Page 4 of Pistols & Peonies

Alpha Gage stands at the base of the platform, one boot propped on the lowest step as he holds court with two of his enforcers. He glances up when I enter, gaze sharp and calculating.

“Kane,” he greets with a dip of his chin. “About time.”

“Apologies,” I say flatly. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

The other enforcers back away as I approach and slap my hand into his, shaking firmly.

“Wouldn’t be an issue if you stayed at the Tower full time,” Alpha reminds me.

I smile without warmth. “Good thing the rebels will be reluctant to regroup for a while after this raid, then.”

He frowns– subtle, but unmistakably displeased. The man can’t stand things he can’t control. When I was promoted to Commander, I insisted on keeping a private residence outside the city limits so I’d have somewhere to go to escape the noise. He’s regretted agreeing to it ever since. I regret not pushing for more time off, so I guess we’re even.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” he mutters, turning to mount the platform and take his seat. He pops open the button of his suit coat and reclines back like a king on a throne, swiping a hand over his chin and signaling toward the guard at the door. “Bring in the first.”

I take my position in front of the platform, Frazier at my side. He pulls up the file for the first detainee on his tablet and hands it over, my gaze dropping to skim the text.

Patrick Higgins, twenty-nine years old. No rank, no mate. Accountant by day, and evidently a rebel by night.

The door opens, and two guards drag the man in. There’s blood on his shirt from a split lip, the wolfsbane in his system stifling his shifter healing. Nasty stuff, but it subdues the threat of violence. They march him forward, release him, and step back.

I skim the rest of his file before looking up. “The floor is yours, Mr. Higgins. You know why you’re here. Anything to say for yourself?”

He slowly lifts his head and snarls, “Fuck you.”

Alpha leans back with a low chuckle, entertained.

“You’ve been charged with conspiracy to commit sedition,” I continue, getting straight to the point rather than indulging Alpha’s tendency for theatrics. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” he barks, spitting a glob of blood onto the concrete. “Last I checked, meeting up with friends wasn’t a punishable offense.”

“It is if you’re meeting to plan an insurrection,” I reply bluntly. “If you were smart, you’d give up your co-conspirators in exchange for leniency.”

“Go to hell,” he growls.

“Reaper Block it is,” Alpha murmurs, already bored. “Next.”

The guards haul him out, less gently than before. Alpha watches on, eyes bright with that unsettling hunger for violence he tries to mask as authority.

The next three cases are much like the first. They refuse to talk, sentences are handed down, and they’re dragged away.

Justice by assembly line.

Then it’s the blue-eyed girl. Violet Slayter, according to her file.

Her beauty is arresting– it almost feels wrong in a place like this. Dewy olive skin, long midnight hair, full lips. Cheekbones that could cut glass. She walks in with the same level of insolence she flaunted in the hall, her chin lifted, gaze sharp and unyielding. If she’s scared, it doesn’t show– which means she’s either infuriatingly fearless or just plain stupid.

Her bravado splinters the second the guards shove her forward. A pained whimper slips out, and she bites her lip hard to muffle the sound.

She’s injured.

My eyes skim her frame, instantly clocking the tilt to her stance.

Left shoulder. Dislocated, judging by the angle.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” I demand, breaking protocol before the thought fully forms.

Her eyes snap to mine. “One of your goons manhandled me,” she grits out, forcing her posture straighter. “I’d like to file a formal complaint.”