Page 54 of Pistols & Peonies

“Why’s that?” I snort.

He pins me with a look that makes my belly flip. “You know why.”

I arch a brow, keeping my expression cool. “What, you don’t want to fuck it out?” I snap, even as my heart races at the thought.

His eyes drop to my bare legs, then slowly climb back up to meet mine, irises rimmed in gold. “We can, if that’s what it takes,” he murmurs. “But just being close seemed to work before. No need to complicate things further.”

“Right,” I snort, pushing off from the dresser and stepping closer to the bed. “Because that’s all it was in the elevator. In your office. A complication.”

“Considering we haven’t managed a single civil conversation,” he says calmly, “Yes. Sex absolutely complicates this dynamic.”

I stare at him, the weight of that landing all at once. “Think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me that wasn’t an insult or a command,” I mutter.

“I’m not much of a talker,” he grumbles, climbing into bed and stretching out on his back like he owns the place. The sheet barely makes it past his hips, and my eyes snag on the thin trail of dark hair leading down from his navel before I force them back up to his face.

“Yeah, I noticed,” I scoff. “You ever think maybe if you stopped ordering people around for five minutes, they’d like you more?”

He settles his head against the pillow, closing his eyes. “I don’t care if people like me. I care if they do their job.”

I stand there with my arms folded, just looking down at him. He’s so fucking gorgeous, even when he’s being an asshole. Especially then. It’s infuriating. The way his biceps flex when he folds his hands behind his head, the smooth, tan skin stretched over so much raw strength…

I’d kill for that kind of power.

Instead, I’ve got rage and trauma and a wolf that refuses to let me rest.

He opens one eye, catching me in the act. “You getting in,” he asks mildly, “or are you gonna stand there all night?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snarl, squaring my shoulders.

He rolls his head toward me, lips twitching. “Have you always been this difficult?”

I shrug.

He sighs, like I’m an impossible puzzle. “Your parents must’ve had a hell of a time with you.”

My blood goes cold, his comment striking a nerve that leaves me feeling far too exposed.

Because it’s true.

My father left. My mother spent my entire childhood trying to mold me to her impossible standard of perfection. I was always too much, or not enough. Too wild, too weird, too unwilling to shut up, keep my head down, and behave.

I stare at Kane, something ugly cracking open in my chest. “My dad bailed a long time ago,” I say flatly. “And the only thing I’ve ever done that made my mom proud was this damn Pairing. So if you’re gonna disapprove of me, get in line.”

He doesn’t respond, but something flickers behind his eyes as he stares back at me. Not pity, but a strange sort of understanding.

Doesn’t matter.

I rip my shirt off, then my panties, and let the shift roll over me before my mind has a chance to spiral. My bones snap and rearrange, fur bursting across my skin in a rush of heat. A heartbeat later, I’m on four legs at the edge of the bed, hackles raised.

Kane doesn’t flinch. He just pats the spot beside him in a silent invitation.

I hop up, pacing in a tight circle before dropping down and curling in a ball against his side. His hand sinks into my fur, rough fingers finding the spot behind my ear and stroking in slow, steady circles.

My wolf sighs in contentment, the sound vibrating through my whole body. I let my eyes slide closed as the warmth of him seeps into me. The ache eases, the bond humming low and gentle for the first time in days.

I’m almost asleep when I swear I hear him whisper an apology.

I don’t know if he means it for me, or himself, or the universe that fucked us both. But for one fleeting, stupid moment, I almost believe him.