Page 6 of Pistols & Peonies

Her breath stutters when I move into her space, pupils flaring. She smells like lemon, florals, and adrenaline– bright, alive, and far too intoxicating.

“What are you doing?” she demands, voice strained as I circle behind her and sever the zip-ties binding her wrists with a single flick of the blade. They fall away and she grunts, swallowing her agony as her left arm flops uselessly to her side.

“Brace yourself,” I murmur, moving in front of her. One of my hands finds her forearm, the other pressing firmly against her shoulder. When I yank, the joint pops back into its socket with a hard, sickening snap.

She cries out in pain, slapping her good hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her knees wobble, but somehow she manages to keep herself upright, jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticks.

Strong girl. Too strong for her own good.

I step back, giving her a quick once-over as she drops her hand from her mouth.

“Asshole,” she hisses, nostrils flaring.

“You’re welcome,” I growl, turning away and pacing back toward the platform. I hear the guards step up again to escort her out, but I don’t turn around again until the door closes behind them. Looking at her too long feels like playing with an open flame.

The next detainee is brought in, then the next. More sentences are handed down, the whole thing moving like clockwork, but the rest of the night, her face keeps sliding back into my mind.

The blue-eyed stare that never blinked.

The way she swallowed her pain like she’d been doing it her whole life.

The way she fought even with the odds stacked against her.

Some are just born with that spark– the kind that either burns them out quick or grows until it scorches everything around them.

I’m not sure which she is yet.

Either way, here in the Windy City Wolfpack, it always ends the same.

CHAPTER 3

Violet

The call button sticks under my thumb, the sound of the buzzer echoing down the quiet street. Chicago is never completely silent, but there’s a certain hush that falls over everything between bar close and the morning commute; a brief pause before the city’s steady pulse resumes.

It’s been a while since I’ve been awake at this hour to witness it. Even longer since I’ve had to use the buzzer to gain access to my own apartment building. I press it again, then lean my forehead against the cold metal of the entry door, exhaling slowly.

Losing my keys is just the cherry on top of the shit sundae that tonight turned out to be. I have a feeling they accidentally got tossed aside when the guards were checking my pockets during intake, but I wasn’t exactly looking for a reason to stick around after being told I was free to go.

Well, not free. I’ll never be free again, given my sentence, but I’ve been released from enforcer custody, which is more than I expected after they hauled me in. They acted like I should be grateful for it, but honestly, I’m not sure which is worse– actual confinement, or the illusion of freedom I’m being given. At least imprisonment is candid in its cruelty. Being shoved back into my normal life while a countdown to my future Pairing ticks in the back of my head feels like a whole other kind of torture.

For a split second, I actually consider just bolting into the night and disappearing. I doubt anyone would come looking for me. I could start fresh somewhere far away, with a new name and life… but if it were that easy, they wouldn't have released me in the first place. They know I’ll come back because I have no other choice.

Shifters are hard-wired for pack life. That delicate, knife-edge balance between human logic and animal instinct only holds when we’re surrounded by our own kind. Strip that away long enough, and the wolf starts to fray at the seams. Rational thought dissolves, instinct takes over, and eventually, the feral creeps in and never lets go.

So here I am, caught between two impossible realities.

If I stay, I lose my freedom.

If I run, I lose myself.

Hard to tell which fate is worse.

I startle at the crackle of the intercom, nearly jumping out of my skin when Char’s voice comes through.

“Violet, is that you?”

“Yeah,” I manage, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Lost my keys.”