Chapter 32 - Kate
“Kitty Kat, where are you?” Burt’s voice slithers down the hallway from his office, a snake on the hunt for a mouse.
“Shit!” My stomach knots and sirens wail in my brain.
“Kittttyyy Kaaaatt,” Burt drags out the name, and nails drag down my spine.
That asshole put me on night assignments to get me alone and badger me again. I left twice last week before he got his chance to corner me. Tonight, I’m not taking another risk. I yank open the document feeder and snatch my expense claim for reimbursement from the glass.
The door creaks open, and I crawl out of my skin, crunching my paperwork in a messy bundle. Burt corners me near the copier, close enough to choke me on his cheap aftershave.
“Come, and we’ll finish the article together,” his voice is slick with smugness.
His fingers walk up my arm, mocking the dangerous crosswalk story I’m working on. Beady eyes crawl over my pink blouse, telling me tonight he’s decided I’m done dodging him.
Bile surges up my throat. I’ve been evading him for four weeks, since the last incident. He stayed away until last week and then resumed his old habits.
I swat him away. “Don’t touch me, Burt. Remember what happened last time with my boyfriend?”
I probably shouldn’t mention my stalker when our partnership is secret and somewhat forbidden.
He withdraws and blocks the exit with his body braced on the door. “You owe me, Kate. Your boyfriend cost me two thousand to replace my windshield.”
Fuck him.
I don’t owe him a cent. The only thing he’ll get is a new set of teeth and gouges all over from my hand weapon.
“Move. Now.” I fail to budge him out of the way.
The slow drag of his fingers as he brushes the hip of my black skirt makes the bile thicker and more urgent. “So ungrateful. After all I’ve done for your career.”
I remove the kubaton from my pocket and slide my fingers into the grip. “Move or I’ll fucking make you, asshole.”
Burt laughs in my face, a cruel, mocking sound that says I’ve got no power here. His spindly body crowds me against the printer, and my breath freezes.
“You’ve been teasing me for months.” He glances down at my shivering body. “Short skirts. Low, tight tops. It’s time to deliver.” He says the last part as if he offers me a deal for a promotion.
He unpins his belt buckle, fingers working the metal with disgusting arrogance. “Now be a good girl and suck my cock like I’ve wanted you to for a year.”
Rage is instant. Hot. Bitter. Nuclear. I slam my weapon into his chin, and he stumbles backward, blood pouring out. My knee follows into his swelling groin. The asshole folds with a strangled grunt.
Somehow, he recovers swiftly, wheezing and red-faced. He seizes my hair and slams me into the printer. Blinded by pain, I sag against it. His bony chest digs into mine, his groin grinding against my back.
His breath ices over my skin. “Preston Blackthorn sends his regards. He says you’ll be cooperative now.”
Burt slams my temple into the desk before I can process it.
My kubaton falls from my fingers and clatters on the floor.
“Nooo,” I moan.
Not a-fucking-gain.
“One way or the other, you’re going to make this worth my time, sweetheart.” He fumbles with his pants.
I thrash, reaching for anything to use as a weapon.
Pack of photocopy paper. Heavy-duty stapler.
Binding machine. All out of my grasp. He’s wiry strong, every inch of him a vise.
Panic drips ice into my veins. Tears blur my vision, and I buck and twist. My hand finally collides with something long and thin.
A pencil with a blunt tip and a rubber on the end.
Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. I jab it backward, hitting something soft.
Burt yowls, arching away. The split-second gap is all I need.
I stagger sideways, sucking air. Blood stains his cheap grey suit trousers to match his shirt and tie.
“Fucking bitch.” He lunges, hand crushing my throat, cutting off my scream. “You’re going to choke on my fucking cock and enjoy it.”
Stars burst in my vision at the impact of his fist. Warm liquid trickles down my nose.
“I’ll let the investors take a go at you next,” he hisses, slapping my bloody face so hard my teeth clack.
Chaos unfolds. Glass shatters as the door is kicked in. Fist meets bone, satisfying the dark, primal side of me. The pencil snaps, and Burt shrieks as he’s stabbed with two halves.
That growl. “Get the fuck off her!”
Mace, not Grumpy Daddy. Helmeted. Clad in biker armor. This side of him is vicious and unforgiving, marking Burt’s skin with stab wounds I’ve imagined leaving on many occasions.
