Page 82 of Pistols & Peonies

I look like I’m playing house, which is so deeply not me that I almost laugh out loud.

Almost.

I leave the bedroom and step into the hall, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. There’s none of the distant traffic hum I’m used to, no sirens or city noise. Just stillness. The air smells clean, with a faint hint of lake water, fresh wood, and something floral.

It takes me a second to place it, but as I wander further down the hall, it becomes impossible to miss.

Peonies.

There’s another vase on the kitchen island. One on the coffee table in the living room. A smaller arrangement on the entry console. It’s like the man raided a floral wholesaler and cleared out their entire inventory.

I exhale a slow breath, a strange sensation crawling up my spine. Kane and flowers do not compute. Kane and this many flowers computes even less.

I move into the kitchen and pull the nearest vase closer, picking it up and studying it like it might offer answers if I stare hard enough. These peonies are pale lavender, the outer petals already wilting at the tips. The vase itself looks vintage. I turn it slowly toward the light, trying to piece together how and when and why he decided to fill the entire house with flowers.

A door slams, the sound cracking through the silence like a gunshot. I flinch, and the vase slips from my fingers. It hits the floor and shatters, glass and water and flowers exploding outwards.

“Shit,” I hiss, dropping to a crouch automatically. I start gathering the flowers and broken pieces without thinking, adrenaline spiking, moving too fast and too careless. I spit another curse as a shard slices clean across my palm, blood welling up from the cut instantly.

“What happened?” Kane’s deep voice booms.

I look up to see him standing at the threshold of the kitchen, a paper grocery sack hooked in the crook of his arm. His eyes go straight to my hand, and the shift in him is immediate.

Before I can even blink, he’s dropping the bag on the counter and closing the space between us.

“Let me see,” he demands, already reaching for me.

“It’s fine,” I snap reflexively, curling my fingers in, but he catches my wrist before I can pull away.

He turns my palm upward to inspect the cut, his expression darkening. His thumb brushes just beneath the wound, careful not to touch it directly, and the contrast between his stormy gaze and the precision of his touch makes something twist low in my stomach.

He releases me just long enough to grab a paper towel and wet it under the sink. When he turns back, his hand slides to my waist without hesitation. My breath catches as he lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, taking full control of the situation.

I should protest, but I don’t. Because it’s fucking hot when he’s like this.

He presses the paper towel gently to my palm, and I fight a wince– though the awareness of how close he’s standing quickly drowns out the bite of pain.

“I can do it myself, you know,” I mumble, softer now.

Kane ignores the comment entirely, concentrating on the cut. He wipes away the blood, holding my hand steady as the skin begins to knit itself back together, shifter healing working fast and efficiently beneath his watchful gaze.

Once the wound seals, he releases my hand, exhaling through his nose and tossing the paper towel into the bin.

“Try to be more careful,” he mutters.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because I totally cut myself on purpose.”

He gives me a flat, unimpressed look.

“For the record, I don’t accept your apology,” I add, flipping my damp hair over a shoulder.

His brows draw in. “What apology?”

I gesture toward the explosion of peonies still scattered across the hardwood. “I don’t know what rom-com you stole this move from, but buying me a truckload of flowers won’t make up for forcing me to tap out in the first round of the Gauntlet.”

He blinks. Then shakes his head slowly. “Those aren’t for you.”

I stare back at him, momentarily thrown. “Then who are they for?” I ask, my tone sharpening despite myself.