Page 14 of Pistols & Peonies

She materializes looking like a Stepford wife– hair perfect, dress tailored, wearing high heels in the damn woods.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” I blurt.

“What do you mean?” she scoffs, pressing a hand to her chest like I’ve mortally offended her. “I was invited. My only child is getting mated, of course I’d want to be here to witness it!” Her blue eyes shine with the bright, blissful delusion she lives in as they skim down my body. “Honestly, Violet, couldn’t you have at least tried to make yourself presentable for the occasion?” she tuts.

I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly feeling twelve again under her scrutiny.

“I think she looks beautiful,” Char cuts in, flashing a smile so sweet it could give someone a toothache. Then she pivots my way, giving me an exaggerated once-over and whistling. “Total knockout. Your mate’s gonna need an EpiPen, because you’re gonna take his breath away.”

I roll my eyes, chuckling under my breath. Charlotte was singing a whole different tune back at the apartment when she tried to get me to dress up for this circus, but at least she’s got my back now. Even if that back is currently clothed in a threadbare, well-loved hoodie.

“Well, here’s hoping he’ll be well off enough to treat you to a new wardrobe,” Mom says, eyeing my cutoff denim shorts like they personally insulted her. “You could’ve at least covered up those tattoos,” she adds, lip curling as her gaze lands on my thigh piece.

One of my favorites.

“Here’s hoping her mate likes ink, then,” Char chirps, draping an arm over my shoulders.

“I don’t really give a shit what he likes,” I grumble.

Mom gasps dramatically, slapping her hand to her chest again. “Violet Grace!” she barks, going full parental on me. “How can you say that? To be mated to someone is an honor. You should be proud you have the privilege.”

“Mm,” I hum, shifting my weight. “Thrilled.”

She either ignores the sarcasm or pretends to. Hard to tell with her. Sometimes I wonder how someone can be so aggressively out of touch with reality, but for my mother, it’s always been a choice. She prefers her little fantasy world where everything’s clean and perfect and nothing ever hurts.

She gives me another once-over and heaves a long-suffering sigh, rubbing her fingers against her temple like my appearance alone is giving her a migraine. “Stand up straight with your shoulders back, at the very least. First impressions matter.”

I grit my teeth. If she weren’t my mother, I’d flip her the bird, turn around, and walk away right about now. But she’s the only family I’ve got, so I force a stiff nod instead, burying my own feelings in favor of keeping the peace between us.

A sudden ripple moves through the crowd– a shift in air pressure, a collective straightening of spines.

Alpha is here.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires of a black town car as it rolls up to the curb at the preserve entrance, the back door swinging open. Alpha Gage steps out in a crisp black suit, radiating the kind of dominance that instantly presses against my inner wolf. I instinctively lower my head, everyone around me doing the same as they gaze upon our leader with awe and admiration.

Clearly, everyone here is drinking the Alpha Kool-Aid. I’ve never been one for hero worship, but I can’t help the way my wolf responds to the dominant energy rolling off him as he starts toward us, pack officials falling in behind him.

One of them is Dr. Aspen. The sight of the man makes my stomach turn, scratching at the edges of a memory I don’t want to touch.

Last week, I underwent my ‘procedure’– a barbaric form of torture used to extract a shifter’s mating serum. They fasten you to a table, strap electrodes to your body, and administer a high-voltage electric shock to bring your inner wolf forward. As if that isn’t bad enough in itself, they then stick a needle into your gums and draw out the serum, which is a whole other kind of hell. Your wolf fights it, mourns it, and after, it feels like a part of you is missing that you’ll never get back.

It takes a sick kind of wolf to do that to another, and Dr. Aspen fits the bill. I swear he smiled while I was writhing in agony. He enjoyed it. And now, he’s smiling like he’s the man of the hour with metal briefcases clasped in each hand. No doubt they’re full of syringes containing the serum he stole, ready to bind mates together for life.

Commander Kane is here, too. At Alpha’s side, half a step behind. His intensely dark eyes are fixed blankly ahead, jaw tight and a deep crease carved between his brows. People are usually excited for the full moon run, so looking like someone pissed in his Cheerios must just be the guy’s default expression.

Kinda scary.

Kinda hot.

Still kinda hate myself for rubbing one out in the shower while picturing his face, but that’s a whole other issue for a therapist to unpack someday.

“Welcome,” Alpha greets as he comes to a stop, the deep baritone of his voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd. “I’m sure you’re all eager to get out there and run, so let’s not waste any time.”

Excited murmurs ripple through the pack, tempered by the awareness that we’re still out in the open. The importance of keeping a low profile and blending in with the human population is drilled into us practically at birth. Being part of the Chicago pack means constant repression– of our wolves, our instincts, our emotions. Ourselves.

“Hurry up!” my mom hisses with an impatient wave.

Alpha’s already leading the way down a dirt path into the woods, the crowd eagerly falling in behind him. No one here tonight is quite as eager as Ella Slayter, though– the woman can’t wait to see me mated off to some mindless pack soldier. Char nudges my arm, giving me a little nod of encouragement, and I drag in a deep breath before starting forward.