Relief barrels into me so fast I sway. Damn. My head rings, my vision a glitchy slideshow.
“Where do you get off touching women like that, you fucking asshole?” Mace’s voice is ice over fire. “Never. Touch. What’s. Mine.”
Burt’s head connects with the counter with a sharp crack. He spits out teeth and blood.
I blink back the haze in my eyes. Mace pins Burt over on the counter, stretching his arm over… oh, God. My pulse spikes with anticipation this time.
“Put that away. No… don’t… please.” Burt’s pitiful begging fuels the darkness in me.
Mace lifts the blade of the paper cutter. “You will never harass another female, ever again, or I’ll come back.”
Air whistles as the blade drops and crunches on bone. Burt screams. His bloody thumb bounces on the base with a clear slice between the second knuckle and joint.
Heat snaps through me. Adrenaline. Nausea. Arousal. All fucking three at once. I reach for the bloody trophy.
“Don’t touch it.” Mace shoves Burt aside, and he hits the floor and rolls.
Too late. I’m already planning a formaldehyde display for my shrine of romantic keepsakes when this is the ultimate declaration of love, Lark Montague-style.
The rest flows into the escape. Mace kicks Burt in the face before lifting me into his arms and carrying me to my desk to get my things, piling them on my stomach.
“You’re never coming back here, Glitter Bomb,” he grunts, hauling ass out of there, climbing down the stairs two at a time like I don’t weigh a thing.
I twist the finger in my grip. “This is epilogue material right here.”
Yeah, I’m high. Shock hasn’t landed yet. Adrenaline’s still in the driver’s seat. The vicious bitch in me is clapping like she’s front row at a dark romance book signing. If only the pain didn’t kick my ass.
“Fuck!” Daddy’s back, snatching it from me and tossing it down the sewer. “Hope the rats like meat medium rare.”
I splutter out a laugh. It’s all I can do to stop from breaking apart in his arms.
“You must really love me.” The words come out light and teasing, because the glitter is fading, the dull colors are muting me, and I’m on the verge of a breakdown.
He didn’t just come out of the shadows for me, he stepped into the Romans’ crosshairs for the second time.
Put a target on his back. This isn’t a flirty drive-by rescue with benefits anymore.
This is war, and he just openly declared it in my name.
Which, in Book Girlie terms, means I’m the luckiest heroine in a dark romance… or the next tragic plot twist.
“I don’t cut off fingers for just anyone, Glitter Bomb.” He says it low and reverent, his version of I’m Yours.
A shaky laugh escapes me as he lowers me to my feet to get his bike ready. “And here I thought I’d have to get my dismemberment fantasy somewhere else.”
“Guess I’m a full-service book boyfriend, Glitter Bomb.” His banter keeps me upright for another few seconds before the post-adrenaline crash hits.
Daddy inserts the key and turns the ignition on, pulls the clutch lever and presses the starter lever.
While it warms, he fits me into his spare helmet, while I lose the battle with the shakes, rattling the thing.
Daddy feels it, wraps his arms tightly around me, says something I can’t make out over the motor, then gets us both settled onto his bike.
He pushes the motorcycle hard on the back roads I don’t recognize. My mind zones out to everything but the cold chewing through my clothes, the rattling in my bones, and my body locked to his like he’s the only thing preventing me from tipping into traffic.
He watches the mirrors repeatedly for anyone tailing us.
At one stage, I check too, out of paranoia.
No dark sedans pursuing us, just dark streets with minimal lamps and traffic.
We drive out of the city center to the commercial outskirts, where warehouses and factories keep the Shadow Lake economy alive.
Daddy pulls up to an abandoned building with a brick exterior, cracked asphalt, rust bleeding from corrugated metal pipes, warped sheets of tin for windows, graffiti spray paint, and torn barbed wire fences the same rusty color as the blood I wipe from my wound.
Exactly the kind of building a GPS forgets exists, where Mace hides or operates one of the safehouses he mentioned.
My knees give up on me when I slide off the bike, and he carries me to a side door, unlocking a heavy padlock and chains, giving us entry. He leans me against a wall while he opens three deadbolts and cracks open a steel door. He ushers me in, locks the place back up and carries me upstairs.
His loft isn’t much to look at—concrete walls, mismatched furniture, the faint scent of coffee, and a mattress that barely looks slept in.
