Page 9 of Pistols & Peonies

This pointless high.

This desperate, stupid ache.

My knees buckle, and I slide down to the shower floor. The tile bites at my skin, the water scalds, but it all feels distant, like I’m watching someone else fall apart. I bury my face in my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as if pressure alone can keep me from splitting open entirely.

I should’ve stayed home.

Should’ve run faster.

The bottom hasn’t completely dropped out yet, but I can feel it coming. And maybe I can’t stop it, but I sure as hell won’t let it rewrite me.

I’m a fighter. They can force a bond, but they can’t force obedience. They can pair me, but I won’t be owned.

Whoever gets me as a mate is going to bleed for their mistake.

CHAPTER 4

Kane

The Tower is an ostentatious skyscraper of glass and steel; Alpha’s ego stamped into architecture. The sixty-four floor high-rise looms above the city as a constant reminder of the scale of his power, functioning as the headquarters for the Chicago pack. Most of it is luxury apartments reserved for those with rank, but a handful of floors are dedicated to things that keep the pack running– offices, medical facilities, and community recreational spaces.

I spend most of my days here in my office on the thirty-second floor, hunched over a desk doling out assignments to pack enforcers through our secured server. The Commander rank used to involve more boots on the ground and blood on my knuckles, but as technology has evolved, so have our operations. Now, it’s mostly screens and reports and digital oversight. All the same bureaucratic bullshit, just a lot less stimulating.

My brother claims it’s turning me into a recluse. He’s not entirely wrong, though he’d benefit from taking a page out of my book. Spending time behind a desk might actually keep him out of trouble for once.

Most wolves detest solitude. They thrive on social interaction, physical closeness, and the constant hum of pack life. They crave touch and chatter like oxygen.

I’ve never been wired that way. If anything, the older I get, the more I prefer my own company. Silence is predictable. Routine is clean and orderly. People aren’t.

I've successfully evaded any unnecessary chatter all day, and I'm two seconds from heading out when a new notification flashes across my monitor, summoning me to report to Alpha’s office.

I stare at it.

Consider ignoring it.

But dealing with Gage’s irritation later will be more of a hassle than talking to him now, so I shove back from my desk with a low groan and head that way, stalking down the hall.

His office door is, as always, unlocked and unguarded. It’s a territorial flex; a dare for someone to walk in and challenge him. No one’s ever been dumb enough to take him up on it.

He’s behind his desk when I enter, shoulders tight and head bent over a tablet. The glow from the screen cuts hard angles into his face, carving the shadows beneath his eyes even deeper than usual. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and from the annoyed furrow of his brow, whatever’s on that tablet is to blame.

“You wanted to see me?” I murmur, kicking the door shut behind me.

He doesn’t even glance up. Just flicks two fingers in my direction– come in, sit, wait– while his eyes stay locked on whatever corporate misery he’s scrolling through.

I drop into the chair across from him, slouching back and stretching my long legs out in front of me like I’ve got all the time in the damn world.

I don’t.

I’m running on fumes, but I’ve been summoned, so here I am.

He keeps scrolling. His jaw ticks with each swipe, the muscle twitching like an electrical pulse. Finally, he exhales through his nose, drags a hand down his face, and drops the tablet onto his desk with a thud.

“This Pairing is a headache,” he mutters.

“That implies there’s ever been one that wasn’t,” I snort.

He lifts his eyes and shoots me a look that’s a familiar blend of fuck you and fair point. “This one’s worse.”