Page 110 of Pistols & Peonies

“Was any of that real?” he asks, voice a low rumble against my cheek.

I know what he’s asking. Not about the sex, but the fight that led to it. I nuzzle into his neck, refusing to answer.

He huffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

We lie there, letting the quiet fill in around us, the world shrinking to the soft hush of our breath and the hard, unyielding line of his body against mine.

After a while, I murmur, “If you want me to show up at that run and act like a model mate, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

He smirks, brushing his thumb over the curve of my hip. “I don’t really care about the politics. I just want you there beside me.”

I grunt– not quite a yes, but not a no, either.

He threads his fingers through my hair. “How about we make a deal?”

I prop my chin on his chest, eyeing him warily. “What kind of deal?”

“Just come with me. You don’t have to put on a show or play nice for anyone.” He pauses, tracing the lines of ink down my bicep. “And in return, we spend the whole weekend right here. No politics, no bullshit. No interruptions.”

I pretend to consider it, but the thought of spending the next two days locked away, nothing but sweat and skin and the slow burn of our bodies, has me nodding before I can help it.

“Fine,” I sigh, rolling my eyes. “But only if you buy my cereal again.”

He grins, white teeth gleaming in the dark. “Deal.”

We settle back into the mattress, my head on his chest, his heart pounding steady beneath my ear.

I should probably be pissed about how easily he just manipulated me into doing what he wants, but the truth is, I like how it feels to be wanted by him. Even if it means giving up a little ground now and then.

Especially if it means this.

After a while, the silence grows comfortable again. I drift on the edge of sleep, his hand warm and heavy on my back, the lingering ache of his palm on my ass a reminder of exactly who I belong to. And for the first time, belonging to someone doesn’t feel scary or stifling. Because it’s him.

And just as much as I’m his, he’s mine.

CHAPTER 35

Violet

Morning at the lake house looks deceptively normal. Sunlight spills through the windows, painting everything gold while I perch on a stool at the kitchen island, shoveling Lucky Charms into my mouth like it’s my goddamn job. Kane leans against the opposite counter, sipping his coffee and watching me over the rim of his mug with thinly-veiled judgment, like my choice of breakfast is a personal affront.

We’re both acting like this is any other day.

Like nothing shifted between us last night after that brawl.

But it did.

I feel it in every lingering glance, in the quiet stretches between words, in everything we’re deliberately not saying.

My phone vibrates against the quartz countertop. I glance down, see my mom’s name on the screen, and immediately look away, shoving another spoonful of cereal into my mouth.

Kane’s gaze lingers on the phone for a beat before lifting to meet mine, one brow lifting. “Aren’t you gonna get that?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Could be important.”

“It’s never important,” I snort. “She probably just wants to check if I’ve chased you off yet. Or judge me about something I’ve done that she’s heard about through the grapevine. Dealer’s choice.”