Page 24 of Pistols & Peonies

“Go ahead and join your mate by the windows,” he directs, adjusting his camera and motioning toward Kane.

I comply with all the enthusiasm of approaching a live grenade, the click of my heels against the floor far too loud in the cavernous space. His dark eyes stalk my every move, nostrils flaring as I step up beside him and turn to face the camera.

“Perfect,” the photographer says, lifting his camera and squinting through the lens. “Both of you, look this way. Kane, can you put your arm around her waist?”

He does, reluctantly. His movements are stiff, hand settling at my hip, long fingers splaying out against the silk. Even through the fabric, his touch is so hot it feels like it’s searing a brand into my skin. My inner wolf yips, relishing in the contact.

“Great, great,” the photographer murmurs, firing off a dozen shots. “Now look at each other.”

I turn. So does Kane. Our eyes meet, but neither of us smiles.

It’s not the first time I’ve stared down a predator, but it’s the first time I’ve felt like prey. I should hate that feeling– it goes against everything I am– but suddenly I want nothing more than to be devoured.

“That’s… wow, that’s intense,” the photographer remarks with a soft chuckle. “Let’s try something a little softer. Violet, can you rest your head on his shoulder and look toward me?”

I bristle at the request, but I comply, stepping in closer and leaning my head against Kane’s chest. The fabric of his suit is soft, but his firm body underneath is unyielding, all hard muscle and scorching heat. His scent wraps around me, and I can feel his pulse through the thin layer between us– steady, controlled, but fast.

Is this fucking with him right now as much as it is me?

“Closer,” the photographer instructs, snapping away. “Like you’re really in love.”

I snort a laugh. “Sure thing, chief.”

Kane’s grip on my hip tightens for a fraction of a second, then loosens again. It almost feels like he’s warning me to keep my sarcasm in check, which I definitely don’t appreciate. My wolf seems to approve, though, the traitorous bitch.

After a few more shots, the photographer has us face the camera again, side by side. “Smokin’ hot power couple,” he comments, grinning in approval as he snaps away. Then he lowers his camera, thumbing through the pictures before looking back up at us. “Alright, let’s change it up,” he announces, tipping his head. “Violet, stand over there.”

I nod, backing away from Kane like he’s radioactive. My wolf howls in my skull, clawing to get out, but I choke her down with pure, bitter willpower.

“Cross your arms, stare him down– perfect, yes, you’re a total boss bitch.”

I follow the ridiculous instructions, and he fires off another series of shots, shifting us around. He poses me in front of Kane, his arms around my waist; then next to him again, hip to hip. At one point, he tells me to “lean back into your mate, like you trust him to catch you,” which is about as funny as it sounds.

“I don’t,” I say, loudly enough that a growl rumbles in Kane’s chest.

The photographer only loves me more for it. “You’re killing me, Violet. Such a strong look. Okay, now Kane, pull her in close. Like, really close.”

His hands latch around my hips, yanking me backwards against him. My breath hitches, pulse hammering. I feel a flush crawl up my throat as his warm breath skates over the side of my neck, his fingers flexing their grip. The bond between us flares, a live wire running straight from my chest to his.

It’s unbearable. I want to scream or run or tear this dress off and let him rail me against the windows just to break the tension. Instead, I stand there and let the photographer snap away, smile frozen, jaw clenched.

This, I think, is the real hell: being paraded in front of a camera, forced to pretend I’m in love with someone I’d rather strangle while my wolf fantasizes about getting railed six ways from Sunday.

After a few more ‘candid’ shots– Kane’s palm on the small of my back, my head tipped up like I’m about to bite him– the photographer directs us to reposition again. This time, he tells us to face each other, close enough that our chests brush with every inhale.

“Arms around each other, please,” he snaps. “More, more…”

Kane’s hands slip to my lower back, dragging me flush against him, and I instinctively loop my arms around his neck.

“Yes, exactly like that!” the photographer gushes, heat rising to my cheeks. “Now, look into each other’s eyes. Really look.”

We do, and the intensity in Kane’s stare is enough to knock the breath out of me. His eyes burn with gold at the edges, his wolf brushing the surface, mine rushing up to meet him. For the briefest moment, everything else fades away– the click of the camera shutter, the glitter of the city through the windows. It’s just his eyes and his scent and his touch, the two of us locked in the inevitable pull of our bond.

“Beautiful!” the photographer exclaims. “How about a kiss?”

The moment shatters, my body tensing so hard I actually flinch. Kane’s grip tightens on my waist.

I want to murder whoever decided on this bullshit PR campaign. I want to murder Alpha for forcing me into this Pairing. But most of all, I want to murder the part of myself that’s tempted to follow the instruction.