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I'd meant every word. And I'd broken it within hours.

I stood beside the bed, naked from the waist up, utterly destroyed. Self-loathing filled every inch of my chest until I thought I would throw up. I had promised my mother that I’d protect her. I had promised myself I’d be gentle. And instead, I had terrorized a fragile, innocent girl on her wedding night.

I couldn't stay in this room. My presence was a threat to her. My scent was probably making her stomach turn.

I stripped off the rest of my track pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Without another word, I turned, opened the balcony doors, and stepped out into the night air.

My skin hit the cold, and my wolf surged forward, desperate to run, desperate to escape the horror of what I had just done. I vaulted over the stone railing, shifted mid-air, and hit the forest floor on four heavy paws, tearing off into the dark trees at a dead sprint.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ROSALIND

Ilay motionless in the dark, listening until the sound of my giant brute of a husband running off to purge his guilt was swallowed by the night. Then I sat up, brushing the hair out of my face and straightening my dress. It was an old habit to fix my appearance, even if no one was there to see me. Even if I couldn't see myself. My mother's training was hard to break.

The moment I swung a leg over the bed, a sharp, throbbing heat flared between my thighs, reminding me what I'd just endured. My body had been pampered, bathed in expensive oils, and shielded from the slightest physical hardship my entire life. I was not used to pain. But I gritted my teeth, ignoring the stinging ache as I swung my other leg over the edge of the mattress, likely smearing more virginal blood on the sheets.

The marriage was officially consummated. The blood on those silk sheets was the binding seal. My mother's spies would report back: the alliance was locked in stone, and Gunnar was currently tearing through the forest, consumed by self-loathing.

It had always been my plan, whether I was handed over to Magnus, Vidar, or Gunnar. I knew the Blackwood men were raised on an archaic, hypocritical code of honor—drilled from birth by their father to protect and cherish women. I knew that deflowering a terrified, weeping virgin and leaving her bleeding would feel like a mortal sin to a brute like Gunnar. His shame would be his leash. He would tread carefully around me now, keeping his distance, leaving me with all the freedom I needed to maneuver in the shadows.

I stood up on unsteady legs. In my human skin, the manor was nothing but a hazy smear of shadows and vague shapes. Furniture became obstacles I had to remember were there. Doorways became darker patches against the dark. My body was weak, my eyes nearly useless.

I was done being weak for the night. I drew in a breath and reached for my wolf. She surged up to meet me.

My spine bowed as bones cracked and realigned beneath my skin. My shoulders narrowed. My hips shifted. Fingers shortened as claws pushed free. The muscles along my thighs and back contracted before rebuilding themselves into something stronger. Something faster. I dropped to the floor as my center of gravity changed, hands becoming paws before they struck the hardwood.

My jaw pushed forward. Teeth sharpened. My ears perked up as the sounds of the manor exploded around me. Pipes humming inside the walls. Wind worrying at the windows.

Then my eyes changed. The darkness disappeared. Edges sharpened. Furniture separated from the shadow. I could see the grain of the hardwood beneath my paws, the doorway across the room, every shift of darkness beyond it. The world that had been a blur seconds ago snapped into focus.

Surprisingly, the soreness between my hind legs remained, a dull, nagging ache. I shook out my fur, forced my spine straight, and slipped toward the bedroom door. I had a job to do, and I wasn't going to let a torn maidenhead slow me down.

I padded silently down the dark hallway, my claws barely making a whisper against the polished hardwood. I passed the solid oak doors of the Blackwood males' territories without giving them a second glance. Gunnar’s private gym reeked of sweat and copper—the domain of blunt force. Vidar’s office smelled of cold coffee, the glowing electronics making me wince. My mother hadn't lied about that. Bright light did hurt my sensitive eyes. Fenrir’s study was heavy with aged whiskey, cigar smoke, and leather.

The males of this family thought they ran the world. They thought power sat in the size of their muscles, the balance of their bank accounts, and the territory they held by force. Fools. Men held strength, but women wielded true, lasting power.

I followed my nose past the main wing, tracking a scent trail that cut through the heavy musk of male wolves: fragrant jasmine, steamed green tea, and lily blossoms. I slipped through a pair of double doors into Mei Ling’s private wing, pushing open the entrance to her personal sitting room.

The space was breathtaking in its silent elegance. It was a sanctuary of refined, subtle power. Silk scrolls bearing hand-painted calligraphy hung along dark wood panels. Low teak furniture sat atop hand-woven silk rugs. A low-slung mahogany tea table was set with exquisite celadon porcelain cups and a heavy iron teapot, still faint with the scent of black tea leaves. A folding lacquer screen, inlaid with mother-of-pearl cranes, stood in the corner.

I padded behind the lacquered screen to a small, polished rosewood writing desk. Sitting beside a brass lamp was a heavy, hand-bound leather journal with gold-embossed edges. Mei Ling’s private social diary.

I nosed open the silk bookmark and flipped through the thin, crisp pages. Every name, date, and handwritten annotation burned itself permanently onto the back of my eyelids. It was a collection of teas with pack matriarchs. Charity boards that mixed both human women of money and she wolves power. There was a list of eligible pack daughters around the youngest Blackwood's age. The start of a wedding guest list and a seating chart.

I traced the entries back through the previous months, calculating the hidden power grid of the regional packs. Private tea with the matriarchs of the Kang Pack in Korea. If memory served, there had been a trade dispute over luxury cosmetics. There were three meetings with Miyoung Kang over the summer, and if rumors were true, it looked like the dispute was settled. Flipping back further, I saw a luncheon with the Alpha wives of the Northern Coalition. A visit to Florida with the lionesses of the Suncrest Pride who moved marijuana up and down the east coast.

I catalogued the true movers and shakers—the women who actually dictated their husbands' political votes over porcelain teacups. But more importantly, my sharp eyes mapped out the silence.

The ostracized list.

Mei Ling’s journal listed every influential matriarch in this territory and beyond, except for a few. A vicious thrill ran through my wolf's veins. That list of nobodies to avoid was the ultimate weapon.

A heavy thud echoed from the front courtyard outside. It was followed by the heavy crunch of large paws landing on stone. Gunnar was back.

He was already inside the manor, moving quickly. I was too far down the wing to make it seem like I wasn't snooping. I’d never make it back to his bedroom on four paws without crossing his path in the main hallway.

I dropped to the floor, forcing the shift. Muscles tore, bones realigned with a sickening crunch, and in seconds I was back in my frail, shivering human body. The world immediately dissolved into a hazy, blurred smear of dark shapes.