Chapter 33 - Kate
My breath stalls. I take in every inch of him. Every line of history carved into his face. He’s exactly who I remember and nothing like the man I once knew. Older, harder, and more dangerous. Yet somehow unbearably human, with regret etched into his mouth.
Messy black curls stick flat to his head.
Jaw hard and unyielding. The scar across his right cheek when one of Blackthorn’s men gave him a warning.
Meeting my gaze with unblinking, sharp turquoise eyes that cut through every wall I’ve ever built.
There’s something behind them. Vulnerability blended with fear.
The eyes of a man who knows that once he shows his face, he can’t take it back.
This is the Cinderella moment, where the clock strikes midnight and all the magic is undone. The gown turns to rags, the glass slipper breaks, and the dark prince has secrets.
August Kelly is no prince. He stood by me just long enough to watch the cops close my case against Blackthorn, calling my assault “unsubstantiated.” We dated a few messy months after that, and he let me believe in something true.
Then he left me to fend off the wolves. Disappeared with a goodbye note that said I was safer this way.
He left a wound that never closed properly.
One of the reasons I glued myself together with glitter, trauma, and betrayal.
He’s also the man who’s watched me, saved me multiple times, cared for me, and looked beyond the illusion of my beaded costume. The one who stole my heart and lied to me for over two months.
“August,” I stammer, too stunned to move. “You… what… why…” I can’t get a thought out.
His voice should have been a dead giveaway.
Except, the man I remember didn’t sound the same.
Back then, he spoke with warmth and a little mischief when he whispered into my ear when we met up for coffee.
Time hardened his voice, the softness rasped from it, leaving gritty sand shaped by water over time.
The room narrows to his face, and the undertow of memory drags me backward. A kiss that tasted of copper from the slash on his face. Our last kiss on a rooftop that smelled of tar and summer heat. Texts that didn’t come. Silence that strangled me.
“You lied to me.” Unable to look at him, I stand and push past him, wobbling out of his bathroom.
Book Girlie me wants to throw herself into his arms and say she didn’t mean any of it and to erase every word. Rational me doesn’t want to be touched, spoken to, or meet those traitorous eyes or lips.
He gives me space.
I push a hand through my flat hair. Pain splints from my forehead to my neck. Dizziness and nausea roll like a cruel tide. I need a fucking hospital but can’t go to one. They’ll apprehend me, arrest me, and throw me in jail. Vicious thoughts tumble in my head.
Leave and run. Not safe.
Get Josh.
Call Harper.
Go to Mom’s.
My career is in flames.
Assault charges.
Prison time.
All of it drills deeper into my skull, and I rub the flesh under my bandage.
“One thing at a time,” he says, calm and steady, like a loaded gun. “You’re in shock and crashing, and tending to you is my priority.”
The safe bubble he cocooned me in transforms into a black hole that engulfs light and gravity.
He gatekept the truth and rationed it out, feeding me enough to keep me close and win my trust. Every omission was a lie that stole my choice of who I give my time, body, and trust to.
He leveraged my fantasies into a game only he won.
The worst part is that he stripped away my agency and control, knowing they were the threads holding me together.
Survival is a today problem. I’m not naive enough to believe I can outrun the Romans with a handbag, pepper spray, and kubaton.
August has exit routes, connections, and I’m dependent on him moving forward.
I don’t trust him with my heart right now, though I trust him with my life when he’s extricated me from dangerous situations.
For now, we lie low and don’t get caught.
Forgiveness is something to consider tomorrow or once the heat cools down. We’re fugitives to a crime, after all.
“Can I touch you and tend to you?” he asks.
I blink and nod. Anything else hurts physically and emotionally.
He breaches the distance between us, clasps my elbows and steers me to the sofa, forcing me down onto it. The cushions give with a tired sigh, and the springs bounce under my weight.
“Breathe with me, baby.” He hasn’t let go. Won’t. “In for four. Hold. Out for four.” His fingers lift and fall in time to his count.
I match him because it’s all I can do. Air in. Air out. It soothes the ringing in my head, the spasms in my muscles, and the exhaustion in my bones.
When I’m steadier and breathing evenly, he asks, “Is the light okay? I want to check your pupils.”
“It’s fine. And okay.” I chew my lip, contemplating whether him touching me is a bad idea.
He angles my chin with two fingers and tracks a fingertip past my gaze. “Any nausea or double vision?”
