Chapter 27 - Kate
No rest for the wicked. Back to Order research it is after two months of bringing the book merch business up to speed.
“Get your ass over here, Glitter Bomb,” he calls from his bike, the devil in riding gear, patting his thigh and tempting me into disgrace.
I followed his instructions and rugged up in cold-weather clothing.
I burrow deeper into my puffy winter coat, trying to banish the icy wind gnawing at my neck.
The thought of a three-plus-hour trip on the back of a motorcycle is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed and send him a strongly worded breakup text, followed by several heart, eggplant, and fire emojis.
I groan and step forward, focusing on the only incentive—snuggling up against his warm, solid back, my own personal shield.
Daddy swings off his bike, hooks his fingers in my bag strap, and lifts it effortlessly from my shoulder. “Someone’s grumpy this morning.”
Oh, the irony of the professional grump calling me out.
“I haven’t had my tea yet,” I mutter, watching his perfect ass flex under his pants as he straps my belongings to the luggage rack on the back of his bike.
My period is due early next week, and PMS is the one time of the month I’m licensed to breathe fire and glare at anyone who dares speak to me before I’ve had caffeine.
Basically, channel my best Harper. My body knows it’s coming.
Sore boobs, my uterus quietly sharpening knives in the background, and chocolate cravings.
He doesn’t know that yet. We haven’t had the talk. I don’t know how to broach the subject of mood swings, bloating, and primal urges to stab someone for the last chocolate truffle. That may scare him away. For now, he can keep thinking I’m a sunshine gremlin.
I run my hand along the planes of his bike, enjoying the contraction of his muscles under the tight Kevlar-lined jacket.
“Bring tea and sausage muffins for breakfast missions with my girl,” he teases. “No glitter without breakfast. Them’s the rules.”
My girl.
Weeks ago, he told me he was in. No more dancing around it. It warmed parts of me that I let go cold. The same parts that glow softly now.
Daddy pulls me in for a hug, wrapping me in his heat and scent. “How about we get some on the way?”
“You regain one Lachlan Kane point for that.” I rest my forehead against his strong chest.
He tilts his head so I can see my reflection in his visor. “You’re breathing fire if I only get one point.”
Condensation puffs out of my mouth when I laugh.
He hands me the spare helmet and straps it snug under my chin with careful fingers. It’s these practical and protective gestures that undo me more than dirty talk or sex ever can.
I jump onto the bike with him, locking my knees around his hips.
He gives me a thumbs up, which in biker code, means good.
He peels away from the curb, and the roar of his engine wakes the sleepy suburb if it’s not already awake.
Wind claws at my neck and hands and circles my exposed back.
I cling tighter to Daddy when heat radiates off his body, soaking into my front.
First stop, breakfast. By the time we satisfy my blood sugar levels and caffeinate me, I’m less murdery, and smiling more.
The trip stretches over cold highways, mountain curves, and the occasional pit stops for cuddle breaks. Each time, he leaves me wanting more of his lips and the face I still haven’t met.
I’m numb yet strangely happy when we reach the lake. Shadow Lake Mountain is postcard-perfect, a sheet of dark pines, hints of silver water, smoke curling from cabins, and a bustling little town that only breathes in the off-season.
Grumpy Daddy veers off the main road, winding us through forest until he turns up a long driveway cutting through snowflake-dusted pines.
It’s not quite ski season, but give it another month, and residents and visitors will flock to the mountain for skiing and snowboarding.
He parks beside a white pickup stacked with firewood.
A man in his fifties unloads logs with the unhurried precision of someone who knows the land.
I slide off the bike and wobble on my frozen legs. Fun fact—denim is not ideal for riding in winter. I squat to coax blood back into my thighs. My fault for clamping onto Daddy like a koala for warmth.
He removes my helmet, and I let the sweet gesture melt some of my lingering frost and spoil me in ways I’ve dreamed of.
