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"I have no doubt you could take care of yourself, but I'm glad you're letting me help."

Something shifted across her face as her blank eyes looked at me. When I'd seen blind people on television and film, they often looked just off to the side of your face. Maybe that was an acting choice. Rosalind's eyes looked right at me as though she could see into me. That was fine, as I had nothing to hide from my wife.

That wasn't entirely true. I had a fuck ton of secrets. But none that would hurt her.

Ma was watching us. So was Dad. They looked at each other. Another one of those silent looks that spoke volumes.

Beside me, Rosalind shifted closer until her shoulder rested against my arm. My hand went automatically to the small of her back. Across the room, my mother's smile widened.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ROSALIND

The heavy timber door of the kitchen closed behind me, shutting out the ghost of my mother’s voice. The phone was already powered off and cooling against my cold palms. The conversation with my mother had been quick and efficient. Not a single second or nicety was spent.

No, glad to know you're still alive, Rosalind? No, how is your new husband treating you? Just the cold, clinical transaction of power. Sorsha Lobo had given birth to a daughter, but she raised a soldier. Her only child, her single bid for immortality, conditioned from infancy to view every relationship as a siege and every weakness as a target.

It was all I was good for in her eyes, seeing as my eyesight was so poor. My father had been vision impaired, but no one had known that. He and his family had hidden it well. The only person outside of the Ironwood Pack that had known had been Nikos Ironwood's wife. I sometimes wondered if that's the reason my mother had killed him — because he'd passed his disability onto what was supposed to be her perfect heir.

I drew a long, slow breath through my nose, grounding myself before stepping fully into the kitchen. My world was built on shadows and echoes, but sight was a crude sense anyway. It was easily tricked by illusions and painted surfaces. Scent and sound never lied.

The kitchen was thick with the iron-heavy aroma of prime cuts of raw beef and venison, barely seared on the outside, blood-red in the center. The mineral tang of fresh blood mingled with the distinct scents of the Blackwood family: Fenrir’s heavy, intimidating pine; Mei Ling’s sharp, elegant jasmine; Ivar’s fresh-cut grass scent lingered in the room; and Gunnar's.

Gunnar smelled of sanguine and crushed mint, blood-warm and winter-cool all at once.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," I said smoothly, keeping my voice light, delicate—a soft, pastel cadence designed to sound harmless.

"Not at all, dear," Mei Ling replied. Her footsteps were completely silent against the hardwood, but I tracked the subtle shift of jasmine in the air as she moved toward the counter. "We were just sitting down."

Before I could reach for a bar stool, Gunnar’s massive frame materialized at my side. He didn't make a grand display of helping me. His large hand simply brushed against the small of my back as he helped me up.

"How are you settling into the house, Rosalind?" Mei Ling's voice dripped with a calculated, motherly warmth that wouldn't have fooled a blind toad.

"My husband has been very attentive." I placed a hand over my heart and offered a timid smile toward the silhouette of Mei Ling’s head. "He's been reheating the wonderful meals you left in the refrigerator. You truly have an extraordinary culinary talent, Mrs. Blackwood. Unfortunately, I can't hope to do the same with my condition."

A classic opening gambit. Play the humble, awe-struck young bride eager to learn at the feet of the mistress.

Across the kitchen island, Fenrir’s heartbeat remained slow, heavy, and rhythmic—a metronome of supreme confidence. Beside him, Ivar’s heart was drumming a fast, eager rhythm as his fork scraped against his plate. But Mei Ling’s heartbeat didn't change speed at all. It remained dead steady, cold and precise.

"Please call me Mei Ling." The porcelain dish clicked as she set a serving platter in front of me. "And there is no need to flatter me. A matriarch’s duties go far beyond reheating venison. Managing a pack requires an iron grip and an absolute understanding of who holds the power. I imagine your mother taught you that as her only child and heir?"

There it was. The first real jab. She was testing the wire, probing to see if the delicate princess had any nerve endings.

"My mother taught me that a woman’s power lies in her adaptability, not her culinary skill."

"I imagine your mother doesn't spend much time in the kitchen."

I barely held back my snort of laughter. The thought of Sorsha setting foot in a kitchen. I squeezed my knee to keep from slapping at it. "No, cooking was not part of my mother's lessons. She taught me value. How to recognize quality. What was worth paying for and what was merely expensive. She took me shopping and taught me about fabrics and branding. She taught me how to run a household. How to know when someone was doing their job and when someone was taking advantage because they thought I couldn't see what they were doing. I can't see very well. I can't fight worth a damn. But I know how to clean house."

Too bad only I could appreciate that double entendre. Pretty soon this house would be empty of Blackwoods. I had no interest in sticking around to run things. I would be long gone when shit dripped from those high chandeliers.

"I knew your father," came Fenrir Blackwood's deep voice. "He was a good man."

"I'm told I take after him. He wasn't a fighter either."

Silence from the Alpha couple. People always went quiet over the speculation of whether or not my mother killed my father. Brat that I was, I loved fanning the flames. It was my only avenue of retaliation for the man I never met. I often wondered if I would've turned out differently if he'd have been in my life. I might have developed an ounce of compassion.

"I'm afraid I inherited more of my father's gentle nature. I prefer peace to politics."