Page 2 of Pistols & Peonies

“Because he believes in the cause,” she says firmly, like that settles it. “Every rebellion needs a frontman.”

“If you say so,” I mutter, eyes snapping to the stage as one of the guys up there steps forward and lifts a hand for silence.

The crowd obeys instantly, going eerily quiet and turning their full attention to the broad-shouldered man wearing a battered Cubs cap and a leather jacket. “Thanks for coming out,” he calls, voice echoing through the cavernous warehouse. “I know what you’re risking just by being here.” He pauses to let that settle like dust. “But I also know why you came. The way this pack’s being run isn’t working anymore, and it’s time we come together in the name of change.”

He paces slowly across the stage, running a hand along his stubbled jaw. “Some of you have seen Rogue before. Others think he’s more myth than man. I’m here to tell you he’s real, and he’s got a plan.”

A ripple moves through the room– whispers at first, then louder murmurs– as anticipation coils like a spring. Someone shouts, “Bring him out!” and laughter cracks through the tension.

The speaker holds up his hand again. “Settle down, he’ll be here,” he says with a chuckle, though it does nothing to tamp down the excitement buzzing through the air.

Politics, uprising, ideology… none of it really interests me, if I’m being honest. Everyone else seems captivated, but I’m already eyeing the exit.

As I scan the crowd again, movement flashes in my periphery. A tall man in dark clothes emerges from the rear, slipping between bodies with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to move unseen. The bottom half of his face is covered with a balaclava, a hoodie slung low over his brow, but his dark eyes gleam when they catch mine. He dips his head once in silent acknowledgement, then sweeps past me like smoke, heading straight for the stage.

Char’s nails dig into my wrist hard enough to make me wince. “That’s him!” she squeals under her breath. “That’s Rogue!”

And sure as shit, she’s right. People are starting to notice him, the crowd parting around the man like a tide pulled by the moon. I may be a reluctant participant in this circus, but my breathing stalls all the same, muscles tensing in anticipation.

He’s two steps from the stage when the doors at the back of the warehouse suddenly burst open.

Pack enforcers dressed in tactical gear flood inside, and the crowd instantly erupts into chaos. Panicked screams pierce the air, bodies slamming into each other as people scramble for the exits. Clothes shred as some shift to their wolf forms, fur exploding across limbs and teeth snapping.

Char’s mouth is moving, eyes wide and terrified, but I can’t hear her. My brain fills with white noise as it scrambles to grasp the reality of what’s happening around me.

Then the world snaps back into focus. I grab for Charlotte’s hand, yanking her toward the nearest exit.

We claw our way through the chaos, flailing limbs, and terror. A wolf barrels past with a snarl, nearly knocking us down. Char stumbles, legs buckling, but I hook my fingers in the collar of her hoodie and haul her upright, forcing her to keep moving.

Something swings at my head and I duck instinctively, narrowly avoiding the impact. A split second later, pain detonates through my shoulder as someone shoves me into the doorframe on their way past. The impact steals my breath, but I don’t slow.

Fresh air smacks me in the face when we finally burst through the door into the night. Char screams to run, but there’s no need– my legs are already pumping, carrying me away from the warehouse as fast as they can. We sprint down a narrow alleyway between buildings, disappearing into the cover of shadows.

At the end of the alley, Char skids to a stop and turns to grab me, eyes scanning my face. “You okay?”

I nod, but it’s a lie. My vision is swimming, my left arm hanging uselessly at my side. Pretty sure my shoulder’s dislocated. “We have to keep going,” I rasp.

But before either of us can move, an enforcer appears, stepping right into our path. He grabs Char by the bicep and slams her against the wall. She screams as he twists her arm up behind her back, and I immediately lunge, clawing at him.

“Let her go!” I shout, voice cracking.

He laughs– actually laughs– and shoves her aside like she’s nothing, grabbing me by the throat instead. He lifts me half off my feet, his grip like a vise.

“You wanna be a hero, little wolf?” he growls.

I spit in his face. A stupid move, but so worth it.

He recoils, his grip faltering, and Char takes the opportunity to kick him hard in the knee. He snarls and jerks around, hand leaving my throat, and I use the heartbeat of freedom to slam my good elbow into his nose, bone crunching under the impact.

He reels back with a howl and we bolt.

Ragged breaths saw from my lungs as we tear toward the fence, making it to the hole in the chain link we slipped through earlier. Char dives through first, hitting the ground on the other side and reaching for me.

I’m halfway through when my hand is ripped from hers, the same enforcer from the alley hauling me backwards.

He pins my arms and twists them behind me, a cry tearing from my throat as white-hot pain shoots all the way to my spine.

Char stares at me, horrified, frozen in place.