Page 25 of Pistols & Peonies

Kane’s head tilts down, and I raise my knee, planting it firmly against his crotch.

“Don’t even think about it,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

His mouth twitches in amusement. “So violent,” he whispers back, slipping a hand around my nape and tugging me in until our noses brush.

I mean to pull back. I really, really do. But my wolf has other plans, and for one wild heartbeat, I want to see what happens if I don’t fight her.

So I don’t. I close the gap, just enough for our lips to brush– a brief, electric, almost-kiss that’s more promise than actual contact. The shock of it zips through me, lighting up every nerve in my body. A needy throb pulses in my core, thighs clenching together to dull the ache. Kane inhales sharply, his hand tightening at the back of my neck.

The whole world narrows to his mouth, the heat of his body against mine, and the silent, desperate hum of the bond between us.

Then the camera flashes, blinding and cold, the photographer losing his mind. “Yes! Oh my god, that’s it! You’re perfect. Alpha is gonna eat this up.”

Kane abruptly lets go of me, hands dropping to his sides like touching me burned him. I stumble back, heart slamming against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears. I turn away fast, hoping nobody notices the way my hands shake as I smooth the front of my dress.

“Are we done here?” I snap at the photographer.

He’s grinning down at his screen, clicking through the photos like he’s just unearthed the Holy Grail. “Absolutely! These are incredible. You two are iconic together.”

I don’t wait for a dismissal. Pivoting on a heel, I stalk across the room, my skin still buzzing with the ghost of Kane’s touch.

And for the first time all day, my wolf’s quiet, smugly satisfied with her small victory.

CHAPTER 10

Kane

My wolf is sick.

It’s the only explanation I can come up with for the way the last forty-eight hours have gone to absolute hell. I can’t sleep, can’t focus, can’t even settle into my own skin without feeling like I’m coming apart at the seams. I’ve spent the past two nights at my lake house, thinking distance would settle things. Let the mate bond recede, give my wolf a chance to cool off.

It hasn’t.

If anything, it’s gotten even worse.

I’ve been keeping to my routine. Waking early, working out, heading into the office to tackle whatever bullshit’s thrown at me for the day. Returning home, scrubbing away the scourge of the day with a scalding hot shower, then settling in for another sleepless night. Rinse and repeat.

Except this morning, my hands are shaking with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion I can no longer ignore, my vision sliding in and out of focus through my morning commute. I’d hoped being around other people would at least shame my body into pretending it’s functional, but as I stalk toward the elevator in the underground parking garage of the Tower, I’m hit with a sudden stab of pain in my temple that nearly takes me to my knees.

I can’t go on like this.

There’s something very, very wrong with me, and if I don’t find some way to get ahead of it, everything I have will be in jeopardy. The pack Commander can’t be caught showing signs of weakness. The other enforcers will pick up on it instantly, smell the blood in the water, and immediately start campaigning to become my replacement.

Not a fucking chance. I’ve worked too hard; sacrificed too much. I won’t let something as foolish as pride be my downfall.

So, when I step into the elevator, I don’t hit the button for the thirty-second floor and proceed to my office as normal. I punch the button for the fortieth– the medical floor.

The throbbing pain in my skull only increases as the elevator ascends, the numbers on the panel climbing. I steady myself with one hand on the wall, sinking the other in my hair and tugging. There better be some medical explanation for whatever affliction has taken root inside me. And there’d better be a damn cure.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, the smell of disinfectant hitting me instantly as I step into the gleaming white lobby. I typically try to steer clear of this floor of the Tower if I can help it. The sterility of this place hurts to look at– pale polished tile underfoot, white walls scrubbed clean. The only thing adorning them is a large wall-mounted screen that rotates through curated stock photos of tranquil forests, the scenes meant to be soothing.

They’re not.

The receptionist glances up from behind her desk, eyes widening when they meet mine. She immediately straightens, lips parting on a little gasp of surprise.

“Good morning, Commander Kane,” she breathes, voice pitched just a bit too high. “I didn’t have you on the books today, are you here for–”

“I need to see Dr. Aspen,” I growl, shoving my hands deep into my pockets as I stalk toward her desk.