Page 93 of Pistols & Peonies

“He seems nice,” I remark.

“Yeah.” Kane’s mouth curves faintly, fondness softening his features. “He’s alright.”

He moves past me, heading down the hall, and I turn to follow– but halfway through that first step, something shifts. Not a thought, exactly. More like a memory setting into alignment. What’s been tugging at me all evening finally slides into focus, the pieces clicking into place.

It isn’t just the resemblance to Kane. It isn’t even the familiarity of those eyes on their own. It’s the way he moved, the way he carried himself, that little nod of acknowledgement.

I’ve seen Whit before.

Not at a pack function, or in the crowd at Eclipse during a fight, or in passing on some downtown street– but in a warehouse on the wrong side of town, the night everything turned to shit. A balaclava obscured the lower half of his face, but the eyes were unmistakable.

Whit isn’t just Kane’s charming little brother.

He’s the mysterious masked leader of the resistance.

Whitaker Kane is Rogue.

The realization slams through me, crystallizing so sharply it steals the air from my lungs. It rearranges everything I thought I knew, unfolding piece by piece until there’s no room left for doubt.

I stare at Kane’s back as he walks down the hall, my pulse pounding so hard it feels like it might shake the walls. The house suddenly feels smaller, the air thinner.

He slows, then turns to glance back at me. Whatever’s written across my face makes his expression sharpen instantly, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“What?” he asks, voice low.

I open my mouth, then close it.

Does he know?

My mind’s spinning, trying to prove itself wrong, but I know what I saw. More than that, I feel it in my bones.

My mate is the lead enforcer of the pack, the man tasked with crushing dissent. His brother is the one orchestrating it.

Rebel and enforcer. Blood against blood.

Fuuuuuuck.

CHAPTER 30

Kane

I’m halfway down the hall when I realize Violet isn’t following. My steps slow as I glance back at her over my shoulder, and what I see is… unsettling, to say the least.

I’m an expert in body language at this point, and hers is screaming that something’s wrong. She’s standing there frozen, barely breathing, staring at me like she’s just seen a damn ghost.

“What?” I ask, my pulse kicking up a notch.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, her hands clenching at her sides. My inner wolf perks up, a strange sense of unease trickling in through the bond. There’s something shining in those wild blue eyes of hers that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago. Confusion and… fear?

The atmosphere shifts, tension suddenly tightening the air between us as I pivot to face her fully, advancing a step in her direction.

That’s when she seems to finally snap out of it. She blinks hard, shaking her head and forcing a hollow laugh.

“Nothing, just too much whiskey,” Violet says lightly. “I think I’m gonna…” she waves a hand in the vague direction of the living room, “sit down before my legs stop working.”

She’s lying. I’ve participated in enough interrogations over my decades-long career to recognize the way her inflection changed, the way she’s still breathing a little too fast.

I don’t call her on it. Not yet. Instead, I hold her gaze for a long moment, then jerk my chin toward the living room. “Sit down. I’ll get you some water.”