Chapter 29 #2
Whit casually slings an arm over Kane’s shoulders as they head down the hall, and that’s when I see the shift in him. Kane’s posture loosens, his shoulders drop. The tension that usually coils through him like barbed wire softens into something almost… normal.
It’s a little disarming.
The second they disappear around the corner, I plant my ass back on the barstool and pick up my phone, checking for notifications. There’s already a message from Char waiting for me.
Charlotte
So? Is the brother hot? Is he scary? Is he judging you??
I huff a quiet laugh.
I owe her this play-by-play after ditching her at Eclipse last night. She saw me leave with Kane, so it’s not like she thought I’d been abducted, but still.
I type back quickly.
Hot. Annoyingly charming. Likes hassling Kane even more than I do. 10/10 entertainment so far.
She responds immediately with three fire emojis and a string of exclamation points.
I set my phone down with a chuckle and reach for my whiskey, draining what’s left in one steady swallow.
As I lower my glass, I hear the faint hum of voices drifting down the hall from Kane’s office.
I pour myself another whiskey, trying not to speculate as to what they’re talking about while I slowly sip, but only five minutes pass before curiosity wins.
Sliding off the stool, I tiptoe out of the kitchen and down the hall toward Kane’s office, the alcohol warming my bloodstream just enough to make this feel like a good idea.
The office door is mostly closed, just a sliver of light spilling into the hallway.
I stop a few feet away and hold my breath, straining to hear.
Their voices are a low, steady rumble, tension threaded through the sound. At first, I can’t make out more than a word here and there– risk, losses, regrouping. Then Whit’s voice slices cleanly through the murmur.
“I’m sick of waiting around for something to happen. Change requires action.”
My pulse kicks up.
Kane answers, but his voice is lower, harder to decipher. Something about keeping eyes open, being patient…
I inch closer, bracing a hand against the wall for balance. The floorboard under my left foot lets out a tiny, traitorous squeak, and the conversation cuts off instantly. Silence slams down, my breath catching in my throat.
The office door swings open a second later, Kane’s broad frame swallowing the light behind him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice edged with suspicion.
“Nothing,” I blurt, far too quickly. “I just…” I wave a hand toward the kitchen. “The lasagna’s getting pretty crisp. We should probably take it out before it becomes inedible.”
The excuse sounds flimsy even to me.
He studies me for a long, heavy moment, like he’s measuring how much I heard. Then he jerks a nod, stepping aside to let Whit through. Whit’s expression is more amused than anything, and he’s quick with a smile when our eyes meet.
“Good thing I like it crispy,” he says lightly, flashing that dimple and giving me a wink.
Kane closes the office door behind him, locking it with a soft, deliberate click. “Let’s eat,” he says, placing a firm hand at the small of my back and steering me toward the kitchen.
The three of us re-enter like nothing happened. Kane heads straight for the oven, while Whit moves to my side, leaning in and dropping his voice low.
“Whatever you’ve been doing to him, it’s working.”
I whirl on him, unsure whether I should be offended. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, grabbing the whiskey from the counter and topping off his glass. “I’m just saying, keep it up,” he murmurs. “He needs something good in his life.”
I roll my eyes, smirking despite myself.
Whit refills my glass with a quick wink while Kane plates up the lasagna with military precision. Then we each grab a plate, taking our seats at the dining table in the next room. There’s no salad, no bread, no stuffy formality about this meal– just scorched cheese and three glasses of whiskey.
It’s kind of perfect, actually.
“So, Violet,” Whit says after a few bites. “What do you do?”
I open my mouth, then pause.
What do I do?
Fight underground, argue with authority, get paired against my will and exist in a constant state of defiance…
Technically, I’m unemployed, so I say, “Whatever I want, usually.”
Whit barks a laugh, delighted. “Good answer.”
Across from me, Kane’s mouth twitches. It’s almost a smile, but he hides it behind another forkful of food.
Conversation flows easily from there. Whit carries most of it, animated and quick-witted, bouncing between stories from their childhood and thinly veiled digs at Kane’s complete inability to have fun.