The cabin he’s brought me to looms thirty feet away. Weather-darkened logs, a pitched roof shingled in cedar, lazy smoke rising from the chimney, and the mouth-watering scent of something baking.
Wood lands with a heavy thunk as the man returns, hefting more logs into his arms. He’s carved from the same forest—weathered, broad-shouldered, beard gone wild and sun-bleached. The rifle leaning against the porch doesn’t escape my notice.
“Can I help you?” His voice is an unwelcome gravel road.
I let Daddy handle this intro, because I don’t want a meeting with the rifle.
“We’re here to meet Sally-Anne,” he says. “Is she home?”
No “Good afternoon, sir.” No small talk. Blunt, classic Daddy.
The man squints into the winter glare, assessing us. “You the reporter?”
Time to deploy the friendly Kate routine. Smiling brightly, I step forward. “I’m Kate Williams.”
He stares at the hand I offer like it’s a trick. “She’s inside.” He goes back to stacking wood.
I squeeze Daddy’s hand tightly and follow him up the creaking steps.
A woman pushes open the fly screen door, a study in contrast to the grizzled man.
Sleek, poised, and sharp in her oat-colored cashmere sweater and designer jeans with embroidered flowers hugging her lean legs.
Her bob is cropped precisely to frame her pixyish features and bone structure.
Everything about her says she’s been through hell but refuses to step out of the fire without her dignity intact, and I feel a small flicker of kinship.
“Mace, good to see you.” Her voice is warmer than I expect. “Bring your friend inside. You must be freezing. Warm up by the fire.” She waves us in with the practiced ease of a hostess who’s seen her share of guests.
She sits us down on the sofa by the flames in the stone hearth, and the warmth embraces me.
I examine the cabin’s interior. Polished honeyed wood walls glow under the soft lamplight. Woven chairs flank the porch window. Rustic charm and quiet luxury with hand-carved beams and delicate details. The homey scent of a rack of cookies cooling in the kitchen.
“You must be Kate.” Sally-Anne extends a long, elegant hand, tipped with pale cream nails.
“Nice to meet you.” I engage in a handshake. “Mom’s a huge fan.”
Sally-Anne Walters. Former evening news anchor of thirty-plus years.
Vanished from TV and slipped out of the public eye.
Her smile falters. The shadows behind her eyes comes from losing something that can’t be replaced.
I see the same darkness every time I look in the mirror. The Romans got to her too.
“Funny how quickly you go from being part of that world to discarded like old furniture,” she says, her voice brittle.
She excuses herself and goes to the kitchen, returning with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, steaming and golden.
“Please, eat.” She holds out the plate, and I take one, even though my stomach flips.
Mom used to bake these when I was a kid. The first bite is pure nostalgia and quiet grief.
Daddy sits close, his hand resting on my knee, a silent reminder to breathe.
Sally-Anne gracefully folds herself into an adjacent armchair and clasps a frilled pale-blue pillow to her lap. “Thank you for agreeing to hear my story.”
“Only if you’re ready to share it,” I say gently.
“It’s never not going to hurt,” she admits. “But it’s time the world knew what they did to me.”
She wants her life, dignity, and voice back, just like I do.
I pull out a confidentiality form, and she waves it away. “You have my consent, Kate. I wouldn’t have invited you here, otherwise.”
I’m impressed by her steel resolve in silk.
I nod and file the form inside my notebook. “Start at the beginning.”
She exhales like she’s releasing years of pressure. “Five years ago, I began investigating insider trading by the governor and members of his inner circle. They were buying stocks before legislation passed and profiting off secrets meant to serve the community.”
I write notes as fast as I can, my pen threatening to snap under the pressure of my fingers.
Sally-Anne rubs her hand. “The fallout was immediate. Public outrage. Congressional hearings. Tighter disclosure laws. Surprise, surprise, no one was charged or put on trial.” Her voice falters. “That’s when they came for me.”
My pulse pounds. This isn’t just a story, it’s a mirror. What she endured is what I’ve stepped into, chasing the truth with the wolves closing in.
