Chapter 15 Violet
Violet
I’ve endured plenty of sleepless nights lately, each followed by a shitty morning, so it’s no surprise this one’s more of the same.
My wolf burned through so much energy healing me that she actually shut the fuck up long enough for me to get some rest, but of course it wasn’t nearly enough to truly feel refreshed.
There’s still a phantom ache in my limbs, a dull, throbbing pressure behind my eyes, and all the toothpaste in the world couldn’t scrub the taste of regret from my mouth. I wake up angry.
I groan and mash my face into the pillow, willing the mattress to swallow me whole as I slowly piece together the events that led to this particular flavor of hangover.
All roads lead back to Kane.
They always do, dammit.
We may be bonded together as mates, but that doesn’t change how much I hate the man and everything he represents. The loss of my freedom, the system that unfairly sentenced me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s enemy number one, and no amount of pining from my wolf can alter that reality.
Except last night, I slipped. Forgot myself and let something happen that absolutely shouldn’t have.
The memory of his hands on me– rough and demanding, yet also careful in a way that makes me want to scream– is still burned into my nerves.
It’s like my body memorized him without asking my permission, and now I’m forced to relive every second of that encounter with brutal clarity.
My wolf is practically panting at the thought, replaying our moment in the shower over and over like it’s her favorite movie, proof that we belong exactly where we ended up.
I hate her for it.
Hate myself for it, too.
Because if I give into this, even a little, then it’s like I’m accepting the punishment Alpha handed down with a smile.
If I let myself want Kane, then I stop being a victim of circumstance and instead become a willing participant in the injustice of the Pairing.
And once I cross that line, I’m not sure there’s a way back.
The one thing I’ve always been sure of is who I am and what I stand for.
This pack is an efficient, relentless machine, grinding up weird little outliers like me and spitting out good little soldiers for the cause.
If I embrace my bond with Kane, then that’s exactly what I become– another compliant cog in the system I’ve spent my entire life pushing back against. I become the daughter my mom always wanted; the vapid, smiling, na?ve girl who believes everything happens for a reason and that authority always knows best. The girl I’ve always sworn I’d never be.
So yeah, I wake up angry.
My sheets are a twisted mess, the blanket half-shoved to the floor.
I roll onto my back and stretch until my spine cracks.
The movement sends a flash of yesterday’s bruises through my ribs and hips, but it’s more of an echo than real pain.
My shifter healing has already done its job, so I’m practically good as new.
I swing my legs off the bed, plant my feet on the cold floor, and sit there for a minute with my head in my hands, breathing through the lingering fog in my brain.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel him. His hands on my body, his mouth on mine. The way he trembled with restraint, like he was losing the battle with his own instincts and couldn’t fight it anymore.
I should be able to brush it off like all the other disasters I’ve stacked up over the years, but instead I sit and stew in the memory, letting it ripen into a fresh new batch of self-loathing.
Once I’ve thoroughly beaten myself up over the whole thing, I shuffle to the bathroom and scrape myself together, then head down the hall toward the kitchen.
There’s something sacred about the early-morning quiet here. The way the sunlight creeps across the floor in slow, golden stripes as the city below stirs to life; the gentle hum of the cooling system. I pad past the living room, stepping around the counter into the kitchen and stopping short.
There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Not remarkable, considering Kane stayed here last night and always sets it to brew, but it’s what’s waiting beside the pot that gives me pause.
Dead center on the counter sits a tall glass of water. And in the water, like a deliberate fucking message, is a single flower.
I just stare at it, trying to decide if I’ve accidentally wandered into some alternate reality.
It’s a garden peony– red charm, if I remember right, because my mom used to make me help weed her stupid flowerbeds every Sunday. It’s fully open, practically exploding with ruffled petals, the color so deep it fades to near black at the center. Bright, vibrant, and impossible to ignore.
My first, knee-jerk reaction is pure anger.
He doesn’t get to leave me a flower like some kind of romantic gesture– especially after the way he stormed out last night, dripping wet and half-naked, looking at me like I was both his favorite thing and his worst mistake.
I stand there for a good minute and just seethe, arms folded tightly across my chest, glaring at the glass like I can shatter it by sheer force of will.
