Page 98 of Pistols & Peonies

Or tired.

Or high on the smell of peonies and whatever chemical cocktail Kane uses to keep his floors so stupidly shiny.

But I didn’t imagine it– I know what I saw. Whit is Rogue.

The thought still hits like a brick to the sternum every time it surfaces. There’s no other explanation. The way he moved, the way he looked at me… he’s the masked man from that night in the warehouse. I’m sure of it.

The same one Kane has allegedly been hunting for the past six months.

I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do with this information. I wish I could tell Char, but the thought of her getting caught anywhere near the blast radius of this mess is even more terrifying than dealing with it alone.

The only reason I’m not still fused to my bed right now is because she called this afternoon and said we still needed to ‘debrief’ after the Gauntlet, and I couldn’t say no. So, I dragged myself out here to this loud, sticky-table patio bar where the margaritas are cheap and the salsa tastes like it came out of a jar. As soon as we sat down, Char ordered a pitcher and two baskets of chips like she was gearing up for a full interrogation, and for the last thirty minutes, she’s been grilling me like it’s her job.

“You’re doing it again,” Char groans, waving a hand in front of my face.

I blink and shake my head, forcing myself back into the moment. “Sorry.”

She leans forward, lowering her voice, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Seriously. What happened after the Gauntlet? Did Kane freak out about the fight? Did he punish you or something?” Her eyes widen, the drama queen in her already revving up. “Wait– is it something freaky? Are you traumatized? Did he–”

“It’s nothing like that,” I cut in, maybe a little too sharply.

A couple at the next table glance over before quickly looking away again.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “It’s just… it was a long night.” I roll my lower lip between my teeth. “Two long nights, actually.”

Char spears a lime wedge with her straw and starts tearing it apart, the pulp shredding under the plastic tip. “Did you two, like, have a blowout fight or something?”

“Not exactly.” I reach for my margarita– mostly melted at this point– and take a big enough sip to send a sharp brain-freeze stabbing behind my eyes. The alcohol doesn’t help, but it buys me a second to figure out what I’m actually willing to say out loud. “The trip to the lake house was… intense.”

She perks up immediately. “Intense how?”

I squint down into my drink, trying to distill the last twenty-four hours into something that won’t send Char into full investigative journalist mode. “It was just weird seeing him outside the city, you know?” I say finally. “He’s… not who I thought he was.”

“You mean he doesn’t sleep in his tactical boots and bark orders at random wildlife?” Char snorts.

“Actually, he does,” I joke, managing a half smile. “But he also buys, like, a dozen vases of peonies because he misses me when I’m gone.”

Char stops shredding the lime wedge, her whole expression softening. “That’s… weirdly sweet.”

“Yeah.” I swirl my straw around the glass, watching the half-melted ice orbit lazily around the rim. “That’s the problem.”

She props her chin on her hand and studies me like I’m some newly discovered species. “You do realize you just said that out loud, right?”

I glare at her. “Don’t make it a thing.”

She holds up both hands in surrender. “No judgment! I just never thought I’d see the day where you were, like, genuinely confused about a guy being nice to you.”

“It’s not about him being nice,” I mutter, my voice dropping. “He’s not. It’s about… I don’t know. Not knowing what’s real anymore.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Uh, is this about the fight? Or did you guys get into it about the pack stuff again?”

“Both, I guess.” I avoid her eyes, chewing on the end of my straw like I might be able to bite the truth back down where it belongs. “There’s a lot I’m trying to figure out.”

Char lets the silence stretch for a moment, the noise of the patio filling the space it leaves– traffic humming past, glasses clinking, someone at the bar laughing too loudly. Then she reaches over, squeezing my arm.

“If you need to talk, you know you can, right? Even if it’s just to bitch about him.”

I nod, feeling grateful and guilty at the same time. “I know.”