Chapter 36
Kane
The elevator dings on twenty-nine, and I step out, leaving the stress of the workday behind as I stride down the quiet hallway toward my apartment.
Returning to real life today after spending the weekend at the lake with Violet– most of it naked– felt like getting dragged back under after finally breaking the surface for air.
Emails, reports, meetings… all of it just noise.
All something I endured with one eye on the clock, counting down the hours until I could get back to her.
To say I’m eager would be an understatement.
I slow as I approach the door, listening out of habit. It’s quiet inside, which should be comforting, but isn’t. With Violet, quiet can either mean peace or the calm before she sets a fire just to watch it burn.
I unlock the door and step inside, re-locking it behind me before moving down the long entry hall, braced for impact. What I get instead stops me cold.
Domesticity.
Or at least whatever the hell passes for it with us.
Violet’s stretched out on the couch in a pair of black cotton shorts and one of my old t-shirts, one leg tucked up underneath her and one bare foot curled over the armrest. Her hair’s piled up on top of her head in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup.
No primp or polish, just her– soft and sharp all at once, blue eyes bright as she scrolls on her phone, completely absorbed.
Which means I get a full, uninterrupted look at her.
I take it– because I’m a man, and she’s the best damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the fact she’s mine.
My gaze drags slowly and deliberately over her bare legs, the curve of her thigh where her shorts ride up, and the dip of her waist beneath the hem of my shirt. Her lips part slightly in concentration, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of her mouth as she scrolls.
Fuck.
She does shit like that without even thinking. Little, absent movements that hit hard, my body tuned to react to her in ways I can’t control.
Two takeout boxes are resting on the coffee table, disposable chopsticks balanced on the top of each. Some trashy reality show is playing on the TV, but the volume’s so low it’s just background noise. The whole scene is so… normal. Comforting in a way that punches me straight through the chest.
I clear my throat, finally announcing myself, and her head snaps up. Our eyes meet, and that sly grin spreads across her mouth; the one that always feels like trouble.
“Welcome home, honey,” she purrs, sugar-sweet and fake as hell. She waves an arm lazily toward the food on the coffee table. “I slaved over a hot phone for a full thirty seconds to get the best noodles in town. Hope you appreciate my domestic efforts.”
I lean a shoulder against the wall, muscles loosening as the last tension of the day bleeds out of me. Just looking at her like this– completely at home, waiting to share a meal– does more for me than anything else could.
“You forgot the apron and pearls, mate,” I shoot back, mouth tugging into a smirk. “If you’re gonna play the housewife, at least commit.”
She bats her lashes at me mockingly, then flips me off. “Keep talking,” she warns, “and you’ll be sleeping alone tonight.”
I push off from the wall, grin widening as I stride toward her. “You’d miss me by midnight.”
She snorts, unimpressed. “Eat before it gets cold, Commander,” she says, eyes flicking toward the takeout cartons. “You’re late.”
I’m not, but I don’t argue. Instead, I take my time stripping off my jacket, dragging the moment out. Because this whole scene– her on my couch, my shirt on her body, food waiting like this is something we do every night– is still new enough that I don’t trust it not to vanish if I move too fast.
It feels like something we chose.
Like something I’d choose again, over and over.
I drape my jacket over the back of a chair, then start toward the bar cart. “Whiskey?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Please,” she groans.
I pour two glasses, taking a sip from mine as I carry them back over to the couch.
She pushes herself up, reaching out with grabby hands as I approach. I pass her a glass, then drop down onto the sofa beside her. She takes a sip of the liquor, head tilting back, throat working slowly as her shoulders sink into the cushions, tension draining out of her in real time.
I nudge her knee with mine. “What’s got you needing to take the edge off?”
“You mean other than the usual bullshit?” she asks as she lowers her glass, a brittle laugh slipping out. Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, catching the last drop of whiskey.
My gaze tracks it automatically.
“Talked to my mom today,” she sighs, leaning forward to set her glass on the coffee table and swiping up a takeout box.
The movement shifts her closer, the fabric of my shirt stretching across her spine as she bends. I hone in on every detail– the slide of cotton over skin, the way her shorts ride higher on her thighs as she settles again.
“Turns out she got her preserve assignment for the full moon run permanently switched to Forest Glen,” she continues, breaking apart the chopsticks with more force than necessary.
