Pistols & Peonies (Windy City Wolfpack #2)

Chapter 1

Violet

“How much farther?” I pant, lungs burning as Charlotte drags me by the hand through the abandoned warehouse district on the fringes of the Chicago city limits.

We sprinted three blocks to get here, ducked past the no trespassing signs to slip in through a hole in the chain-link fence, and now we’re weaving between rows of decrepit buildings that look one strong gust of wind from toppling down.

Not exactly what I pictured when Char asked if I wanted to do something fun tonight, but here we are.

The whole vibe of this place is creepy as fuck. Forgotten and crumbling, cloaked in shadows and decay. Every cracked window and sagging rooftop feels like the perfect backdrop for a seedy drug deal or a bloody mob hit. If I wasn’t high on adrenaline, I’d be seriously considering turning back.

“Almost there!” Charlotte whispers, flashing me a sly grin over her shoulder.

Her hazel eyes are bright, her pulse pounding so hard I swear I can feel it through her grip on my hand.

Or maybe that’s mine. Either way, she’s clearly getting off on the thrill of breaking every rule we were raised on, which is exactly why we make the perfect partners in crime.

Gravel and broken glass crunch under our boots, totally destroying the stealthy approach Char thinks we’re maintaining.

Meanwhile, I’ve had my head on a swivel since climbing out of her car, scanning the shadows for movement, teeth, or trouble.

One of us has to be on the lookout if we don’t want to get caught, and as much as I love her, my best friend has the survival instincts of a golden retriever.

“It’s the big one, see?” she hisses, jerking her chin toward a massive warehouse ahead.

I peer past her at the building that dwarfs the others. It’s all concrete and corrugated steel, half the windows blown out and boarded up. There’s movement inside– just a subtle ripple in the dark– but it’s enough to make me hunch my shoulders and tug the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my face.

Char keeps pulling me forward, hugging the shadows.

“You sure about this?” I mutter.

She stops dead and whips around, pinning me with a hard look. “Don’t even start, Vi. You said you wanted to see what this was all about, so here we are. If you wanna bail, then bail, but I’m going in there to see Rogue.”

“I’m not bailing,” I scoff, scowling back at her. “But for the record, I’m here as moral support, not to sign up for the cause.”

“You say that now, but once you hear what they have to say…”

“Let’s just hurry up and get inside,” I interrupt, feeling far too exposed out here. “This place gives me the creeps.”

She huffs a laugh and spins back around, dragging me along as she picks up pace toward the warehouse. It isn’t long before we reach a metal door on the east side, my heart skipping a beat at the low rumble of voices emanating from inside.

Char raises a fist and knocks– two quick taps, then two slower ones– and the door pops open with a metallic squeak.

A girl with piercings up both ears and half her head shaved peers out through the gap, sizing us up.

Char beams a smile and tugs her sleeve down to reveal a hastily drawn marking on her wrist, which the girl glances at before nodding, swinging the door wider, and stepping aside. We’re in.

My pulse ticks in my throat as we slip past her and down a dark, narrow hallway.

Char’s hand stays clamped around mine, warm and grounding.

At the end of the hall, we emerge into the main space of the warehouse, the ceiling crisscrossed with string lights that cast the room in a dim, golden glow.

It’s packed with bodies, heat, and movement– easily a hundred people altogether, the raw energy of the crowd palpable.

I recognize a few faces, but pretend I don’t.

We’re all committing treason just by being here.

I can’t help but wonder how many of these people are true believers and how many are just thrill-seekers bored of the daily grind. I definitely fall into the latter camp.

“This is bigger than I thought,” Char whispers, eyes widening in awe.

“Too big,” I murmur, glancing around. “Whatever happened to subtlety?”

A makeshift stage made up of shipping pallets occupies the far end of the room, and a couple people are standing atop it, their heads bent together, eyes darting across the crowd like they’re tracking sparks waiting to ignite.

“There’s nothing subtle about change,” Charlotte scoffs as she snatches two paper cups from a crate and hands me one. “See how many people are tired of Alpha’s shit?”

