Tate stomped down the stairs at four the next morning, wearing nothing more than a pair of exercise shorts. He had a towel slung across his shoulder and a pair of running shoes clutched in his hands. Stepping into his office, he flipped the light on and sat down heavily in his chair. Opening his laptop a little harder than was necessary, he slipped on his shoes while he waited for his emails to load.
Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a shaker and some pre workout. Measuring the powder out, he dumped two scoops into the shaker. Turning back to the computer, he scrolled through his list of contacts, stopping on Silvermoon’s packhouse email.
His eyes grim, he stared at the blank draft he had pulled up. He was angry. Angry that nothing had been done about Hawthorne. Angr
