KATE
Breagha and Mam are still talking about the flowers at Fiona’s wedding when the limo finally turns into the family compound in Baltimore. Mam thinks she might be allergic to sweetheart roses; she still has a splitting headache. Breagha want tulips at her wedding, depending on the time of year, of course.
Neither of them has commented on the fact that I’m still wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. Loyal Breagha covered for me when I missed breakfast, saying I was still asleep in the room she and I shared. She hasn’t had a chance to ask where I actually spent last night.
Da has been eyeing me the entire trip home, like he’s sizing up a lamb at market. He doesn’t know I overheard his call to Wolf. He doesn’t know his new pet hacker already sampled the goods.
I want to stand in the middle of the drive and scream that no one in my family understands me, no one has a clue, not even the sister I love. I want to show everyone my bruises, theones around my throat that Mam left, and the ones on my wrists and ankles that prove I can handle anything. I want to bow my head and fold my arms around my chest, hold last night close like a precious secret, like I tamed Wolf instead of the other way around.
No. Wolf didn’t tame me. No one gets to claim that. I left his fancy hotel room on my own feckin’ terms. I told him exactly what I think about Da’s goddamn plan.
Now I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the sound of stitches ripping at the kick-pleat in my skirt. I take a shower before I do anything else, shampooing my hair twice. I stand under the scalding spray, fighting the urge to pound my fist through the tile wall.
Because despite everything that happened in Boston—fighting with Mam, Wolf tying me up, Da putting me on the market, Wolf actually considering the deal—Ifeel guilty. Guilty because Wolf didn’t know I was with Red Cap when he took me back to his hotel. Guilty because I came three times. Guilty because Wolf was so gentle after, holding me, getting me water and chocolate, leaving the light on.
And he didn’t come, not even once.
I’m used to paying my dues—a handjob, a blowjob, spreading my legs and letting a yoke pump away if that’s what it takes. But Wolf didn’t go for any of that.
He was turned on. Isawthat. Felt it too, when he was holding me, when I was spooned against his body.
The man’s a feckin’ control freak. Maybe that’s what gets his motor running—having the strength of willnotto shoot his wad.
But I feel like a fucking failure. Like I didn’t live up to my end of some bargain we struck. Even though the bargain washe sets the rules. I just followed.
Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck Da and Mam and the entire Canton Crew, if any of them think they can control me.
I turn off my shower just as the water starts to run cold. After I dry off, I pull on sweatpants and my favorite hoodie. Thejersey fabric rasps against my nipples. They’re extra-sensitive, sore from being used last night. I cross my arms over my chest and ignore the echo of a drumbeat between my thighs.
Climbing onto my bed, I prop myself up with pillows against my headboard. When I settle my computer across my lap, a cramp flickers down my right calf. Every muscle in my body aches, like I’m coming down with the flu. I try to distract myself by digging my thumb into the bruise Wolf left on my left wrist.
Logging into Winter Reckoning, I track down MaskedMarauder and a couple of the others. This is where we met, four years ago, the first week the game launched.
Marauder and Shaddow are tracking a frostcat. I drop into my CyberGhost persona—loud, arrogant, and totally male. I tell them they’re pussies, going after wimp-ass prey like that. I won’t even unsheath my Resonance Sword unless we’re going after a snowhound.
I keep the hunt open in one window and drop into our private chatroom, where the Raiders continue to debate how the Banque Wagner deal went tits up. Now Shaddow is savaging my code, saying I’m a fucking loser. I’m a little surprised to see that Marauder has my back.
I think about telling them I met Wolf in real life.
Yeah, sure. Right after I do that, I’ll tell them I’m a mob princess, that my father keeps a stable of enforcers who can track down each and every one of them. They better stop slagging me in the chatroom, or I’ll tell Da’s men to take their time getting vengeance. To make sure it hurts.
As if Da’s men would ever listen to me. I’m just the boss’s daughter. I’m just Kate.
Back in the game, I find the frostcat’s trail before the others. It’s a big animal, its fur stained green with the blood of the elflings it feeds on. I track it for a few minutes, giving the others a chance to catch up. Just before the frostcat reaches the fringes of DarkWood, I land the first blow with my Dream Dagger.
Winter Reckoning isn’t like most fantasy role-playing games. Instead of relying on speed and strength and accuracy, Reckoning weapons are all built on maths. Solve a quick equation, 2+x=5, and a Dream Dagger nicks an enemy. Work out something a little more complicated, 2x*7=28, and the cuts go deeper.
Dream Daggers never require more than the most basic algebra. But you can’t pick up a Resonance Sword without knowing trigonometry. A Soul Mace requires calculus. And the most destructive weapon in the game, a Snow Star, forces a player to write actual lines of computer code.
The frostcat howls when I hit him with my Dream Dagger. Game etiquette says I should back off to let the others gain some blood points. But I’m not feeling very charitable, not with the Raiders still going after me in the chatroom.
I hack the frostcat into tiny pieces, solving a cascade of easy maths games and taking all the credit for myself. Shaddow calls me an asswipe. Marauder calls me a cunt. I flip off both of them and leave the game.
Pulling up my code, I go through the exploit we planted at Banque Wagner, studying it line by line. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written, the most complex code by far. I have to figure out how Wolf broke it.
After a few hours, I take a break. Get up from my computer. Cross to the window. Look out at Mam’s sculpted garden. Cross back to my chair. Dig back in to study what Wolf did.
I remember the bristles on his cheek when I slapped him. I remember the sting on my own face when he failed to pull his blow completely.