“I see a lot of people who are gonna be in deep shit if he catches wind,” I grumble, taking a sip. Vodka, no chaser. It burns all the way down.

Char rolls her eyes at me, lips glossy with liquor. “That’s the whole point, Vi. Revolution isn’t for cowards.”

I roll my eyes right back at her, but something wriggles inside me, sharp and restless.

Maybe it’s pride; the wild sense of standing on the edge of something bigger than yourself.

Or maybe it’s dread; a sense of unease creeping in to warn me that none of this will end well.

Either way, I don’t let go of her hand as we snake our way through the crowd, keeping to the edges.

I take everything in– the humid press of bodies, the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol, the jittery pulse of nerves that skitters through the room every time someone laughs too loud.

There’s a low current of fear here, too.

It’s in the way people flinch when the doors rattle; the way conversations die when someone stares a little too long.

Everyone’s on high alert, every instinct pulled taut.

We find a spot along the wall, close enough to see the stage but far enough back to pretend we’re just spectators instead of accomplices. Char leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Do you think he’s here already? Rogue?”

I shake my head, even though my pulse jumps. “If he’s smart, he’ll stay anonymous.”

“He does,” she huffs, eager– almost desperate– to defend the nameless, faceless leader of this movement she’s spent months obsessing over. “He always wears a mask and distorts his voice. Nobody knows his real identity.”

I wrinkle my nose. “So why show up here and risk blowing his cover?”

“Because he believes in the cause,” she says firmly, like that settles it. “Every rebellion needs a frontman.”

“If you say so,” I mutter, eyes snapping to the stage as one of the guys up there steps forward and lifts a hand for silence.

The crowd obeys instantly, going eerily quiet and turning their full attention to the broad-shouldered man wearing a battered Cubs cap and a leather jacket.

“Thanks for coming out,” he calls, voice echoing through the cavernous warehouse.

“I know what you’re risking just by being here.

” He pauses to let that settle like dust. “But I also know why you came. The way this pack’s being run isn’t working anymore, and it’s time we come together in the name of change. ”

He paces slowly across the stage, running a hand along his stubbled jaw. “Some of you have seen Rogue before. Others think he’s more myth than man. I’m here to tell you he’s real, and he’s got a plan.”

A ripple moves through the room– whispers at first, then louder murmurs– as anticipation coils like a spring. Someone shouts, “Bring him out!” and laughter cracks through the tension.

The speaker holds up his hand again. “Settle down, he’ll be here,” he says with a chuckle, though it does nothing to tamp down the excitement buzzing through the air.

Politics, uprising, ideology… none of it really interests me, if I’m being honest. Everyone else seems captivated, but I’m already eyeing the exit.

As I scan the crowd again, movement flashes in my periphery.

A tall man in dark clothes emerges from the rear, slipping between bodies with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to move unseen.

The bottom half of his face is covered with a balaclava, a hoodie slung low over his brow, but his dark eyes gleam when they catch mine.

He dips his head once in silent acknowledgement, then sweeps past me like smoke, heading straight for the stage.

Char’s nails dig into my wrist hard enough to make me wince. “That’s him!” she squeals under her breath. “That’s Rogue!”

And sure as shit, she’s right. People are starting to notice him, the crowd parting around the man like a tide pulled by the moon. I may be a reluctant participant in this circus, but my breathing stalls all the same, muscles tensing in anticipation.

He’s two steps from the stage when the doors at the back of the warehouse suddenly burst open.

Pack enforcers dressed in tactical gear flood inside, and the crowd instantly erupts into chaos. Panicked screams pierce the air, bodies slamming into each other as people scramble for the exits. Clothes shred as some shift to their wolf forms, fur exploding across limbs and teeth snapping.

Char’s mouth is moving, eyes wide and terrified, but I can’t hear her. My brain fills with white noise as it scrambles to grasp the reality of what’s happening around me.

