Page 28 of Pistols & Peonies

Scattered throughout the article are pictures from our photoshoot– me in that fucking suit, Violet in that dress that tested every ounce of my restraint. I pause on one of them, clocking the tightness in my jaw, the way I’m staring at Violet like she’s the last scrap of meat in a starving world. She’s smirking back at me, raven hair loose around her face, blue eyes bright.

Well, shit. Either they photoshopped the hell out of this, or the chemistry between us is that real. We look like we’re seconds away from tearing off each other’s clothes.

Or tearing out each other’s throats.

I click the screen off, shoving my phone back into my pocket and continuing down the hall as my wolf scrapes against my insides.

Whatever this is, I won’t let it win. I’ll either kill it dead or burn out trying.

My inner beast continues pacing restlessly in my chest as I hit the lobby and summon the elevator, hoping like hell that whatever Dr. Aspen gave me will start working soon. My phone buzzes again as it arrives, and I slip it out of my pocket as I step inside, leaning back against the cool mirrored wall to read the notification on the screen.

It’s a text message. And not just any message– it’s the first one I’ve ever received from this number, though it’s been saved in my phone since the morning after the Pairing.

Violet.

I was able to find her number easily enough through the pack’s database, and I left mine for her on a scrap of paper the last time I was at the apartment, just in case she ever needed to contact me for anything.

My thumb moves to open the message before my brain can even catch up. It’s a screenshot of the press release, followed by a text.

Three words. All caps.

Violet

WHAT THE FUCK?!

CHAPTER 11

Violet

This press release is a masterclass in psychological warfare.

I hate everything about it, and yet here I am reading it for the fifth fucking time, thumb scrolling with a fury that threatens to shatter my phone screen. Each word is a fresh insult– the careful spin, the manufactured sincerity, the outright lies. According to Alpha’s PR team, I was ‘eager’ to enter the Pairing ceremony and ‘over the moon’ when I was matched with Commander Kane. There’s even a quote from me– fabricated, obviously– about how lucky I feel to be mated to such a strong, respected pillar of our pack.

I almost want to laugh.

Instead, my stomach lurches with something between rage and physical nausea, curling in on itself.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. I honestly can’t remember the last time I slept for real. Every time I close my eyes, I get trapped in that miserable limbo between rest and wakefulness that leaves me feeling worse than before. My head pounds. My eyes burn. My body feels so heavy I’ve basically fused with the couch. All I’ve got energy for is the endless swipe of my thumb and the constant, involuntary curl of my lip as I read.

The worst part about this damn article is how it’s completely scrubbed away my identity. I’m no longer the ungovernable disaster my mother raised, nor the suspected rebel who was captured and sentenced. I’ve been repackaged into something more palatable for mass consumption– reduced to nothing more than Commander Kane’s shiny new mate.

I hate how good we look together. How natural it looks for his hand to be curled around my waist, my chest pressed tightly against his. My eyes are too bright, my smile too effortless. Meanwhile, Kane’s all predatory intent and ice-veined restraint, dark eyes locked on me with a focus so intense it borders on obscene. Like the photographer interrupted a private, intimate moment between us rather than staging every pose.

I hate it.

Hate him.

Hate that he hasn’t even bothered to answer my text.

I swipe over to my messages, just to confirm for the tenth time that no response has come through. It hasn’t. The bastard is probably ignoring me on purpose.

So, I fire off another message. Because I can’t fucking help myself.

You alive, or did you choke to death on the lies in this article?

I hit send, then immediately regret it. Now he’ll know how much I’ve been obsessing over this; how I’ve been sitting here thinking about him nonstop. I curl deeper into the couch, covering my face with the throw pillow.

I’m so tired that my bones feel hollow, but the second I close my eyes, that photo burns behind them. Kane’s hands on my body, my lips parted, both of us looking seconds from giving into the heat between us.