Page 111 of Pistols & Peonies

His eyes flick between me and the phone again, something shifting in his expression. “You’ll miss it when it’s gone,” he murmurs, voice low.

The air in the room thickens instantly.

For a second, I have no idea how to respond– so I just stare down into my bowl, watching a soggy horseshoe marshmallow spin in slow circles through the milk. My stomach twists, and I set my spoon down, stiffening in my seat and forcing myself to look at him.

“Were you close with your parents?” I ask, part curiosity and part desperation to steer the conversation away from my own mess. Also partly because I realize that I don’t actually know. Beyond him mentioning that they died, he hasn’t talked about them.

Kane jerks a nod, eyes going distant for a moment before snapping back into that default, controlled intensity. “Yeah.”

I wait.

He’s not exactly big on volunteering information, but he should know by now that the more he dodges, the more I’ll keep coming at him until he caves. It’s a fun little game we’ve played before, and one I’ve gotten pretty good at winning.

“Tell me about them,” I say, tilting my head. “I mean, if you want.”

He stares into his coffee for a beat, then sets the mug down on the counter beside him, folding his arms like he’s bracing himself. “My dad was quiet,” he starts, lips pressing into a thin line. “Responsible. By the book.”

I snort a laugh. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He considers that, then gives a small nod. “Yeah. I guess so. He liked rules, liked everything a certain way.” His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile. “Unlike my mom. She was the fun one. Same kind of free spirit Whit has, just less intense. She used to let us play hooky from school, spend the whole day doing whatever the hell we wanted, then bribe us with ice cream on the way home so we wouldn’t tell our dad.” A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “She was easy with us, but when it came to pack business, it was a different story. From what I’ve heard, the enforcers got a completely different version of her than we did at home.”

“Really?” I ask, trying to imagine someone like him being raised by a woman who loved breaking the rules.

He nods, picking up his coffee mug again. He takes a long sip, going somewhere else in his mind for a moment as my eyes trace the bulging veins in his forearms.

“What happened to them?” I ask quietly. “I mean, I know they were killed. But how?”

He lowers the mug slowly, his gaze settling on me. He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches so long that I start to think he’s going to shut it down– deflect, tell me to drop it, redirect like he usually does when things get too raw.

Instead, he exhales, like he’s used up all his resistance and is finally willing to roll over and show me his soft underbelly.

“Protection detail gone bad,” he replies flatly. “They rarely took assignments together, but it was a last-minute call. Some weapons exchange with a new associate who wasn’t properly vetted.” He pauses, jaw tightening. “Definitely not something worth dying for,” he adds. “But guns were pulled, and nobody walked out alive.”

My gut twists, my throat going dry and scratchy. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

He shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it any less awful.”

He glances at me over the rim of his mug. “No,” he agrees quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He looks away first, and I drop my gaze back to my bowl, picking up my spoon again and dunking it into the milk just to busy my hands.

I used to think Kane’s obsessive need to control everything came from ego or arrogance, but now… it seems more like armor. Something built out of loss and sharpened over time, designed to keep everything that matters from slipping through his fingers again. To protect the people he cares about so he doesn’t lose them.

I, on the other hand, haven’t ever had anyone to protect… except myself, from my mother’s constant disapproval.

“So you think I’m being cruel to my mom by shutting her out,” I murmur, swirling the marshmallows through the milk.

“I don’t think you’re cruel,” he says. “But you seem… angry.”

I bark a hollow laugh. “You’ve seen me angry, Commander. That’s not it.” I look up at him. “Like I’ve told you before, my relationship with my mom is complicated.”

He arches a brow, a silent signal to go on.

“She’s never been the loving, maternal type,” I continue, sighing. “For her, everything’s about optics– how things look, how people perceive her. She only calls to tell me I’ve done something wrong, or to remind me how I still haven’t turned into the daughter she wanted.”

“Does she actually say that?” he asks, his grip tightening around the coffee mug, voice dropping dangerously low.