Page 67 of Pistols & Peonies

Kane rises to his feet, eyes rimmed gold, dominant energy rolling off him in waves. “I think it’s probably best that you leave,” he says flatly, gesturing for the door.

Mom whips her gaze on him in shock, then looks back to me, eyes rounding. For a second, it almost looks like she’s sorry. Like she’s actually going to acknowledge how nasty and judgmental she’s been and apologize for it.

Instead, she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and pivots on a heel, marching toward the door without another word.

Kane follows her down the hall to see her out, leaving me on the couch in a state of stunned disbelief. Because what in the actual fuck just happened?

Between my mom showing up and Kane standing up for me like he gives a damn, the mental whiplash is brutal. My mind’s spinning, my pulse is racing, and my stomach’s in fucking knots.

The door closes.

Kane’s boots clomp against the floor as he strides back down the hall.

And I… have no idea what to even say to him right now.

CHAPTER 23

Violet

My relationship with my mother is complicated, to say the least. I like to tell myself that the way she nitpicks and criticizes comes from a place of love– that this is just her twisted version of caring. That if she’s hard on me, it’s because she thinks it’ll make me stronger somehow.

But if that’s the case, then maybe I don’t want it.

Maybe I’d be better off without it altogether.

I’ve been dodging her calls for over a week now, never once considering that she’d actually show up here. She hasn’t taken this much of an interest in my life since… ever. I guess I should’ve known being paired with Kane would increase my value in her eyes overnight and she wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to perform her mommy-dearest routine for a brand new audience.

What I didn’t expect was him seeing straight through it.

Not only that– he stepped in and shut it down like it was instinctual; like there was never any question whose side he’d be on. No hesitation or careful diplomacy, just a line in the sand and the absolute conviction that nobody gets to cross it, not even my own family.

For the first time, I feel something dangerously close to safe. Accepted, even. And I have no idea what to do with that.

I want to say something, anything, but my tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands. Kane, of course, is maddeningly calm, which somehow manages to be both comforting and irritating as hell. I watch him cross the room in long, sure strides, retrieve two glasses from the bar cart, and pour whiskey into both. He downs his in one smooth swallow, sets the empty glass aside, then returns to the couch and offers me the other without a word.

“Sorry,” I manage as I take it from him. Our fingers brush, and the contact makes my pulse skip.

He frowns, brows drawing in. “Don’t apologize for her.”

“I mean, it’s not like you signed up for family drama,” I mutter, taking a sip. The whiskey scorches a path down my throat, and I welcome it. “Guess you got a crash course in what raised me.” I glance back up at him, wiping the corner of my mouth with a thumb.

For a second, I think he’s going to make a shitty joke to keep things surface-level or just brush it off with one of his signature grunts. Instead, he moves to the opposite end of the couch and eases down onto it with a quiet exhale, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I don’t mind,” he murmurs. “Family’s always a shitshow.”

I snort despite myself and take another sip. “Yeah. Well… thanks. For, y’know.”

His brow lifts. “For what?”

I drop my gaze to the coffee table, jaw tightening. I don’t know how to put it into words– and even if I did, I’m not sure I could force them past my own stupid pride. “Forget it,” I mumble, tipping back the rest of my drink and leaning forward to set the empty glass down.

The leather creaks beneath him as he shifts his weight, draping an arm over the back of the couch and angling his body toward mine. The space between us suddenly feels charged, the air crackling with an intense new energy.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, dark eyes locked on mine.

“No,” I snap, too fast, too sharp. The last thing I want to do is replay that scene. I don’t want to sit in the embarrassment, don’t want to acknowledge the hollow ache that settles in my chest after every interaction with my mother.

Honestly, I just want to forget the last ten minutes ever happened.