Page 23 of Pistols & Peonies

“So I’ve heard,” I murmur, not bothering to take another look in the mirror. “Nothing says ‘girl next door’ like a face made for cutting glass.”

They both laugh again. At least they’re easily entertained.

After a few finishing touches– one more sweep of a makeup brush, a last wisp of hairspray– they exit the room, leaving me to get changed.

I ease out of the swivel chair and cross the room to retrieve the garment bag I brought along. My assigned wardrobe for this photoshoot from hell, delivered to Kane’s apartment yesterday. The dress inside is a pale, slinky thing that clings in all the right places when I slip it on. From the deep v-neck to the high slit and low back, there’s enough implied nudity to make my mother spontaneously combust.

I want to hate it, but I kinda love it.

When I turn to the mirror and fully assess my reflection, my heart skips a beat. The dark circles are gone. My hair is thick and shiny, falling in waves over my shoulders. And the best part? My tattoos– usually the first thing anyone notices– are artfully exposed, not hidden.

I still look like me, but the best possible version of myself. The version I’ve always strived for. I have to blink hard to keep the prick of emotion from making my perfectly lined eyes water, drawing a deep breath to steel my nerves.

I shouldn’t be nervous about this stupid photo session. It’s just a means to an end; a silly PR stunt to convince the pack this mate bond actually means something. But just being in the same room as Kane is enough to knock me off kilter, and adding a camera into the mix feels like a recipe for disaster.

My stomach curls in on itself as I cross the room to the door on the opposite side; the one the makeup artist instructed me to walk through after getting dressed. I do my best to steady myself as I reach for the handle, but my fingers tremble anyway when I grip on and push through.

The room beyond is enormous and blindingly white, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides that bathe the entire space in sunlight. It’s the kind of bright that makes every flaw stand out and every secret impossible to hide, the skyline stretching out below like a glittering, endless sea.

Kane’s already here.

He’s standing near the windows, gazing out over the city with his hands shoved in the pockets of a charcoal suit. There’s something about seeing him out of his usual black enforcer attire that throws me. The man always looks like he’s carved from stone, but Kane in a suit is a whole different flavor of intimidating. Less soldier, more apex predator on his day off.

He glances over his shoulder in my direction, our eyes locking instantly. My pulse kicks up, hard and fast. I swear the room shrinks.

That suit does horrible things to my resolve. So does the fact that he looks like he hasn’t slept, either. His brow is deeply furrowed, shoulders tense, a shadow of last night’s fury still lingering in the tight set of his jaw.

His dark-eyed gaze is laser-focused as it sweeps over my figure, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of me in one go. His wolf flashes gold in his eyes– just for a second, but I feel it like a punch to the ribs. My own surges forward in response and I quickly avert my eyes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react, hoping he can’t see the flush I feel crawling up my neck.

He turns to fully face me, slow and deliberate, like every move is calculated to make me unravel. For a second, we just stare at each other, neither willing to break the silence.

“Nice dress,” he says finally, voice low and rough.

I arch a brow. “Nice suit.”

His mouth twitches at the corner– the barest hint of a smile, gone as quickly as it appeared.

I take a few steps forward and fold my arms over my chest, careful not to crease the fabric of my dress. The wolf inside me is practically vibrating, equal parts furious and desperate, but I keep her locked down tight. I can’t afford to let her push too close to the surface; not with her ridiculous fixation on the man standing ten feet away. If I let her, she’d burst right through my skin, tackle him to the ground, and start licking his face.

It is a nice face, though.

Rugged. Handsome. All hard lines and masculine angles. He’s clean-shaven today, but it almost reads as too clean. I kinda miss the rough layer of stubble.

Our eyes stay locked, even as I hear a door open behind me and the sound of approaching footsteps. The photographer appears with an armful of camera gear, beaming at us like we’re the happiest couple in the city.

“Wow, you two look incredible together,” he gushes, barely containing his glee. “This is going to be epic. Are you ready to get started?”

Kane just keeps staring straight through my soul, not even acknowledging the poor guy’s presence.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I grumble, breaking our staring contest and spinning to face the photographer. “Where do you want us?”

His grin widens.

This guy clearly sucks at reading the room.

While he gets all set up, I fidget and try my best to avoid glancing in Kane’s direction… which is easier said than done. This bond between us is an all-consuming force of nature that draws me to him like gravity. I swear it’s physically painful to fight it; to remain in place rather than crossing the room and falling into his arms.

As soon as the photographer finishes prepping, that’s exactly what he instructs me to do.