Page 56 of Pistols & Peonies

I watch the little bubbles pulse below the message. Delivered. Read. Then nothing.

I resist the urge to hurl the phone through the fucking window, my inner wolf pacing with agitation. Instead, I pocket it and march out of the apartment, heading back to the elevator.

She can’t have gone far. I’ll return to my office, give her a few minutes to come to her senses before making good on my threat.

The ride up is mercifully quick, and I step off on the thirty-second floor twice as irritated as when I left. As I cut down the main corridor toward my office, Frazier appears, lifting a hand to get my attention.

I ignore him. I don’t have the patience to deal with another disappointment right now.

“Commander!” he calls. “Your mate–”

“I already know,” I grumble, not bothering to look at him as I stomp past. “She’s playing games. If I don’t hear from her in the next five minutes, I’m heading out to track her down.”

His boots clomp against the floor behind me as he jogs to catch up. “Uh, no, sir, it’s just… I know where she is.”

I stop cold, swiveling around and fixing him with a look that could shatter glass.

“Explain,” I snarl.

Frazier swallows hard. “I have a friend in training at the TTC,” he says, nervously extending his phone toward me. “He just sent me this.”

I snatch the phone from his hand, my eyes dropping to the grainy video playing on the screen.

It’s the indoor training arena at the Tactical Training Center, the camera panning to track a sparring match already underway. One of the fighters is a big, blond slab of muscle, and he’s squaring off against someone smaller and faster, darting in and out of reach.

My stomach drops when I realize it’s Violet.

She’s dressed in the enforcer standard black shorts and sports bra, but she moves like she’s on fire, every line of her body humming with violent grace. Her opponent tries to sweep her leg. She hops over it, snaps a jab to his jaw, then spins clear before he can grab her. The crowd ringing the mat is loud and wild, the noise bleeding through the phone’s speaker in a roar of approval.

I can’t stop watching.

She holds her own for a full minute, never letting up. At one point she actually grins– mouth split open in a wild, fearless smile– as she circles the big guy, teasing him with quick, taunting feints.

It’s the most alive I’ve ever seen her.

The video ends with her ducking under a right hook and dropping him to the mat, rolling smoothly into a chokehold that forces him to tap out, the crowd going insane.

I hand the phone back, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

“Thank you, Frazier,” I say, my voice disturbingly calm.

He hesitates as I turn away, clearly unsure whether he should follow. He wisely doesn’t.

I stalk back toward the elevator, the doors popping open as soon as I hit the call button this time, like even the machinery knows better than to keep me waiting. Once inside, I punch the button for the parking garage, stuffing a hand into my pocket and thumbing my key fob.

If she wants to test the limits of my patience, fine.

But she’s about to learn I never make empty threats.

My presence isn’t required at the TTC often, so when I enter the building and start navigating the corridors, people stare like they’re seeing a ghost. Everyone I pass reacts one of two ways– heads down, stepping aside, or tossing out eager greetings, angling to impress their superior.

I acknowledge none of them. I just keep moving, my purpose singular and unyielding.

As I draw closer to the indoor training arena, the sound of a rowdy crowd grows louder, echoing off the cinderblock walls. I follow the noise, passing a handful of startled trainees who flatten themselves against the corridor as I barrel past.

The doors are propped open, and when I step inside the arena, it’s packed– at least three dozen bodies circling the edges of the mat, hooting and hollering. In the center, a fresh spar is already underway. I zero in on the action, and sure enough, Violet is right at the heart of it, facing a new challenger who has at least a foot of height and fifty pounds on her.

Even with a dozen screaming idiots between us, she radiates a kind of kinetic charge that’s impossible to ignore. Her knuckles are split and bloodied, hair pulled into a loose, messy ponytail that’s already half-freed itself. She paces with a feral energy, eyes locked on her opponent with laser focus.