My eyes do their job and follow him. “No.”
“You’re concussed, Glitter Bomb,” he reports. “I know you probably want out of here to get away from me, but I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re better. I’ll get my doctor to come and examine you. Is that okay?”
A tear tracks down my face. “Fine.”
His mouth flattens. “Relax here for a moment. I promise we’ll get to the rest when you’re feeling up to it.”
He vanishes into the kitchenette, filling his kettle, clattering mugs, and boiling water. I’m left alone with a storm of thoughts that I can’t hold steady. The buzz of adrenaline drains from my veins, leaving a tremble. Moments later, he comes back with tea that smells of mint and honey.
“Food?” His voice breaks the silence.
“I can’t stomach anything.”
“Pain?” He nods at my temple.
“Tylenol would be good,” I reply.
He digs out a bottle from a battered first aid kit he lugged out of his bathroom and brings it out to me. Two pills drop into my hand. A glass of water slides from his palm to mine. I chase them down and wait for them to soften the pain.
August taps his temple. “You don’t have to tell me now, but I need to know you’re okay in here.”
Fear wears me like one of my coats. If I tell him how rattled I am, he’ll go full Daddy Vigilante, and a severed thumb won’t be the only crime we’re dealing with.
“I’m distraught, shaken. Fucking angry.” I grab his arm, needing him to ground me like he’s done many times before. “Hold off on murdering my enemies, please. I’ve had enough plot twists for tonight.”
His mouth curves, but not into a smile. “No fresh bodies tonight.”
“Nice promise. Not sure if I believe it.”
“I deserve that.” His voice trails off.
Yeah, not traveling that slippery path just yet. Too many other competing priorities, survival foremost. I switch to address that.
“What am I going to do?” I curl over my mug and blow on the steaming liquid. “In a dark romance, the thumb is equivalent to a bouquet or love letter. In the real world, it’s an aggravated assault perfect for headlines. The Romans won’t let that go unpunished.”
His jaw ticks. “That’s the future. We handle now first. Your safety is my priority. Then we go after that fucking creep.”
Words that should calm me, yet a splinter of panic sticks. Tomorrow is coming and it knows our names.
Another breath. And another. Sip in between. Warm up from the tea trickling down my throat. The more I repeat this, the easier it is to string together thoughts.
I get out one. “Okay. Tell me the plan for now. What if Burt dies? You stabbed him multiple times.”
Darkness pools in the corners of his face. “I stabbed him where he’ll feel it every time he takes a step.”
I smile a little at that.
August adopts Officer Kelly mode and commences a precise list. “First, we take care of you. Concussion protocol. My clinician will examine you. Don’t worry. No hospital records. Non-negotiable.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but nod.
“Alive,” he corrects in a tone that brooks no argument. “Do you consent?”
I wrap an arm around my waist. “Yes, I consent.” Fighting him takes up more energy than I have.
August calls out his phone and gets in contact with his clinician. “He’ll be here within the hour. I also wish to examine you every twenty minutes. Do you consent to that?”
“Whatever you feel is necessary,” I mutter. “My first aid is very rusty.”
He gets me a blanket from his bed and wraps me in it, careful not to linger too long or brush my hands as he normally does. “Call my name if your symptoms change.”
My heart mourns the loss of contact and the way he used to brush me without asking.
I nod my agreement.
He takes the seat next to me, sitting straight and stiff, resuming his plan.
“Second, we document everything while it’s fresh.
Photos of every mark with timestamps, and your written account of what happened.
I know you don’t want to go through that all again after what happened, but it’s important. ”
My hands ache from squeezing the mug. “For your articles?”
“If Burt comes for you, your account needs to be airtight.” He says it softly, more lullaby than cop. “Don’t give these fuckers any room to concoct a false narrative.”
He’s not building a case for the police or his mission, he’s building a wall around me. Protect until the end. Choosing me with every careful step. I want to stay mad, but this sways me back to team Grumpy Daddy.
Fuck. Celine comes to me with the question: Where Does My Heart Beat Now? I can’t tell her. Darkness swallowed the sun. Secrets dulled my sparkle. Betrayal bruised me. I need time to process.
“Do it.” I pat around my throbbing forehead.
He goes to reassure me with a touch and tucks his hand under his crossed arms. “I’ll record everything, if you want. My associate will save and distribute it to dead drops and leave no single point of failure.”