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My eyes stayed squeezed shut behind my dark lenses as the world sped past outside the car window. It didn't matter that I couldn't see the passing streets; all I could smell was blood. Thick, metallic, and hot, clinging to the back of my throat and filling the leather interior of Gunnar’s SUV.

I clenched my thighs together, a shudder rolling through my spine. In the restroom, I had been tempted to pleasure. When Diego had crowded over me, offering a familiar touch from my past, I’d considered letting him lick my kitty. It was an easy, mindless comfort.

But I hadn't said yes. I was in the middle of saying no—parting my lips to reject him—when Gunnar’s sanguine and mint scent had preceded his explosive arrival.

It was as though the universe had been warning me and congratulating me at the very same time for making the right decision. But had it been the right decision? Now that Diego was dead, his warm blood was being mopped off the bistro's marble floor by Blackwood and Lobo lieutenants alike.

"It was a legal kill," Gunnar said from the driver's seat. His voice was low, steady, and devoid of any remorse. "He was nosing around what was mine. I warned him on our wedding day."

I concentrated on taking deep, even breaths through my mouth, but my stomach roiled violently. I knew how the packs operated. I grew up as a mafia princess. I knew killing happened all the time behind closed doors, in dark alleys, and deep woods. But I had never been forced to stand face-to-face with the gruesome reality of it. The sound of a skull crushing against marble. The violent end of a life inches from my face.

"Pull over," I rasped, clutching the passenger door handle. "Gunnar, pull over. Now."

The SUV veered onto the shoulder. Tires crunched onto the gravel and came to a stop. I yanked the door open and stumbled out, my knees trembling so violently that I could barely keep my footing. Before I could collapse, a broad hand landed against my back, steadying me. I bent over the grass at the side of the road and vomited, my whole body heaving as last night's dinner and raw panic emptied out of me.

Gunnar's large, calloused hand gathered my hair, pulling it safely away from my face. With his other hand, he rubbed soothing circles into my back, whispering quiet, meaningless sounds as I wretched until my ribs ached.

When I was finally empty, trembling against the cold roadside air, Gunnar didn't push me away. He produced a soft cloth and a bottle of water. Using those same big hands, he gently cleaned my chin and wiped my face.

I stared blindly forward, completely unable to reconcile the sheer dichotomy of this man. How could he be so brutal and deadly with his hands? How could he be so crude and dominant with his cock? And then turn around and handle me with fragile and reverent care?

I was not going to escape this man.

I didn't realize I had spoken the thought out loud until Gunnar went entirely still. His blunt fingers brushed a stray strand of hair away from my forehead. His breath was hot against my cheek.

Panic flared in my chest, burning through the icy composure I had worked so hard to maintain my whole life. I needed to run. Where were my sparkly new sneakers? Had Gunnar grabbed my shopping bags?

The thought wasn’t logical. It was pure, instinctual desperation. Clearly, I was still in shock. I couldn’t stay here in the open, exposed and trapped under the weight of my wedding vows and my murderous husband.

Before Gunnar could take another step toward me, I turned on my heel and took off into the dark tree line bordering the highway. As I ran, my clothes felt like a suffocation, trapping my limbs. I threw my body forward into the motion, surrendering to the pull of the wolf. Muscle tore through cloth as bones snapped, rearranged, and lengthened in a fluid, painful rush. My dark sunglasses clattered to the dirt, abandoned, as four paws hit the forest floor.

Crisp air rushed through my fur as I pushed myself to top speed, darting between the thick trunks of the pine trees. The silence of the woods didn't last. Behind me, the thud of booted feet slammed into the earth.

I looked back briefly through my wolf’s sight—and there he was. My husband prowled behind me, clear as day. Gunnar hadn't even shifted.

He was still in human form, a towering, deadly Alpha running at an unnatural speed, cutting through the brush without breaking stride. His gaze was intent, as though he was hunting. Because he was hunting. I was the prey. And he was going to catch me.

A primal thrill roared through my veins alongside the terror. No one had ever chased me before. Well, not like this. Not where I had to run. They all came to me in an air-conditioned room with clean sheets and cushions. In the Lobo pack, I had been kept still, guarded, caged like a piece of glass. I had almost never been given the chance to run—and certainly never wild and free through the woods.

Gunnar could easily outpace me if he wanted to, but he kept himself exactly one step behind. He wasn't rushing to capture me. He was stalking me, playing with me like I was a rabbit and he was the big bad wolf. Letting my heart pound and my blood race. Letting me believe that if I just ran a little faster, turned a little sharper, pushed my legs a little harder, I might actually get away.

I didn't want to get away. But I wasn't ready to get caught yet either. I liked that he was coming for me.

There was nothing else in these woods that mattered to him. No brothers. No pack. No business. No duty. His entire focus had narrowed to the wolf racing through the trees ahead of him.

I had spent my life being kept still. Protected. Guarded. Caged. I had spent years making men come to me with the slightest invitation. But this was different.

I wasn't calling Gunnar to me. I was doing everything I could to get away, and still he came. And nothing was going to stop him from getting me.

The inevitable caught up to me in a heartbeat.

With a sudden burst of explosive power, Gunnar closed the distance. His large, calloused hand clamped hard around the scruff of my neck, cutting off my momentum. The sheer weight of his body hit mine, driving me down onto the damp carpet of moss and pine needles. He pinned my wolf firmly beneath him, his heavy frame anchoring me to the earth so completely that I couldn't even wriggle.

Panting heavily, I strained my neck to look up at him. For the very first time, seeing him through my wolf's sharp, sensitive eyes, his face came into breathtaking clarity. The strong, brutal jawline, the darkening stubble, the lethal intensity in his gaze—every harsh detail was laid bare.

Then his mouth curved into a grimace, and all I could do was stare.

Dimples. The brutal bastard had dimples. Deep ones carved into both cheeks, transforming a face made for violence into something unexpectedly boyish. Sweet, even.