Maybe it’s a joke.
Maybe he’s trying to fuck with my head.
Maybe it’s some kind of clumsy apology for last night.
Or maybe– and this is the most dangerous thought of all– he’s actually starting to know me. Knows I’d take a single, blood-red peony over a dozen bland, meaningless roses any day of the week.
That thought settles heavy in my gut, unwelcome and razor sharp.
I try my best to ignore the flower while pouring myself a mug of coffee, deliberately leaving it untouched. Maybe he’ll get the message, or maybe I’ll finally die of sleep deprivation and never have to deal with another awkward morning again. A girl can dream.
I lean back against the kitchen counter, staring down into my coffee like it might hold answers, and try– really try– to get my brain on something other than last night.
It doesn’t work.
Every time I think I’ve wrestled myself back under control, my mind flashes to his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck. The way it felt to have him crowding into my space, bent on devouring me.
I hate that I liked it.
I hate that I want it again.
I’m seconds away from spiraling so hard I might have to start stress-eating when my phone buzzes on the counter. I grab it, expecting a text from Char. Instead, it’s a reminder from the pack’s medical team for an appointment I definitely don’t remember making.
Routine Post-Pairing Follow-Up with Dr. Aspen today at 9:30 a.m. Please arrive 15 minutes early.
Perfect.
Because there’s nothing I want more than to spend my morning getting poked and prodded by a mad scientist.
I check the time, down the rest of my coffee in a few bitter gulps, and stomp back toward my bedroom to make myself presentable.
Once inside, I toss on a pair of leggings and an old band tee, then pause to check my reflection in the mirror for any residual evidence of last night’s carnage.
Thankfully, the bruises are gone. My skin is back to its usual tan, marked only by the clean lines of my tattoos.
My eyes are still tired, but the anger burning behind them feels familiar in a way that’s almost comforting.
I flex my hands. No tremor, no lingering ache. My wolf may be on my shit list lately, but at least she did her job when it came to healing me. The last thing I need is Dr. Aspen flagging something and ordering me to come back in for more follow-ups.
Before leaving my bedroom, I make one last detour, checking the top drawer of my dresser for the roll of cash I stashed last night.
The fight was well worth it. Not only did I burn off some serious aggression and cement my place in the club’s standings, but I also made some serious coin betting on myself.
I shove it farther back, covering the cash with a pair of fuzzy socks, then shut the drawer with a satisfying thud.
I may not have a regular nine-to-five anymore, but I still refuse to be dependent on anyone. Not my mother, not my friends, and definitely not my new mate. If that means picking up more fights and earning bruises with every dollar, then so be it.
Though fighting has never been just about the money. I love the thrill, the glory of winning, the roar of the crowd and the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins. Nothing matches the way I feel inside the ring– powerful, untouchable, and in control.
Except maybe last night. Kane’s iron grip, the way it felt to willingly cede control to such a strong, dominating force…
I groan out loud and scrub a hand down my face, shoving the thought away as fast as it surfaced. With a last glance in the mirror, I square my shoulders and lock my defiance firmly back into place before leaving my room and starting down the hall again.
I freeze the second the kitchen comes into view.
I was positive Kane had left for work, but here he is, looming beside the counter and pouring himself a cup of coffee. He’s dressed in his usual black enforcer attire, his broad shoulders filling the space like he owns it. His gaze snaps to me instantly, pinning me in place.
For a second, it feels like we’re doomed to remain locked in a silent standoff, neither of us blinking. But he’s always the first to break, if only because he’s allergic to wasted time.
“Going somewhere?” he asks gruffly, arching a brow as he lifts his coffee.
“Up to medical,” I mutter.
He freezes with his mug halfway to his mouth, eyes dropping to give me a sharp once-over. “Something wrong with your healing?”
“No, I’ve been summoned for some post-Pairing bullshit,” I grumble, waving a hand dismissively.
His shoulders tense. “With Aspen?”
“The one and only,” I reply dryly, doing my best not to shudder at the mention of the doc’s name. “Apparently it’s a routine follow-up.”
Kane sets his mug down on the counter with a solid thud. “I’ll go with you,” he says, voice flat, like it’s already decided.