Page 38 of Pistols & Peonies

She grins. “Worth it if the guy looks like him. Sacrifices have to be made.”

I huff a laugh, but my fingers curl tighter in my lap, nerves buzzing faintly beneath my skin as Char signals and turns down a narrower street. The buildings crowd closer here, brick and concrete pressing in.

Almost there.

“Speaking of sacrifices,” Char says lightly, a sly note creeping into her voice. “Have you considered how you could use this pairing to your advantage?”

I shoot her a look.

“I’m just saying,” she presses. “It could be useful to the resistance…”

“What, you want me to spy on him?” I scoff sarcastically.

The look she gives me tells me she isn’t joking. “Not spy, exactly,” she replies slowly. “But, like, if you overhear something. You’re inside now, Vi. That kind of access doesn’t come around often. Anything could help the cause.”

“The cause,” I repeat dryly, the words tasting sour on my tongue.

“Just saying,” she adds, softer. “Could be a game changer.”

I turn my face toward the window, jaw tightening as the city blurs past. “No thanks. The last time I got involved with the ‘cause’, I ended up sentenced to a life of forced mating and smiling for cameras like a fucking mascot.” I exhale through my nose. “I won’t be hopping on the rebel train again anytime soon.”

She winces, guilt flickering across her features. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“It is what it is,” I mutter. “But I’ll stick to rebelling in my own way from now on.” I glance over at her, the corner of my mouth tipping up. “Like tonight.”

Her lips spread into a grin, sharp and knowing. “Hell yeah, babe. Tonight’s gonna be legendary.”

We fall quiet again as the city shifts around us. The farther we get from downtown, the uglier it becomes. Bright lights give way to flickering streetlamps, cracked sidewalks, and boarded-up storefronts with faded signage. This part of the city exists in a kind of permanent dusk– never fully asleep, never quite alive.

Char slows as she turns onto a one-way street a few blocks from our destination. “Keep an eye out for spots,” she murmurs.

I lean forward in my seat, scanning the curb. Cars are wedged in tight, bumper to bumper, mirrors folded in. Parking’s always a nightmare in the city, but out here on the fringes, it’s a full-contact sport.

“There,” I breathe, pointing to a narrow gap up ahead. “Think you can fit?”

“That’s what she said,” she snorts as she hits the brakes.

I roll my eyes, unfastening my seatbelt while she works the wheel, easing in inch by painstaking inch. It takes some maneuvering and a little muttered swearing, but she gets the car into the spot without kissing either bumper.

We climb out onto the sidewalk, the night air heavy and thick with the scent of an impending storm. I tug my jacket tighter around me as we start toward the block ahead, my pulse ticking faster with every step.

Just anticipation. Routine nerves. Nothing more.

Eclipse nightclub looms two blocks up, its windows blacked out, the kind of place that pretends not to exist unless you already know better. It’s shifter-owned, but humans are welcome since their money spends the same. A line wraps around the building– girls in dresses so tight they may as well be painted on, men posturing and preening while trying way too hard to look cool. A bouncer is positioned at the entrance behind a velvet rope, looking both intimidating as hell and bored out of his skull.

We bypass the line and walk straight up to him, his boredom evaporating as recognition sparks in his eyes. “Ladies,” he greets, already unclipping the rope. “Looking gorgeous tonight, as always. Go on in.”

Char beams him a smile as we slide past, ignoring the muttered curses and dirty looks burning into our backs. These people have no idea why we’re being waved through while they’re stuck waiting. They don’t even know shifters exist at all. And I can’t help but savor the small, private thrill of being on the inside of Chicago’s best-kept secret.

The interior of the club is an immediate sensory overload. Strobe lights slice through the haze, bodies grind on the dance floor, sweat and pheromones saturate the air. Music shakes the floorboards and the inside of my chest, a bass-heavy thump that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

Charlotte makes a beeline for the bar, shouldering her way through the masses to order us each a shot. The bartender– a guy with tattoos blazing up his neck and the shoulders of a pro linebacker– pours them with a heavy hand.

“You working or playing tonight?” he asks me, voice low and smile wicked.

I smirk back at him. “Bit of both.”

“Atta girl,” he chuckles, sliding the glass toward me with a wink. “I’ll be down to watch.”