Page 8 of Pistols & Peonies

“What about your ex, the one who moved back to Colorado?” she suggests. “Maybe he’d help, let you stay with him until we figure something out.”

I exhale smoke toward the skyline, watching it unravel against the dark.

Colorado is a healthy distance from here. I’d be a stranger there, but still among wolves. It’s unlikely that another pack would risk a rift with Alpha Gage by taking me in, but not entirely impossible…

“Maybe,” I say slowly.

Char brightens with desperate hope. “Then we’ll do it! We’ll find a way. You’re not gonna get stuck with some asshole for a mate, Vi. We’ve got time to fix this.”

“Sure,” I mutter, mostly so she’ll drop it before that reckless hope can take hold and crack me wide open.

Silence settles between us as I take another long pull of whiskey. It scorches down my throat, the balcony tilting slightly beneath my feet. I finish my cigarette and crush it out in the ashtray, but my fingers won’t stop trembling, like my body hasn’t caught up to the numbness I’m trying to force on it.

When we head back inside, Char hovers restlessly while I return the cigarettes to the drawer and stuff the whiskey back into the cabinet.

“What do you need?” she asks, eyes wide and earnest. “Anything. Just tell me.”

I slide her a sideways glance, pressing my lips into a tight line. Unless she has a time machine, there’s nothing she can offer. “I just need to pass out,” I mumble.

She nods, giving me that pitying look I can’t stand– like she’s bracing for me to crack apart in front of her so she can help pick up the pieces.

That’s not my style. Nobody will ever see me break.

So, I turn on a heel and head for my room, slipping inside and closing the door behind me. My reflection in the mirror across from the bed stares back mercilessly as I peel off my dirty clothes and drop them in a heap on the floor.

Dark circles bruise the skin under my eyes, making them look hollow. My shoulder’s still swollen, an ugly blotch of purple blooming beneath the ink. My mom hates my tattoos, but I love them in a way I’ve never loved anything else. My sleeve, the pieces on my ribs, hips, thighs… each was chosen with care, every line committed to skin like a promise I made to myself.

Sometimes, I’m not even sure which part I love more– the sting of the needle or the finished art. Pain has always grounded me in a way nothing else can. Made me feel alive.

And danger… god, I inhale that like oxygen. The thrill, the knife’s edge, the spark that catches in my blood and makes everything come screaming into focus. It’s gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but I’ve always found a way to claw myself back out.

Until now.

Stepping into the en-suite, I turn on the shower and crank it all the way hot. Steam fogs the glass within seconds, curling thick around me as I step under the spray and let the water scald my raw skin. It feels good. Punishing. Honest in a way nothing else has been tonight.

But the second I close my eyes and try to let the heat burn the world away, the bunker’s fluorescent glare crashes back into my mind. Alpha’s cold expression, his enforcers’ hands shoving me forward to make a useless plea for my case…

Not a plea to Alpha, even. To his fucking lapdog, Commander Kane.

I’ve heard stories about Kane– everyone has– but I’d never seen the man up close before tonight. I guess I expected him to be meaner. Uglier, to fit the shadowy reputation that clings to his name. The ruthless efficiency, the unwavering obedience, the trail of broken wolves he’s dragged in for sentencing.

Instead, he’s a six-foot-six red flag that has absolutely no business looking as good as he does. Older, sure– old enough to be my father, technically– but with major daddy vibes. The inappropriate, infuriatingly sexy kind.

I bite back a groan, disgusted with myself for even letting the thought exist. Commander Kane is an asshole of the highest degree. A loyal enforcer; a weapon with a pulse. Exactly the kind of man who should repulse me.

And yet my body remembers the heat of him leaning in, the rough command in his voice that lit up every reckless, broken part of me. The darkness in his eyes and the absolute certainty in his hands when he popped my joint back into place. It sparks something low and dangerous inside me, heat tangling with shame.

My hand drifts down almost on instinct, fingers slipping between my thighs. A furious, helpless sound claws its way out of my throat.

Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?

I press harder, chasing something– release, distraction, oblivion– anything to drown out the wreckage of thought. The coil in my belly winds tighter, pressure building until it finally snaps in a wave of relief.

It’s over fast. Empty. Wrong.

I sag against the tile, water beating down on me as guilt and regret creep in like a slow, cold tide, filling the hollow places I keep trying to outrun.

This is all I’ve got.