Page 22 of Pistols & Peonies

“No. You’re a fucking brat. And you clearly need a firm hand.”

Her pupils blow wide. The scent of her arousal hits me like a punch– hot, sharp, intoxicating– and my wolf lunges so hard he nearly bursts through my skin.

Fuck. She likes that idea. And I also like it far too much.

“Go to hell,” she spits.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, eyes squeezing shut as I let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Trust me,” I mutter, voice rough with restraint, “I’m already there.”

She spins on a heel, and my eyes snap open just in time to see her flip me off before tearing down the hall toward the guest room. She finds it easily enough, diving inside and slamming the door so hard it rattles the frame, the sound echoing through the whole damn apartment before silence swallows it up.

My wolf whines pathetically in the back of my mind.

I drag a hand down my face, breathing hard, pulse still hammering like she’s inches away instead of behind a wall I could easily break right through if I let instinct take the wheel.

Yeah, I think we’ll stay out of each other’s way just fine.

CHAPTER 9

Violet

“Is this a common occurrence for you?” the makeup artist asks, squinting at my face like she’s examining a particular gruesome crime scene.

She introduced herself less than five minutes ago, but my brain’s so foggy that I can’t remember her name for the life of me. I’m running on fumes.

I shrug, sinking further into the black leather swivel chair. “Had trouble sleeping last night.”

She clucks her tongue, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. She clearly assumes I was up all night with Kane doing the nasty, when in reality, the only nasty part about last night was how my wolf wouldn’t settle the fuck down and let me sleep.

“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll do what we can to minimize the dark circles,” she coos, her patronizing tone far too reminiscent of my mother’s. “And I’m sure the photographer can handle the rest in editing.”

“Sure,” I mumble.

Her assistant– tiny, blonde, and aggressively perky– titters a laugh as she peers at me over her boss’ shoulder, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle it a half-second too late.

“Libby!” the makeup artist admonishes, shooting her a warning look.

“Sorry,” the blonde whispers, promptly snorting another laugh that says she’s definitely not sorry. “But are you sure those are dark circles?” she asks as she swings her gaze back to me. “They look more like black eyes.”

“You should see the other guy,” I deadpan.

They both laugh. Probably because they think I’m being cute. In reality, I’m far too tempted to gouge my own eyes out with one of their contour brushes and swiftly end this nightmare.

“Well,” the makeup artist chirps, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

I nod numbly, shifting my weight on the chair as the two of them move into my space and get to work. They attack my face with color correctors, concealer, and foundation while I keep my eyelids slitted and my jaw slack to give them an even canvas to work with. It’s easy to stay still when I barely have the energy to remain upright.

I didn’t sleep at all last night. My wolf spent the entire evening pacing in my skull, alternately drooling over our mate camped out in the next room and howling with outrage over me not letting her get closer. It wasn’t until Kane got up at dawn and stomped out of the apartment that my brain finally stopped spinning like a hamster wheel and I crashed into exhaustion. The hour of rest I got wasn’t nearly enough.

My wolf is quiet now, but the silence feels more like the eye of a storm than actual peace. I zone out as the makeup girls mold me into something presentable, chatting away to each other about mates and how exciting this last Pairing was for the pack.

I hate being pampered.

I hate being touched by strangers.

And I especially hate being made to look like someone else entirely for the sole purpose of a photo op. My mother would be ecstatic if she saw me right now– face painted, nails polished, hair styled into glossy dark waves that would make a shampoo commercial weep with envy. Knowing how much she’d love it just makes me hate it even more.

Eventually, the lead makeup artist steps back to assess her handiwork, arms folded and brows raised. “Not bad,” she remarks, her expression softening. “You’ve got killer bone structure, you know.”