Page 81 of Pistols & Peonies

“They say for mates, skin on skin contact can accelerate healing,” he mumbles. “Through the bond.”

“Uh huh,” I smirk.

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he reins it in fast.

“How’s your head?” he asks, tone shifting back to clipped and practical. “Any lingering pain?”

“Nah, all good.”

Not that I’d admit if it wasn’t.

He nods once, turning back to the dresser and grabbing a pair of socks from inside. Then he moves toward the door, bending to grab his boots.

“Are you going somewhere?” I ask, pushing up onto my elbows.

“Store,” he replies flatly. “Out of coffee.” He tucks his boots under an arm, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Get some more rest.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I mutter, flopping back against the pillow.

“When I get back, we’re going to talk about last night,” he warns.

I make a face. “You mean how you cost me ten grand?”

His jaw ticks, but he keeps his voice even. “I mean how you keep insisting on putting yourself in danger.”

“I was in zero danger until you showed up and distracted me,” I scoff.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Get some rest. Then clean up. I’ll be back with coffee, and we’ll finish this discussion.”

“Whatever, Commander Dickhead,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. “Don’t forget the creamer.”

Something dangerous flickers in his expression, sharp and controlled. “Don’t make me put you over my knee, mate,” he growls.

Heat floods my face instantly. I flip him off and roll onto my side, putting my back to him before he can see exactly how that threat landed. My wolf is practically doing backflips at the thought of another spanking, and it’s humiliating how much I want it, even when I’m actively mad at him.

I wait until the door shuts and his footsteps fade down the hall before I let myself exhale.

Silence settles back over the room, and I close my eyes, fully intending to drift off again, but there’s no way in hell I’m falling back asleep now. Not with the way my head’s spinning. I huff out a sigh and shove the covers aside, climbing out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

It’s completely immaculate– all gleaming white tile and polished fixtures. The only thing that looks out of place in here is me. I grimace at the sight of my own reflection, quickly turning away and getting in the shower. It has one of those rainfall heads built into the ceiling, and I crank the water hot, scrubbing myself clean in the space of about five minutes.

When I step out, I find a fresh towel draped over the rack. Kane must’ve set it out before I woke up.

It’s annoyingly considerate.

I wrap myself in it and head back into the bedroom, searching for something to wear. The walk-in closet is aggressively organized, full of monochrome button-downs, tactical pants, and about forty identical grey t-shirts hanging in rigid formation. It’s so painfully him that I can’t help but snort a laugh, abandoning the closet to try the dresser instead.

That’s when I notice the vase on top.

It’s stuffed full of peonies, white and pale pink, every bloom fully open. Completely out of place in a room that otherwise looks like it belongs to a military minimalist. I stare at them for a long moment, trying to process what the hell I’m even seeing.

Kane is many things, but romantic has never been one of them. If this is some attempt at an apology for last night, it’s the strangest one I’ve ever seen.

I shake it off, choosing to ignore the mindfuck of the flowers and refocusing on the dresser, pulling open the top drawer. It’s full of neatly folded t-shirts, arranged in a spectrum from black to grey to white. I steal a soft looking light grey one from the middle and pull it on over my head. It’s way too big, the hem brushing my thighs, but it’s comfy as hell.

The next drawer yields a pair of black boxer briefs, which I shimmy into and roll the waistband to secure them on my hips. Then I start in on finger-combing my hair, catching my reflection in the full-length mirror across the room.

Bare legs. His shirt. Peonies on the dresser behind me.