the top stair. “First to ten hoops wins. Winner gets a juice box and a genuine compliment.”
He snorts. “You don’t give compliments.”
I guide him down the haunted halls of the abandoned high school to the gym, where we blacked out the windows to play a game at any time of night.
I’d rather my men release pent-up frustration on the court or the punching bag in the corner than kill the wrong person and start the wrong questions.
Or in the case of Katar, turn stab wound scars into tattoos.
I grab a ball from the bleacher seats, dribble once, twice, and toss it to my friend. He catches it one-handed, but his movements are cautious. He used to play in high school and college. Lost interest after everything went to shit.
“Forget how to shoot?” I wind him up. “Do I need to get Charlie to cheerlead?”
He goes pink all the way to his ears. Brushing it off, he glides across the court, dribbling, and he takes the shot with a clean arc that drops through the rim.
“Showoff,” I mutter.
“That’s not a compliment.” He grabs the ball and shoves it at me. “And I’m proving to you that I’m not a lost cause.”
We fall into an easy rhythm. Pass, dribble, dodge, basket. Squeaking shoes and thumping ball. Smack talk when we catch our breath. He’s moving less robotically now.
“She’s been helping, huh?” I ask when he fakes left and misses a shot.