Page 89 of Pistols & Peonies

Kane followed me inside after our swim, water still dripping from his hair, eyes dark and intent. He didn’t say a word– just backed me against the wall and kissed me breathless. Two hours later, I was shaky-kneed and wrung out, every inch of me marked by his mouth and hands. By the time I stumbled into the bathroom and caught my reflection in the mirror, I looked like I’d spent the afternoon wrestling a grizzly bear. Which, I guess, isn’t that far off.

I scrubbed myself clean, but I still feel him all over me. On my lips, between my thighs. In the ache of muscles that shouldn’t still be sore and absolutely are.

Now I’m standing in the kitchen in last night’s outfit– black leather pants and a cropped tank– which was fierce for Eclipse Underground but seems wildly inappropriate for a family dinner.

It’s not like I had options. All of my things are back at the apartment, so it was either this or something of Kane’s, which would scream exactly what I’ve been up to all afternoon. And if Whit is even half as tight-laced as his brother, I doubt he’ll be charmed by me sitting across from him looking freshly fucked.

Kane didn’t seem bothered by my outfit choice when I emerged from the bedroom. If anything, his dark-eyed gaze raked over my body in a way that said he was half tempted to drag me right back inside. I might’ve let him if I wasn’t so annoyed by how unfairly good he looks without even trying– because of course he somehow makes black slacks and a fitted grey t-shirt look like high fashion. I’m almost positive it’s the same shirt I was wearing earlier, and it’s pretty fucking rude that he looks better in it than me.

Whit was supposed to arrive at eight. It’s now eight-thirty, and there’s still no sign of him.

Kane doesn’t appear particularly concerned. The frozen lasagna he shoved into the oven earlier is finished, sitting on warm, and he’s got a glass of whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling idly like this is any other night. I’m perched on a stool at the kitchen island with my own glass in hand, trying to pretend like I’m not slowly unraveling across from him.

“Are you sure he’s even coming?” I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“He’ll be here,” Kane mutters, swiping his screen dark and slipping the phone into his pocket. “Whit’s never on time for shit.”

I nod slowly, taking another sip from my glass. The whiskey is finally starting to dull the edges of my nerves, but not nearly enough.

The house is so damn quiet. Every small noise– the hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the oven– feels amplified in the silence. The windows are dark now, the last of the sunset gone, and though my reflection in the glass looks composed, I feel anything but. My palms are clammy, my pulse is racing, and I wish Kane’s elusive brother would just show the hell up already and get this over with.

When the knock finally comes, it’s so abrupt that I nearly fumble my drink, my head snapping toward Kane. The front door opens before either of us moves.

“Big brother!” a voice calls down the hallway. It’s bright, warm, and entirely too cheerful for this house.

Kane’s expression shifts, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that looks suspiciously like a smile trying to break free. “In the kitchen!” he calls back.

Boots thud against the hardwood in a confident stride, and I look toward the hall, bracing myself. When Whit appears, my brain short-circuits– because he looks so much like Kane that it’s almost disorienting.

He’s got the same thick dark hair, slightly tousled in a way that looks accidental and absolutely isn’t. Same tall, broad build; same harsh jawline. Same eyes– dark, assessing, and a little dangerous. But where Kane radiates lethal calm, Whit is all expression and movement.

He’s younger than I expected. Late twenties, maybe, wearing faded jeans and a dark hoodie. There’s a dimple at the edge of his mouth, and he wields it like a weapon the moment our eyes lock.

“Hello again,” he greets, like we’re picking up a conversation we never finished.

I cock my head, brows lifting. “Again?”

I’m positive we’ve never met, but he feels familiar. Too familiar.

For one horrifying second, my mind spins out. Did we hook up once? Some drunken night after a fight? Did I stumble into him in a bar and forget?

Oh god.

Please don’t let this be one of those stories…

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Sorry, it’s just…” He gestures vaguely toward me. “I feel like I already know you. From the pictures.”

My pulse stumbles.

Of course.

That fucking press release.

Heat crawls up my neck as I swallow a relieved laugh and toss my hair over a shoulder. “The pictures don’t do me justice,” I say lightly.

“I’ll say.” He closes the distance between us in three long strides, then stops short, his curious gaze drifting over me. “Do I get a hug, or do I need to win you over first?”

Kane glowers from the other side of the kitchen island. “Watch it, Whit.”