Page 100 of Pistols & Peonies

She pulls me into a tight hug, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Call me tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I hug her back, letting myself linger a second longer than usual.

Char gives me one last suspicious look before climbing into her car and peeling away from the curb, waving out the window as she goes. I watch her disappear down the street, then turn and head inside.

The lobby is quiet, the polished tile floors reflecting the overhead lights in a glossy glare. I cross the space quickly, the security guy at the desk giving me his usual long, silent stare as I pass.

The elevator is mercifully empty on the ride up. The mirrored walls throw my reflection back at me from every angle– hair tangled from the breeze, eyes shadowed, my whole face looking twice as tired as it did this morning. By the time the doors slide open on the twenty-ninth floor, my stomach has started doing slow, nervous flips.

When I reach the apartment door, I pause with the key halfway to the lock and take a couple slow breaths. Then I enter, toeing off my shoes and dropping my bag in the entry before heading down the long hallway toward the living room.

I expect the place to be empty, but when I reach the end of the hall, I stop short.

Kane is sitting on the couch.

He’s still in his black enforcer uniform, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed slightly like he’s been staring at the floor for a while. When he hears me enter the room, he lifts his head, eyes dark and unreadable as they lock with mine.

“We need to talk,” he says.

The words hit me square in the chest.

I nod, stepping closer, every speech I’d rehearsed on the walk home dissolving into static.

“Yeah,” I reply quietly. “We do.”

CHAPTER 32

Kane

Violet hovers at the threshold of the living room, her posture tight like she’s ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. There’s an energy rolling off her that reminds me of a trap about to spring.

She’s trying not to show it, but I know her now. The little tells– the way her fingers curl into the hem of her jacket, the tight set of her jaw. It’s all there, plain as day.

She hasn’t made any move to come closer, and honestly, I don’t blame her. We left too much unsaid on the drive back this morning. Silence stretched between us the whole way, neither of us speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. Then I spent the entire day half-focused at work, replaying the look on her face after Whit left over and over in my head.

If I’d been smarter, I would’ve forced this conversation out into the open before it had a chance to fester. But I’m not always as smart as I think I am.

“Want a drink?” I ask, pushing up from the couch before she can answer. I cross to the bar cart in the corner, pulling down two heavy glasses from the shelf.

She watches me move, her expression carefully blank. “Sure.” She shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair before wandering over to the couch, dropping onto it with a heavy exhale.

I pour a double for us both, carrying the glasses back over. She takes hers without a word, cradling it in her palm and turning it slowly like she’s trying to read the future in the amber swirl. I settle onto the opposite end of the couch, leaving a healthy distance between us for now.

I’m not sure whether it’s for her benefit or mine.

She throws back half the whiskey in one go, then wipes her mouth with the back of a hand, the movement almost violent. When she sets the glass down on the coffee table, I notice the faint tremble in her fingers.

I rest my arm along the cushions behind her– not touching, just there. A silent offer that she ignores, tucking her legs beneath her.

“Look,” I start, forcing my tone as neutral as possible. “I’m sorry about last night. I know we said no attachments. I shouldn’t have forced the family thing on you. If it made you uncomfortable–”

She cuts me off with a sharp snort. “That’s what you think this is about?”

Of course she’d try to avoid actually talking about the elephant in the room.

My jaw ticks, but I keep my expression carefully blank. “I should’ve asked you,” I say evenly, not letting her deflect. “About Whit. About the dinner.”

She shakes her head, picking up her glass again and frowning into the last inch of whiskey left inside. “I didn’t mind. Honestly.” She tosses back the whiskey, then glances up at me, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Your brother’s cool. Kind of a show-off, but not the worst.”