Then the world snaps back into focus. I grab for Charlotte’s hand, yanking her toward the nearest exit.

We claw our way through the chaos, flailing limbs, and terror. A wolf barrels past with a snarl, nearly knocking us down. Char stumbles, legs buckling, but I hook my fingers in the collar of her hoodie and haul her upright, forcing her to keep moving.

Something swings at my head and I duck instinctively, narrowly avoiding the impact. A split second later, pain detonates through my shoulder as someone shoves me into the doorframe on their way past. The impact steals my breath, but I don’t slow.

Fresh air smacks me in the face when we finally burst through the door into the night.

Char screams to run, but there’s no need– my legs are already pumping, carrying me away from the warehouse as fast as they can.

We sprint down a narrow alleyway between buildings, disappearing into the cover of shadows.

At the end of the alley, Char skids to a stop and turns to grab me, eyes scanning my face. “You okay?”

I nod, but it’s a lie. My vision is swimming, my left arm hanging uselessly at my side. Pretty sure my shoulder’s dislocated. “We have to keep going,” I rasp.

But before either of us can move, an enforcer appears, stepping right into our path. He grabs Char by the bicep and slams her against the wall. She screams as he twists her arm up behind her back, and I immediately lunge, clawing at him.

“Let her go!” I shout, voice cracking.

He laughs– actually laughs– and shoves her aside like she’s nothing, grabbing me by the throat instead. He lifts me half off my feet, his grip like a vise.

“You wanna be a hero, little wolf?” he growls.

I spit in his face. A stupid move, but so worth it.

He recoils, his grip faltering, and Char takes the opportunity to kick him hard in the knee. He snarls and jerks around, hand leaving my throat, and I use the heartbeat of freedom to slam my good elbow into his nose, bone crunching under the impact.

He reels back with a howl and we bolt.

Ragged breaths saw from my lungs as we tear toward the fence, making it to the hole in the chain link we slipped through earlier. Char dives through first, hitting the ground on the other side and reaching for me.

I’m halfway through when my hand is ripped from hers, the same enforcer from the alley hauling me backwards.

He pins my arms and twists them behind me, a cry tearing from my throat as white-hot pain shoots all the way to my spine.

Char stares at me, horrified, frozen in place.

“Go!” I choke.

She hesitates as I thrash in the enforcer’s grip, but between my bum shoulder and his superior size and strength, it’s pointless. He’s got me locked down tight.

“Go!” I scream at Char again, and the raw edge of fear in my voice must knock something loose inside her, because she actually listens this time. Her golden hair whips in the wind as she spins around and takes off, her silhouette disappearing into the dark.

“Gotcha,” the enforcer snarls in my ear, followed by the sharp jab of a needle piercing my skin. Pain sears through my limbs, sharp and bright. Wolfsbane.

My muscles seize instantly. My wolf, usually hot and bristling under my skin, retreats so fast it feels like falling down a well. I immediately feel empty. Hollow. Wrong.

I try to shout, to fight, but all that comes out is a strangled croak.

The enforcer releases his grip and my knees buckle, the world tilting.

I hit the ground hard. A boot slams into my ribs, hands wrench my arms behind my back and zip-tie my wrists together.

My vision darkens at the edges, closing in.

Then I’m being dragged across the ground, gravel scraping my skin and tearing at my clothes.

The world tilts again as I’m hauled over a shoulder like a sack of trash, the enforcer’s grip bruising my ribs.

He carries me toward a waiting van and hurls me inside, where I hit the metal plating hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

Two others are already in the back of the van– a girl curled in on herself, sobbing, and a man slumped against the wall, eyes glassy and unfocused.

The enforcer leans in over me, breath sour and close. “Not so brave now, are you bitch?”

I scramble back, trying to kick him despite the way I’m bound. He only laughs as he straightens, one hand already reaching for the door.

“Where the fuck are you taking us?” I rasp, voice shredded.

He smiles at me, dead-eyed. “Interrogation. You’re all traitors now.”

Then the door slams shut, plunging me into darkness.