“Members of what I believe is a faction called Mars raided my studio and home office. They took my notes, laptops, everything without a warrant.” She rubs her hands faster and harder, scrubbing at the pain she’ll never ease.
“My boss told me to trigger the dead-man’s switch we established.
Five trusted colleagues sent evidence to every member of Congress.
I went live that night and told our viewers the truth.
Five thousand messages hit Congress members’ inboxes in forty-eight hours. ”
Daddy’s hand tightens on my leg.
“The harassment didn’t stop there,” she continues, and I keep recording it all, barely breathing. “They tailed me. Threatened friends, family, and colleagues. Rammed our car twice. My medical and insurance records conveniently vanished.”
I swallow hard. It’s the same playbook they used on me, only less aggressive. On Barry. On anyone who threatens their empire of secret control.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “No one should suffer for telling the truth.”
The media’s job is to educate the public on issues that affect them and hold the government, business, institutions, and people accountable for their actions.
“Channel 10 was the last independent station in Shadow Lake.” Her eyes glisten, but her voice is steady, years of practice of holding it together to read unsettling new reports.
“We relied on community donations and private investment to fund us. The economic vulnerability was enough for the Romans to bleed the owners dry with lawsuits, then purchase the station and shut it down. They erased thirty years of my career like I never existed and killed the last community-funded news station in the city.”
Tears slide down her face, carving invisible scars she’s worn too long.
I lean forward, hands on my knees, my voice choked. “I can’t make this right for you. But I swear to you, I’m not stopping until every last one of these bastards burns in the light.”
Sally-Anne sniffs and studies me, fire sparking in her gaze. Hope. Resilience. Vengeance. “Give them hell, Kate, and stay alive doing it. They left me alone when I retreated up here and stayed out of the public eye. But I’m luckier being a public figure.”
Her words scorch like a hot poker to the chest. The Romans will regret the day they fucked with us.
I cradle my nibbled cookie in my lap. The smell of butter, sugar, and chocolate cloy my nose. I can’t bear to take a bite when my stomach’s in knots. The crumbling edge reminds me of the cost of standing up to bullies.
Grumpy Daddy’s hand squeeze reminds me I’m not alone in this fight, and he’ll burn in the ashes with me.
Safety. The word used to feel foreign on my tongue.
Mom struggled financially while she raised me.
Bosses gave her a hard time when the Romans pressured them.
Some nights, we weren’t sure we’d have a roof over our heads or a warm bed to sleep in.
After Blackthorn forced himself on me, my life became a maze of dark corners and bright armor.
Smile, nod, and pretend to function while my heart beats in a panic.
When Daddy entered my world like a storm in black riding clothes, he didn’t tiptoe around my trauma or treat me like breakable glass.
He calls me out on my lies and facade. Wraps me in heat and protection without smothering me.
The first man who makes me feel like I can fall apart and not get left behind.
I glance at him, visor reflecting the fire’s glow, and a new warmth spreads across my chest. He’s more than my shadow. He’s my weapon. My shield. And if I let him… he’s my future.
Sally-Anne dabs her eyes with a tissue and straightens her shoulders, attempting to reach composure.
“I’ve given you what I can, Kate. I’ll dig up copies of our dead-man’s switch, but don’t leave a digital trail and keep multiple copies.
If the Romans see you coming, they’ll crush you before you get close. ”
My pulse thunders with a mix of fear and adrenaline. “I understand. I promise to handle this carefully. I won’t waste what you’ve risked giving this to me.”
Her smile holds pride and grief. “You remind me of me… before the fire got too close.”
Her words sit heavy in my chest as we take our leave.
The winter air bites sharp and deep like wolf’s teeth as we climb back onto the bike. As the pines and road swallow us, snow whipping against my visor, I make a silent vow.
I will not run from the past.
I will not let the Romans own me.
I will not let fear cost me the one thing I can’t get back if I lose it.
Daddy leans into the next turn, and we’re racing to revenge or ruin.