Page 40 of Pistols & Peonies

The soft protest of the front door’s hinges, followed by the hush of footsteps crossing hardwood.

My chest tightens instantly, like an invisible wire has been pulled taut straight through my ribs. The bond hums, and my wolf goes dead silent– not calm, not content, just suddenly hyperaware.

She’s home.

I’d assumed she’d gone to crash with a friend and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Now that she’s back under the same roof, maybe whatever itch has been crawling under my skin all night will finally ease.

Except the longer I listen to her move through the apartment, the more I get the sense that something’s off.

Her footsteps aren’t light like usual. They’re slow, dragging slightly, like she’s favoring one side of her body. She stops, then there’s a long pause before she moves again, the subtle scrape of weight shifting unnaturally.

My wolf loses his shit.

He slams against my chest, snarling and pacing, howling warnings straight into my head. Every instinct flares hot and sharp, screaming that something’s wrong. That she’s hurt. That I should already be moving instead of lying here trying to reason with myself.

I grit my teeth and try to shove him back down, to tell myself I’m overreacting. She’s stubborn. Reckless. Perfectly capable of getting herself into trouble without it being my problem.

It takes all of two minutes before I snap.

With a low growl of frustration, I shove the covers aside and sit up, the mattress creaking softly beneath my weight. My bare feet hit the cold wood floor, the chill biting immediately, but I don’t pause to bother with a shirt or socks. I just move, leaving my bedroom in nothing but my sweatpants and heading down the hall toward hers.

I’m not angling to invite her into my bed again, just hoping that getting a glimpse of her alive and well will quiet my beast. But as I approach her bedroom door, I scent something that has the opposite effect– not just her usual cocktail of lemon and florals and stubbornness, but something sharp and metallic undercutting it.

Blood.

It slams into my senses like a fist to the throat, and I don’t knock. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even stop to ask myself whether this is crossing a line. Instinct takes the wheel, shoving rational thought aside as I push the door open the rest of the way and step inside.

Her room is dim, shadows pooled thick in the corners, but the en-suite bathroom is blazing with light spilling from the open door. I hear the shower running, but when I cross the room and step in, she’s not behind the glass beneath the spray of it.

She’s standing in front of the mirror.

Naked.

Her fingers are clenched tight around a towel, pressing it to the side of her face, knuckles bruised. My gaze tracks lower, stomach dropping out at the sight of more bruises spreading like storm clouds across her skin. Some are obscured by smears of dried blood, a pile of bloody clothes lying abandoned in a heap at her feet.

My eyes dart back up to her face, meeting hers in the mirror. She startles hard, nearly jumping out of her skin.

“Jesus, can you not fucking knock?” Violet snaps, clutching the towel tighter to her jaw as she whirls to face me. “Get out of here, creep!”

Her words barely even register– I’m too busy sweeping my gaze over her body again to assess for damage, counting injuries I can see and wondering how many I can’t. I step closer without even thinking, drawn in by both the bond and a sudden wave of protective instinct.

“What happened?” I growl, voice low and rough as my eyes flick up to meet hers. “Who did this to you?”

She flinches at my threatening tone. Then her spine stiffens, anger unfurling like armor. “What part of get out don’t you understand?”

I take another step toward her, fists clenching at my sides so hard my knuckles ache. I don’t touch her. I don’t let myself. Every instinct is screaming to haul her against me– to check her ribs, her jaw, her pulse– but I keep my hands locked down by sheer force of will.

“Tell me who did this,” I grit out.

She glares back at me. “You’re not my fucking dad, Kane.”

“No, I’m your mate,” I say with lethal calm. “Which means if you show up injured at two in the morning, I’m gonna need answers.”

She drops the towel from her face, lifting her chin in defiance. “Fuck off. I can take care of myself.”

It takes everything in me not to react when I see what she’s been hiding behind that towel. More bruises. More blood. More proof that something or someone hurt her tonight.

A wave of fury ripples through me, paired with the sudden, overwhelming urge to tear the world apart until I find whoever did this and end them. I clamp down on it hard, forcing my expression into something resembling control.