Page 43 of Pistols & Peonies

If I close my eyes, I can still feel him. His hands on my body, his mouth on mine. The way he trembled with restraint, like he was losing the battle with his own instincts and couldn’t fight it anymore.

I should be able to brush it off like all the other disasters I’ve stacked up over the years, but instead I sit and stew in the memory, letting it ripen into a fresh new batch of self-loathing.

Once I’ve thoroughly beaten myself up over the whole thing, I shuffle to the bathroom and scrape myself together, then head down the hall toward the kitchen.

There’s something sacred about the early-morning quiet here. The way the sunlight creeps across the floor in slow, golden stripes as the city below stirs to life; the gentle hum of the cooling system. I pad past the living room, stepping around the counter into the kitchen and stopping short.

There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Not remarkable, considering Kane stayed here last night and always sets it to brew, but it’s what’s waiting beside the pot that gives me pause.

Dead center on the counter sits a tall glass of water. And in the water, like a deliberate fucking message, is a single flower.

I just stare at it, trying to decide if I’ve accidentally wandered into some alternate reality.

It’s a garden peony– red charm, if I remember right, because my mom used to make me help weed her stupid flowerbeds every Sunday. It’s fully open, practically exploding with ruffled petals, the color so deep it fades to near black at the center. Bright, vibrant, and impossible to ignore.

My first, knee-jerk reaction is pure anger. He doesn’t get to leave me a flower like some kind of romantic gesture– especially after the way he stormed out last night, dripping wet and half-naked, looking at me like I was both his favorite thing and his worst mistake. I stand there for a good minute and just seethe, arms folded tightly across my chest, glaring at the glass like I can shatter it by sheer force of will.

Maybe it’s a joke.

Maybe he’s trying to fuck with my head.

Maybe it’s some kind of clumsy apology for last night.

Or maybe– and this is the most dangerous thought of all– he’s actually starting to know me. Knows I’d take a single, blood-red peony over a dozen bland, meaningless roses any day of the week.

That thought settles heavy in my gut, unwelcome and razor sharp.

I try my best to ignore the flower while pouring myself a mug of coffee, deliberately leaving it untouched. Maybe he’ll get the message, or maybe I’ll finally die of sleep deprivation and never have to deal with another awkward morning again. A girl can dream.

I lean back against the kitchen counter, staring down into my coffee like it might hold answers, and try– really try– to get my brain on something other than last night.

It doesn’t work.

Every time I think I’ve wrestled myself back under control, my mind flashes to his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck. The way it felt to have him crowding into my space, bent on devouring me.

I hate that I liked it.

I hate that I want it again.

I’m seconds away from spiraling so hard I might have to start stress-eating when my phone buzzes on the counter. I grab it, expecting a text from Char. Instead, it’s a reminder from the pack’s medical team for an appointment I definitely don’t remember making.

Routine Post-Pairing Follow-Up with Dr. Aspen today at 9:30 a.m. Please arrive 15 minutes early.

Perfect.

Because there’s nothing I want more than to spend my morning getting poked and prodded by a mad scientist.

I check the time, down the rest of my coffee in a few bitter gulps, and stomp back toward my bedroom to make myself presentable.

Once inside, I toss on a pair of leggings and an old band tee, then pause to check my reflection in the mirror for any residual evidence of last night’s carnage. Thankfully, the bruises are gone. My skin is back to its usual tan, marked only by the clean lines of my tattoos. My eyes are still tired, but the anger burning behind them feels familiar in a way that’s almost comforting.

I flex my hands. No tremor, no lingering ache. My wolf may be on my shit list lately, but at least she did her job when it came to healing me. The last thing I need is Dr. Aspen flagging something and ordering me to come back in for more follow-ups.

Before leaving my bedroom, I make one last detour, checking the top drawer of my dresser for the roll of cash I stashed last night. The fight was well worth it. Not only did I burn off some serious aggression and cement my place in the club’s standings, but I also made some serious coin betting on myself. I shove it farther back, covering the cash with a pair of fuzzy socks, then shut the drawer with a satisfying thud.

I may not have a regular nine-to-five anymore, but I still refuse to be dependent on anyone. Not my mother, not my friends, and definitely not my new mate. If that means picking up more fights and earning bruises with every dollar, then so be it.

Though fighting has never been just about the money. I love the thrill, the glory of winning, the roar of the crowd and the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins. Nothing matches the way I feel inside the ring– powerful, untouchable, and in control.