Page 10 of Pistols & Peonies

I arch a brow, not asking, just giving him the floor if he wants it. Unfortunately, part of my job is listening to him bitch about pack logistics. He’s always been the talker between us.

Gage scrubs a hand across the back of his neck– one of his few genuine tells. He only does that when he’s actually annoyed, not just projecting the usual Alpha posturing crap. “The applications are imbalanced,” he murmurs, nudging the tablet toward me. “Too many males applied. Female applications hit a record low.”

“Then push some males to next quarter,” I say blandly, picking up the tablet and glancing down at the screen. “Seems simple.”

“This has been a trend all year,” he growls, stabbing his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “Every round, fewer females apply. If it’s this bad now, it’ll be worse next quarter. We can’t afford to keep pushing off the problem.”

I nod slowly, my brain already cataloguing the statistics to come up with a solution.

The Pairing is a reward system– a perk that keeps pack members motivated to train, serve, and excel. Only ranked males are eligible to be paired with a mate from the applicant pool, while any female can apply to be paired, regardless of status. Most of them are drawn in by the security and elevated status that comes with being mated to someone who holds rank. It’s a delicate ecosystem; an engineered balance. And an effective one… until the numbers stop adding up.

If there aren’t enough females to go around, fewer males will bother pushing for rank. That means fewer soldiers, more slack, less discipline. Restlessness curdling into resentment, bruised egos turning into challenges. Destabilization of the hierarchy.

Yeah, I see the problem.

“Well, you got three freebies with the rebel raid,” I mutter, recalling the sentences he handed down at the bunker a couple weeks back. All the females who were given the choice between entering the Pairing or joining the Reapers chose the Pairing. Not exactly shocking. Being stuck with a stranger for a mate is still better than running suicide missions with the scourges of society.

“Not enough,” he grunts. “Any leads on the rebels reconvening in the next month?”

“No.”

He heaves a sigh. “That’s a shame. Could’ve turned this around.”

I don’t react, even as my wolf prickles underneath my skin. My expression remains neutral as I refocus on the tablet. The program interface is clean, each applicant profile containing images and basic stats. “Just dole out by rank,” I murmur, swiping.

“If only it were that simple,” he grumbles. “Too many low and mid-rank applicants. They all expect to be rewarded for their service.”

I swipe again, a familiar face stopping me cold.

Violet Slayter.

She’s not smiling in the photo, but she isn’t scowling, either. It’s that deliberate, unreadable middle ground– jaw set, chin tilted slightly, gaze steady and unyielding. Guarded and vaguely defiant, like she’s daring whoever’s looking to underestimate her so she can enjoy proving them wrong.

Her eyes are what hold me there. They’re too blue. Too bright. Too damn alive.

Something electric slides down my spine, my wolf shifting beneath my skin– alert, curious, and interested in a way that pisses me off immediately.

I must be staring too long, because Gage leans forward to glance at the screen.

“Ah,” he remarks. “That one’s giving me the biggest headache of all.”

I flick my gaze up to meet his, schooling my expression into one of bored neutrality.

“Almost every male has requested her,” he continues. “Even with her record. I mean, just look at her.”

I shouldn’t, but my eyes drop back to the tablet anyway.

She really is something. Not merely pretty, but gorgeous in a way that’s hard to ignore, eyes wild with the kind of challenge most wolves find irresistible. It’s no surprise she’s in high demand.

“So just pick whoever has the highest rank,” I say flatly as I hand the tablet back. “Nobody can argue with that.”

“Sure,” he scoffs, “except there are three with the exact same rank who want her. I pick one, I piss off the other two and look like I’m playing favorites.” He scrubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through in a way he usually conceals. Then, offhandedly, he adds, “You could save me the trouble and take her for yourself.”

A sharp laugh escapes me, devoid of anything resembling humor. “No thanks.”

“Why not?” he pushes. “You’d do well to take on a mate. You’re getting up there in years…”

“Speak for yourself, old man,” I snort.