Page 90 of Pistols & Peonies

Whit throws his head back and laughs like he’s just been handed the exact reaction he was hoping for.

The difference between them is striking. They may share bone structure and blood, but I swear I’ve seen Whit smile more in the last two minutes than I’ve ever seen his brother attempt it. And his laugh is so warm and bright, the kind that makes you want to join in whether you mean to or not.

Whit holds his arms open, waiting, and I slowly rise. Refusing would be weird at this point, so I let him pull me in for a hug. His body’s familiar in shape but not feel, his scent a little bit like Kane’s but far less intoxicating.

Less mine.

The embrace is brief and warm, lasting half a second before Kane rounds the counter and physically extracts me from his brother’s arms, tucking me firmly against his side. I try not to smile at the gesture, but it creeps up anyways.

Whit snorts, eyes flicking up to his brother. “Possessive much?” he teases, arching a dark brow.

Kane doesn’t rise to it. “Whit, this is my mate, Violet,” he says flatly. “Violet, this is my annoying little brother, Whit.”

Whit chuckles and extends his hand properly this time. “Nice to finally meet you, Violet,” he croons. “Dare’s been hiding you away like a secret. Total dick move.”

It’s strange enough hearing Kane called by his first name, but a shortened version of it is even more jarring.

“Some of us value our privacy,” Kane mutters, his arm tightening subtly around my waist.

“Or,” Whit counters smoothly, shooting me a conspiratorial wink, “you just want to keep her all to yourself.”

Heat flickers low in my stomach at the suggestion.

Whit steps over to the whiskey decanter, picking it up and inspecting the amber liquid. “This the good stuff?”

“Wouldn’t waste the good stuff on you,” Kane replies, but there’s no real bite behind it. He grabs another glass and slides it over to his brother without hesitation.

This must be their rhythm– insult as affection. Challenge as bonding.

Whit fills his glass, then leans back against the counter, turning his attention back on me. “So,” he says, taking a slow sip. “How’s my big brother treating you?”

“Like a hostile witness, most days,” I reply dryly. “The rest of the time, he’s like a dog guarding a bone.”

Whit chokes on his drink, coughing once before bursting into laughter so loud it echoes off the high ceilings. “You’re perfect,” he declares, grinning wide. “Seriously, where have you been all my life?”

“That’s enough,” Kane growls. It sounds like a warning, but Whit only grins wider, like he’s enjoying getting under his brother’s skin.

Looks like we already have something in common.

The air between them tightens as they hold each other’s gaze– not hostile, exactly, but charged, nonetheless. There’s a certain current running between them, the kind I imagine you only get with siblings. An innate sort of understanding that doesn’t need words because it’s been forged over decades of inside jokes, fights, and loyalty.

It’s fascinating.

I find myself watching them like a nature documentary, studying the dynamics, waiting for the next move.

“Come to my office for a minute,” Kane murmurs to his brother, jerking his chin toward the hallway, then starting down it. “Got something to show you.”

Whit slugs back the last of his whiskey before following, clapping me lightly on the shoulder as he passes. “Be right back, gorgeous.”

Kane glares back at him over his shoulder, then shifts his gaze to me. “Can you check the lasagna?” he calls, almost as an afterthought.

“Sure,” I reply, even though we both know it’s been done for the better part of an hour and doesn’t require any checking at all.

The message is clear: he wants privacy.

Fine by me.

Whit casually slings an arm over Kane’s shoulders as they head down the hall, and that’s when I see the shift in him. Kane’s posture loosens, his shoulders drop. The tension that usually coils through him like barbed wire softens into something almost… normal.