Page 65 of Pistols & Peonies

“Oh my goodness, this place is beautiful! What a view!”

No.

No, no, NO!

I jerk upright so quickly I get a headrush, my pulse pounding in my ears. Because I know that voice, and I am in no way prepared to face who it belongs to.

Kane emerges from the long entry hall first, tall and broad and so devastatingly attractive I want to punch him in the face. He’s still in uniform, his tight black t-shirt stretching taut over his muscular chest and his black slacks hugging his thighs in a way that should be illegal. His gaze meets mine, then he steps aside so his guest can enter the living room.

My fucking mother.

She’s dressed to the nines in a navy sheath dress and matching pumps– the whole ‘polished suburban mom’ starter kit. Her hair is shellacked into a perfect bun, and her lipstick is blood red, stretching around her blindingly white teeth as she beams at me with the zeal of a cult recruiter.

“Mom?” I choke, my brain still struggling to catch up to this turn of events. “What are you doing here?”

She sweeps into the living room, eyes scanning every inch of the space like she’s on a white glove inspection. “What do you mean, what am I doing here?” she gasps, seemingly offended by my very legitimate question. “Do I need a reason to visit my own daughter?”

Kane lingers near the hall, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Security called me from the lobby to let me know she was here,” he explains, his gaze roaming over me appreciatively.

I don’t get the chance to savor his reaction to my primping– not with my mom stepping forward like she’s center stage, launching into her usual dramatics.

“They wouldn’t let me up to see you, can you believe it?” she gasps, clapping a hand to her chest in indignation. “They made me wait there like a criminal until Commander Kane came down.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost pull a muscle. “It’s called security, Mom. Alpha lives here, what did you expect? Maybe if you’d called first…”

“Oh, please, I’ve tried calling you dozens of times,” she huffs, flicking a pointed glance toward my phone. Which is of course in reaching distance, face down on the coffee table in front of me. “I shouldn’t have to jump through so many hoops to spend time with my child and get to know her new mate.”

I glance at Kane– a knee-jerk reaction to that word– then back at my mother as she glides across the room toward me, taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. “This is such a lovely space,” she gushes, making a big show of looking around. “So modern. Clean, too.” She swings her attention back on me, eyes flicking over my appearance. “Glad to see you’re at least taking care of your new home, since you refuse to take care of yourself. Didn’t I warn you about all that processed junk food you eat? Metabolism slows down with age, you know.”

I want to set myself on fire.

I cross my arms over my chest defensively and glare at her. “Mom, what do you want?”

She gives me a withering look. “I already told you, I’m here to spend time with my daughter. Honestly, Violet, do you always have to be so hostile?”

Kane snorts a laugh, covering it with a cough a second too late. I whip my glare his way, hating that he’s bearing witness to this shitshow.

He pushes off from the wall, advancing a step toward us. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he asks smoothly, suddenly mister hospitality.

I shake my head, but of course my mom takes him up on it. “Do you have wine?”

He dips his chin. “Think so. Red or white?”

“Surprise me,” she replies with a wink, grinning at him. “Thank you, Commander Kane. It’s nice that someone around here has manners.”

“No problem,” he says as he pivots to head for the kitchen. “And you can call me Derek.”

Her face lights up like the fourth of July. “Of course, Derek,” she purrs. “And you can call me Ella.”

He’s never asked me to call him by his first name.

Not that I care.

Except maybe I do, just a little.

As soon as he leaves the room, Mom leans in, wasting no time zeroing in for the kill. “Have things been going well between you two?” she asks, lowering her voice. “I’m sure a man of his stature has high standards for how his mate should behave.”

“What about my standards?” I ask with a scowl. “Don’t you care how I’m adjusting, whether I’m happy?”