Gunnar wasn't fighting back. Not really. He was toying with Vidar, dancing away from the snaps with a boxer’s agility, his ears forward in a mocking, playful tilt. He was letting Vidar ventthe territorial rage without escalating it into a bloodbath. But he was making sure Vidar knew he wasn't afraid.
Before the first drop of blood could hit the ground, Magnus intervened. The gray wolf came between his brothers and nudged Gunnar away with his head. With a flick of his tail, Magnus led Ivar and Gunnar away, disappearing back into the deep shadows of the tree line to give the groom his space.
I stood alone in the clearing with Vidar. He was pacing a tight circle around me, his chest heaving. His golden eyes glowed with a dark, obsessive light.
I knew what this was. He was marking me. He was telling the world—and his brothers—that I was a resource he would kill to keep. He might as well just pee on my leg and get it over with.
As if he’d heard me, Vidar stopped his pacing. He walked a few feet away, toward the path where his brothers had disappeared. He lifted a leg and marked a long, deliberate line across the moss and roots.
The scent was a territorial roar; a chemical border that separated the two of us from the rest of the pack. He wasn't just my husband-to-be; he was my jailer, and he had just finished building the fence.
A flicker of movement near a rotted log caught my wolf's attention. Human Addie might have cooed at the soft ears and the twitching nose of the rabbit huddled in the brush. She might have thought of it as a pet. The she-wolf didn't have thoughts; she had hunger.
My vision narrowed, the world turning into high-contrast shades of grey and silver. The rabbit bolted, a frantic zig-zag of white fur. I lunged, my claws furrowing the damp grass. The creature was small and desperate. I was out of practice after too many lunch meetings and happy hours. It leaped out of my reach, darting toward a thicket of briars.
A wall of black fur blocked its path. Vidar stood like a statue of midnight. His golden eyes fixed on the prey. The rabbit turned tail, terrified, and sprinted right back into the open—directly into my waiting jaws.
The crunch of bone and the warm, metallic burst of blood across my tongue was the most satisfying thing I’d felt in years. I dropped into the grass, my tail thumping once against the earth, the primal satisfaction of the kill humming through my veins. I began to lap at the fresh meat, the salt and iron filling my senses.
Vidar sat back on his haunches a few feet away, his chest heaving slightly, his tongue lolling. He didn't move to take the kill. He wasn't the Alpha demanding his cut; he was a spectator. He watched me with a gaze that felt like a caress, his ears forward, taking in the sight of my muzzle stained red.
Tentatively, I nudged the remains of the rabbit toward him with my nose. It was an offering; a recognition of the assist, a piece of the pack’s spoils.
Vidar huffed, a soft, vibrating sound. He used his snout to nudge the carcass back toward me. He didn't want the food. He wanted me to be full.
He stayed there, a sentinel in the dark, watching me eat until the last of the bunny was gone. For the first time, the cage didn't feel like iron. It felt like fur and bone and a brotherhood of teeth.
Like his mother had hoped, I wasn't dumb. I was too smart to know it wouldn't last.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VIDAR
The shift back to human form always felt like a slow, agonizing compression of the soul. I stood in the damp grass, the cool night air biting at my skin as the heat of the run began to bleed away. I kept my back to her as I listened to the wet, rhythmic sounds of her own bones snapping back into a human shape.
Parting my lips, I let the tip of my tongue escape my mouth and taste the raw, heady musk of her. The slick, heavy wetness between her thighs that the adrenaline from the run left behind. Or maybe it's because she wanted me.
I stood there and breathed it in, letting the primal scent of her arousal quiet the jagged, ever-working gears of my brain. For the first time in months, the static of all my responsibilities — the balance sheets, the calculations, the endless run of numbers — went silent. It was the best few seconds I’d had in a long while.
I pulled on my trousers, the fabric coarse against my sensitized skin. I left the rest. The ruined silk shirt, the Italian leather shoes. Discarded in the dirt like autumn leaves.
"You’re just leaving them?"
"The servants will take care of it," I said, finally turning to face her.
She was biting her lip, her emerald eyes fixed on the heap of designer fabric in the mud. I knew that look. I knew a calculating brain when I saw one. She was mentally tallying the thousands of dollars rotting in the grass. It irked me. A daughter of a pack alpha shouldn't have to count pennies. It was a failure of her bloodline, a stain on her father’s house that she even knew the price of a shirt.
I made a silent note to double the allowance I’d placed in her accounts. No wife of mine would ever know the taste of lack again.
Our shadows stretched long across the stone paths as I led her back toward the house. We bypassed the main foyer, moving instead toward the east wing—my wing of the Blackwood estate. I watched Addie's expression as she took in the transition from the museum of the Great Hall to the lived-in opulence of the private quarters.
"Each member of the family has their own space on the property," I explained, my voice echoing in the wood-paneled hall. "There are suites below stairs for pack members who need shelter or a place to recover."
"This isn't how I was raised."
She didn't elaborate. The hollowness in her tone told me everything I needed to know about the cold, empty halls of the Vane stronghold. If memory serves, she'd grown up on the top floor of the Vanguard Hotel in upstate New York.
We reached a private gallery with four heavy oak doors. I stopped, gesturing to the space. "Your suite is the second on the right."