A place lived in, but not a home. One corner is a workshop with a steel table, an oven of sorts, and a rack of strange tools.
Perhaps the glass-blowing furnace where he makes my ornaments.
A single industrial window stares at the city in the distance. Boats toot their horns in the harbor as they dock or leave. Waves of the port lap in the distance. I flinch at every noise. Pipes ticking, radiator popping, wind rustling the tin roof and the window seals.
“Where are we?” I ask as he lifts me and carries me through the center.
“My place,” he replies. “It’s not safe at your house tonight. Maybe ever.”
He steers me into a makeshift bathroom, where he sets me down on the closed toilet seat. The old faucet creaks as he twists it. Water gurgles out, and the pipes groan and shudder. He tests the temperature with the back of his hand.
“Does this mean we’re moving in together?” My joking smile falters, and I drop my face into my bloody palms.
Daddy sets the wet cloth on his sink and crouches in front of me, his knees bracketing mine, fingers prying my hands free. His touch is soft yet shaking just as much as I am. He’s taming the urge to kill.
“Not unless you want to,” he says, voice sanded down. “Look at me, baby.”
I do. He’s gravity in a world that teeters off balance.
He presses a warm, wet face cloth to my forehead and dabs at my wound like I’m as fragile as porcelain. Hell, I am. The heat seeps into my skin, and I hiss and wince. His thumb brushes my jaw, warmer than the cloth, each swipe burning away my brittle hold on reality.
“You’re safe now,” he reminds me. “You don’t need to worry about going back to that office ever again.”
I nod once, jerky.
Crescent bruises scream on my arm. Compulsion assumes control, and I scrub at them to erase any sign of him from me.
They won’t come off as easily as the blood, and I drag my nails over them, grazing my skin.
They’ll haunt me for days, reminders of what almost went down if it weren’t for Mace.
I don’t cry even though I want to. Burt will not win.
“Hey, stop.” Grumpy Daddy clasps both wrists and pries them apart. “Let me clean you up, and I’ll get you in my shirt and sweater. It’s the only thing stopping me from punching a wall.”
The thought of being dressed in his clothes feels like stepping into a barricade no one can breach. Wrapped in his scent, the fabric heavy enough to lock the world out.
He’s gentle as can be, cleansing my head wounds, suturing them and bandaging me up, keeping me from cracking into a thousand pieces. No one’s ever touched me like I’ll shatter if they’re not careful.
When he finishes, he drops to his knees again, grasping the back of my calves. “You can stop holding it together, Glitter Bomb. It’s just you and me here. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to be loud or colorful. You can break, and I’ll pick up all the pieces.”
My armor buckles, and my throat burns with oncoming tears. I curl my finger in his shirt, pulling him close, breathing him in. The strength to joke bleeds from me when he says things like that. I dip my chin, pretending I’m not two seconds from crying all over him for multiple reasons.
“I love you, Daddy.” My voice wobbles, and for the first time, I don’t care if he hears the fear behind it. Nor do I care that it’s an inopportune moment to tell him. Opening my heart again is pure power, and it pulses through me.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move, like my words cut him up more than a bullet. Then his hands come up, cradling my jaw like I’m the only risk he wants to take.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” His voice is gravel now, but he doesn’t push me to take it back.
My chest squeezes with the realization of what my mouth just did.
The words hang between us without any way to call them back.
Underneath them glows the heat of truth that I’ve been suppressing.
And it’s not just my Book Girlie or fantasy talking.
I’ve flirted with danger since the night he first rescued me from Burt.
This is me—reckless, diving in headfirst, no lifeline or regrets, copying the only way I know how.
Grumpy Daddy has Roman crosshairs on his back now for committing a crime in my name.
We both left the scene and that makes us both fugitives.
This may be our last night breathing free air if the authorities catch up with us.
If I don’t say it now, I don’t want to miss my chance. May as well go out in style.
“I may have a concussion, but I know exactly what I’m saying,” I give it to him straight instead of dancing around it with jokes.
His helmet tips down. “Then you deserve to see who’s loving you back.”
He unbuckles the strap, and I hold my breath as his helmet finally comes off with a soft scrape of padding.
My heart is a drum in a parade. The room tilts. The gorgeous man staring back at me isn’t a stranger. This man wields a face I swore to bury in the past and forget. Now that’s a plot twist I didn’t see coming. And I’m the willing heroine who walked right into the trap.