“She’s acting like it’s some kind of presidential appointment, even though she clearly leveraged our… situation to get her own way.”
“I’ll get it switched back,” I murmur. Should be easy enough.
“Nah,” she sighs, waving me off. “I figure one forced interaction a month covers my quota. My wolf has to run anyways, so two birds, one stone.”
I nod, letting it drop, though the instinct to fix it somehow doesn’t go away.
There’s something about our bond that makes me want to solve all her problems, remove obstacles before they ever touch her.
Even when I know damn well that she doesn’t want or need that and would probably bite me if I pushed too hard.
“So,” she says after a beat, like she’s consciously shifting gears. “How was your day? Any bombs, betrayals, or sudden regime changes?”
I lean back into the cushions, propping my ankle on my knee as she pops open her takeout carton and dunks her chopsticks inside. “Other than the usual bullshit?” I echo, smirking faintly. “It was… interesting, actually. I met with the owner of Eclipse Nightclub.”
She freezes, eyes snapping to mine, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. “Oh?”
I nod, reaching for my own box of noodles on the table. “He appreciated that I came to him directly,” I say, setting it on my lap and breaking apart the chopsticks. “He wants to keep the fight nights going, but on the books this time. He even mentioned expanding that part of the business.”
Her gaze sharpens, interest sparking.
“He said he’d probably need to hire someone to coordinate them,” I continue casually, glancing up at her. “I suggested you might be interested.”
Her jaw tightens, walls snapping back into place so fast it’s almost audible. “Thought I told you I don’t need you to get me a job,” she grumbles, stabbing her chopsticks back into the carton.
I lift both hands in surrender. “Hey, all I did was throw your name into the hat. Whether he offers is up to him, and whether you take the job is up to you.” I hold her gaze, letting her see I’m not trying to corner her or control the outcome. Just… opening a door.
She relaxes fractionally, rolling her eyes as she picks up her chopsticks again. “You know if I took that job, I wouldn’t be able to keep my ass out of the ring.”
“Figured you wouldn’t,” I reply, digging into my noodles.
She studies me, skepticism lifting her brows. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Honestly?” I meet her eyes. “If it makes you happy, then you should do it. Just… maybe stick to female opponents. If I see another man’s hands on you, I can’t guarantee I won’t rip his throat out.”
She grins, all teeth and trouble. “Possessive much?”
I stare back at her, letting it linger just long enough to make the air shift. “Oh, baby,” I murmur, wetting my lips with my tongue. “You have no fucking idea.”
Violet’s pupils blow wide, the scent of her arousal spiking in the air between us. She quickly snorts a laugh to try to cover her reaction, shaking her head. “So that’s it?” she asks, arching a dubious brow. “No lecture about responsibility, pack image, setting an example for the youth?”
“I’d rather have you beating the shit out of someone in a sanctioned match than walking around looking for trouble,” I deadpan. “You don’t strike me as the type that’d enjoy being a kept woman.”
She smirks. “You’re going to regret saying that someday.”
“Probably,” I admit. “But not tonight.”
She keeps watching me like she’s waiting for the catch, but there isn’t one. I don’t want to change her, cage her, or dull the edges that make her who she is.
Violet Slayter is a wild thing. Sharp tongue, quick fists. Fire in her blood. The last thing I want is to be the reason any of that burns out– her spark is one of the many things I love about her.
Love.
Shit, I never thought I’d fall prey to it, but sitting here with her, I don’t even care that I’ve gone soft for this girl– because if the rest of my life is full of nights like this, then that sounds pretty fucking good to me.
“I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you,” she says, narrowing her eyes on me.
I huff out a quiet laugh, lifting my chopsticks to point at her. “Why don’t you eat while you decide, hm?”
She rolls her eyes and digs back in.
We fall into an easy silence, the kind that doesn’t need filling. The TV drones on in the background as we eat, and at some point, her hand drifts to my thigh. Her fingers trace the seam of my slacks idly, like she’s not even thinking about it. Like it’s just something to do while she eats.
It’s not.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I pretend not to notice, but the heat of her touch is distracting as hell, settling low in my gut and tightening everything there.
Her thumb presses slightly, dragging back up.
Fuck.
I take another bite I don’t taste.