The longer it goes on, the more I find myself relaxing and actually enjoying myself.
Kane is different around his brother– looser, more accessible.
He even lets a laugh slip once or twice, real and unforced. It’s nice.
It’s also deeply disorienting.
I’m used to the version of him that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, all responsibility and restraint. Seeing him like this, human and unarmored, feels like stumbling into a room I wasn’t invited to.
I drain another glass of whiskey, and Whit refills it without asking. The lasagna disappears quickly. The house feels warmer now, and I’m pleasantly buzzed, my earlier anxiety dissolving into something almost domestic.
Whit pushes his plate away and leans back, studying me with a lazy sort of intensity. “It’s good to finally see Derek with someone who challenges him.”
I snort. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Seriously,” Whit continues, cutting a sly glance toward his brother. “You’re good for him. He needs someone who doesn’t take his shit.”
Kane grunts, but doesn’t disagree.
A comfortable silence settles over the table– the kind no one feels pressured to fill.
For a second, it almost feels normal; like this is what family dinners are supposed to look like.
Warm food, easy laughter, and subtle affection wrapped in insults.
I let myself sit in that feeling for a second before reality creeps back in around the edges.
Whit checks his watch and pushes his chair back. “Better get back to the city,” he sighs, rising to his feet.
Kane stands as well. “You take your bike?”
“Nah, damn thing’s in the shop again,” Whit huffs. “I’m wasting the best riding days of the year dealing with engine trouble.”
“I told you to just get a new one,” Kane mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Some things are irreplaceable,” Whit replies lightly. His gaze shifts to me, smile softening. “It was good to meet you, Violet. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”
I stand too, beaming a smile at him. “For sure,” I say. It feels insufficient, but it’s all I’ve got.
Whit steps forward and pulls Kane into a quick, back-thumping hug, then heads for the door. We follow, and he pauses at the threshold, glancing back at us.
“Thanks for dinner,” he drawls. “The lasagna was perfectly crisp.”
I snort.
“Be careful out there,” Kane says, giving him a pointed look.
Whit flashes him a wolfish grin. “Aren’t I always?”
He flips up his hood and casts me one last look over his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and he dips his chin in a small, deliberate nod.
The familiarity hits me again, hard.
He walks out into the night, the door swinging shut behind him. Kane exhales as he reaches past me to slide the deadbolt into place.
“He seems nice,” I remark.
“Yeah.” Kane’s mouth curves faintly, fondness softening his features. “He’s alright.”
He moves past me, heading down the hall, and I turn to follow– but halfway through that first step, something shifts. Not a thought, exactly. More like a memory setting into alignment. What’s been tugging at me all evening finally slides into focus, the pieces clicking into place.
It isn’t just the resemblance to Kane. It isn’t even the familiarity of those eyes on their own. It’s the way he moved, the way he carried himself, that little nod of acknowledgement.
I’ve seen Whit before.
Not at a pack function, or in the crowd at Eclipse during a fight, or in passing on some downtown street– but in a warehouse on the wrong side of town, the night everything turned to shit. A balaclava obscured the lower half of his face, but the eyes were unmistakable.
Whit isn’t just Kane’s charming little brother.
He’s the mysterious masked leader of the resistance.
Whitaker Kane is Rogue.
The realization slams through me, crystallizing so sharply it steals the air from my lungs. It rearranges everything I thought I knew, unfolding piece by piece until there’s no room left for doubt.
I stare at Kane’s back as he walks down the hall, my pulse pounding so hard it feels like it might shake the walls. The house suddenly feels smaller, the air thinner.
He slows, then turns to glance back at me. Whatever’s written across my face makes his expression sharpen instantly, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“What?” he asks, voice low.
I open my mouth, then close it.
Does he know?
My mind’s spinning, trying to prove itself wrong, but I know what I saw. More than that, I feel it in my bones.
My mate is the lead enforcer of the pack, the man tasked with crushing dissent. His brother is the one orchestrating it.
Rebel and enforcer. Blood against blood.
Fuuuuuuck.